North of Albany, New York
December 1863
John Lane waited outside General Burgoyne’s tent, staff officers and guards eyeing him suspiciously.
He had arrived at the British camp with a wagonload of potatoes. Sentries had pointed him toward the quartermaster, but Lane had insisted on seeing Burgoyne. It had taken an hour, couriers running back and forth between the sentry outpost and the headquarters tent, but finally Major Packenham rode up with two dragoons, one of whom was leading a horse with no rider. Packenham remained mounted and said, “Mr. Lane, you’ll come with me, please. Can you sit a horse?” Packenham eyed Lane’s empty sleeve.
“Sure, wasn’t I in the army?”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“If the horse is gentle in nature, I believe I can.”
Packenham laughed. “We’d best walk then.” He jumped down, and said, “It’s not far. Sergeant, take my horse back if you will. And see that the wagon gets to the quartermaster.”
Lane hesitated, watching as the sergeant climbed aboard the wagon and prepared to drive off.
Packenham laughed again. “You’ll get the wagon back. Where’s Miss Viola? Your, em, business associate?”
Lane had rehearsed the answer with Viola, but still felt himself stumble. “She’s, em, engaged in the purchase of additional potatoes. She asked me to make this delivery.” Packenham seemed satisfied with the answer.
Walking through the camp, Lane could see that the mood of the army had changed. Soldiers were standing in groups, laughing. He remembered his first weeks in the Army of the Potomac, the feeling of invincibility. Before Fredericksburg.
After half an hour of waiting, an aide emerged from Burgoyne’s tent and motioned to Lane to enter. Inside, Burgoyne sat between Generals Gordon and Campbell, a map, as always, spread before them.
“Mr. Lane. I didn’t expect to see you so soon. I’ve no news from London as yet. It’s too soon.”
“Yes sir. I wanted you to know that I met with John O’Mahony in New York.”
“With whom do you say?”
“John O’Mahony, head of the Fenian Brotherhood. He’s ready to send the word to every Irish soldier in the Union Army, through their—through our—network. He’s enlisting the help of powerful men, generals and the like. He’s just waiting, we’re just waiting, for the word from you that London has approved the deal.”
“Yes. Mr. Lane, as you know the Union Army sits scarce ten miles from here. If you’re correct, fully a quarter of those soldiers are Irishmen. Entire regiments are made up of Irish. It would be a sign of good faith if you, em, unleashed your men now, rather than waiting for official approval from the crown. It would be a sign of good faith, would it not?”
The other generals nodded, Gordon adding, “Just so. Good faith.”
Caught off guard, Lane had mumbled that he would take the message to O’Mahony and see what could be done.
Outside the tent, Packenham was waiting and took Lane back the way they had come. His wagon, empty sacks in the back, was waiting for him at the sentry post.
On the ride back, Lane found himself worrying about Viola, her family, and the people hiding in her cellar. Lane had slept on the floor in front of the fire, and in the morning, he and Viola had discussed, in whispers, how to proceed.
“I need to stay here. I don’t trust these soldiers with my family. Or with my visitors. You take the wagon and deliver another load of potatoes to the British. When you come back, I’ll want to know exactly where they are camped.”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Why do you want to talk to General Burgoyne?”
“Are you a spy?”
“Are you?”
Lane had pondered the question for a full minute. “In a manner of speaking. I’m working with the British to gain freedom for my people.”
“Your people?”
“In Ireland.”
Viola stared at him. “You’re helping the British so that they’ll free your people?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re helping the British support Southern independence which will guarantee the survival of slavery in the South.”
Lane thought back to his boyhood, attending the hedge school in County Cork. He and other likely lads receiving instruction from a former priest. Harsh discipline but high standards for country boys. Latin. The classics. Logic. Viola reminded him of his teacher, Mr. Flaherty, a failed priest. All Socratic method.
“I suppose I am. But it’s for a higher cause.”
Viola stood ramrod straight, fists clenched at her side, and eyes blazing. “A higher cause? Higher than freeing human beings from slavery?”
Lane didn’t answer. Soon after, he’d left the house, loaded the potatoes into the wagon, and set off. A Union sentry asked, “Do you live in that house?”
“No,” he’d answered. “It belongs to my business associate.”