New York, New York
December 1863
John Lane was finding train travel commonplace. He was on his way from Albany to New York City to see John O’Mahony, the head of the Fenian Brotherhood in America. There was much to discuss. Burgoyne, though somewhat skeptical, had promised to present the plan for Irish Home Rule to Prime Minister Palmerston for eventual approval by the Crown. They’d expect an answer in a month.
Lane had been up with the sun. It was too cold in the barn. He’d gone outside and was thinking of rapping on Viola’s farmhouse door. He was hungry. In the dim light of dawn Lane saw footprints, several sets of them, that ran from the door into the fields behind the house. He remembered the sneezing he’d heard the night before.
Viola had come out then, dressed for the weather.
“Going to follow those footprints?”
Viola stopped. “I’m going out to buy more potatoes. That’s a hungry army. I expect there will be a fight soon and I’ll have to find them afterwards. They buy everything I bring them.”
Lane stared at her, trying to make sense of it all.
“I expect you’ll want to get started toward Albany. It’s five miles to town. Take you two hours in this weather.”
“What did the soldier want last night, and who were you hiding in the cellar?”
“You don’t hear me asking what business you had with the general, or why you’re making up stories about a brother in Glen Falls. I recommend we both mind our own business.”
“When I come back from New York City . . .” Damn it. I shouldn’t have told her that. A fine spy I am indeed. “I’ll need to know where the British Army is camped. I’ll need to talk to General Burgoyne again. I’ll come back here, and you can show me.”
Now it was Viola’s turn to stare. “Why is an Irishman, and a former Union soldier, helping the British army?”
“I asked you the same question.”
“And I told you. Feeding the hungry. Myself and my children. That’s all.”
“That’s clearly not all. What did the soldier want last night?”
“He wanted to know if I had any more potatoes. The Blue Army needs to eat as well.”
“Who were you hiding in your cellar?”
“Travelers. They needed a place to stay during the storm.”
“And they needed to hide in the basement and be up and moving before dawn?”
“I need to get moving.”
In the far distance, they could hear what sounded like thunder. Lane recognized it immediately. The sound of the big guns.
“There’s your fight, sure enough. I wonder who is attacking whom. Maybe you know.”
“They’ll be needing food when they’re done fighting. I’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Enjoy your walk.”
The five-mile trek through snow did, indeed, take Lane about two hours, as Viola predicted. He was now warm and happy to be out of the weather and riding comfortably on a train to New York City.
Lane looked out the window of the train car. It was a beautiful day indeed, the rooves of the farmhouses and barns covered in snow, and the trees heavy with it. His mind was vexed as he couldn’t stop thinking about Viola. What was she up to? Could he trust her? Why would a free Black woman sell food to the British, which was akin to aiding the Confederacy? What did the soldier want last night?
Lane knew that blowing Viola’s cover, whatever lay beneath it, would blow his own. But there were too many questions.
The train entered the city. Lane took the paper from this pocket, and looked at the address: 22 Duane Street, in Manhattan. “Get off at the Chambers Street station. It’s a short walk,” O’Mahony had told him. Lane had only been to New York once, just passing through. On the train from the hospital in Baltimore back home to Boston. He hadn’t been interested at the time, had barely looked out the window. He had been wondering how he, the now one-armed tailor, would make his living.
“Chambers Street station,” called the conductor as he passed through the car. Lane was looking out the window and could see the cupola of an enormous building a few blocks away.
“That’s the grand city hall of New York, so it is,” said the conductor. The Irish are everywhere, thought Lane.