New York, New York
December 1863
After leaving the train station, John Lane had asked a policeman, an Irishman it turned out, how to find 22 Duane Street. He didn’t know any of the landmarks the policeman mentioned—City Hall, the Courthouse, St. Andrew’s Church—but he understood when he pointed him in the right direction. He asked another policeman, also Irish, standing at the corner of Chambers and Elk, and two minutes later he found himself in front of the modest building. Lane took the paper from his pocket, confirmed the address, and started up the stairs.
A man was walking out as he was walking in, and Lane asked if he knew where to find Mr. O’Mahony’s office. Jerking his thumb behind him, he said, “Up the stairs. Follow the cigar smoke.”
Lane climbed the stairs and saw a hallway with a series of closed doors. None had a sign of any sort. He went up to the first door and knocked. He could hear voices inside. He knocked again.
“Come in, then, it’s open.”
He turned the knob, pushed open the door, and saw John O’Mahony seated around a table, along with four other men.
O’Mahony looked up and nodded in recognition. “Gentlemen, that will be all. I’ve another meeting, as you can see.”
The others, all bearded men in their forties and fifties, gathered papers, donned coats and hats, and filed out of the office with curious looks at Lane. None said a word. Lane smiled to himself. A secret society.
“Well John, come in and take a load off. Your wire was cryptic. You have some news?” O’Mahony motioned to one of the recently vacated chairs, and Lane sat.
“I do.”
“You’ve seen Burgoyne?”
“I have.”
“You pitched the plan?”
“I did.”
“Jaysus lad, don’t make me beg you. Will you tell me what happened?”
“I found Burgoyne north of Albany, as we expected. I got lucky. I met a woman who sells foodstuffs, potatoes, would you believe it, to his army. That got me into their camp.”
“I see. Well done. And you lived to talk about it, so he must have listened.”
“He did indeed. I believe he thinks it’s an unlikely notion, but that he has nothing to lose. If we are able to deliver Irishmen to fight against the Union, it could help them immensely. If we’re unable to deliver, they lose nothing. The crown simply doesn’t grant Home Rule to Ireland.”
“So he said yes?”
“He said he’d write to Palmerston, who of course would have to consult with the queen. He expected that, if all went well, he’d hear back in a month’s time. Three weeks or so from now.”
O’Mahony stared at Lane, looking through him. He was deep in thought.
“John, we’ve promised the British that 200,000 Irish soldiers in the Union Army are just waiting for our signal to turn coat and fight for the British, and for the South. We have to be ready to deliver on our promise.”
Lane thought about his own time as a soldier. He’d joined the Brotherhood because his sergeant, a Galway man, had told him to. In his own company of almost one hundred men, at least half were Irish and at least half of those had joined the Fenians. The sergeant would on rare occasions have a man read a letter from the Brotherhood, probably written by O’Mahony himself, and he would put out a tin cup and solicit donations. Occasionally a man would drop a penny or two in the cup. Lane never had.
O’Mahony was talking but Lane wasn’t listening. He was thinking that it had all been so . . . what’s the word? Aspirational. It had sounded grand, that after the war, the Celtic host, hardened in battle, well-armed, would take ship for Erin’s shores and roll over their British masters. But three weeks’ time? He thought about the Widow McCormack’s cabbage patch, and the other comic-opera rebellions from Irish history.
“John?”
“Right. I suggest we start with the most reliable units. The Irish Brigade, for example. Irish officers, mostly Irish troops. And Mr. O’Mahony, I suggest that this time they will need to hear directly from you. The lads, and certainly the officers, know who you are. You’ll be able to explain the stakes much better than I can. If we can get the Irish Brigade to come over, others will follow.”
“Yes. We have our most reliable contacts in the Brigade. They are indeed the most likely units to get, em, enthused for our project. I’d like to get Meagher to come with me. The men still love him.”
Lane nodded. Thomas Francis Meagher. Meagher of the Sword. The most famous Irish soldier in the Union Army, though Lane knew that he’d resigned his commission. He had been commander of the Irish Brigade until after the Battle of Chancellorsville. He’d resigned in a dispute with his superiors. The bloody Irish. Happy to fight the enemy. Delighted to fight each other. But if anyone could convince Irish soldiers to fight for Irish freedom, it was Meagher.
“A fine idea. You should contact him. There’s not a moment to be lost. I’ll make my way back to Albany and re-establish contact with General Burgoyne. I’ll let you know by wire just as soon as I have an answer.”
O’Mahony looked at Lane. “This is moving faster than I imagined. See what you’ve set in motion lad. This is the moment when we always lose our nerve, when someone betrays us, when it all goes to hell. This time it has to be different. We’ll never have another chance like this again.”
Lane looked around the room. The table, the chairs, a desk piled high with newspapers. Nothing on the walls. A coat rack with O’Mahony’s coat and hat. The headquarters of the secret society that would end 700 years of British rule in Ireland. The office was cold and drafty, but Lane found that he was sweating profusely, and his good hand was shaking.
“Do you have a place to stay tonight? Sure, you’re welcome to hang your hat here in the office. The floor is softer than it looks. Are you thirsty? I suggest we go round the corner and further the discussion at the aptly-named King’s Arms.”
Lane stood and waited as O’Mahony gathered his hat and coat. What have I gotten myself into?