Near Saratoga, New York
December 1863
John Fox Burgoyne stood in his tent. He was tired of sitting, tired of waiting for McClellan, tired of making the rounds to visit the officers and regiments of his command. In fact, he was just tired. Sixty years a soldier. And now, with his victory at Saratoga behind him, he just wanted to get on with it, get it over with, and go home.
Home. He’d finally had a letter. It came with the same dispatch as the message from Palmerston. He’d put it aside to read later. First things first.
The message from the Prime Minister had arrived earlier than Burgoyne had anticipated. Palmerston had not dawdled, had taken the request seriously and acted on it. The reply, however, was not what he expected.
London
December 1863
General:
I am in receipt of your letter. Your proposal to accept assistance from the Fenian Brotherhood in exchange for Irish Home Rule has provoked discussion at the highest levels of Her Majesty’s Government. As an Irish peer and landowner, I myself have grave misgivings. However, Her Majesty has advised that she wishes to see the North American venture succeed at all costs. She therefore has agreed that you may use your discretion in soliciting Fenian assistance. Promises such as that of Home Rule shall be ratified as political circumstances permit. Her Majesty urges the utmost caution that any arrangements not be made public.
Palmerston.
I suppose this is why Palmerston is a politician and I’m a soldier. My discretion, is it? And as circumstances permit? Does that mean Home Rule would be delivered at the proper political moment, or that it would be delivered if the proper political moment presented itself? Either way, the nuance will no doubt be lost on my one-armed Irish rebel and his mysterious legion of revolutionaries. It’s rather lost on me.
Burgoyne put the paper back in the leather case in which it had arrived. He picked up the letter from his wife, started to read it, got halfway through the first of two sheets, and put it down. About as much warmth in the one letter as the other. I’m less concerned about the need to replace the carriage and much more interested in the family. I wonder if Hugh is at sea. It is time he had his own ship. And the girls. At sea in their own way. He picked up his wife’s letter, intending to finish it. He began again, then returned it to his field desk.
He put on his cloak and hat and walked out through the tent flap. The staff, as always, were gathered around the fire doing their best to stay warm.
“What word, Major?”
Packenham rubbed his hands together for warmth and said, “No change, sir. The Union forces remain in camp north of Albany. They’ve taken no pains to dig defensive positions and look in no hurry to head south. It seems you were right, sir. I’ll wager they head back our way.”
“Aren’t I always right, Packenham?”
“Indeed, sir, that is my experience to this point.” Looking at his comrades gathered around the fire, he added, “In fact, we’re all in agreement.”
The other staff officers smiled and watched, jealous of Packenham’s easy repartee with the general. Burgoyne looked at the faces of his staff officers, young men in their twenties. A few years younger than Hugh. Just as eager for glory and action. What made some men seek a life of ease and pleasure, and others to seek adventure? It had never crossed his own mind to be a London gentleman, to work in the City, to run an estate. All he’d ever wanted was to be a soldier. And to erase the original sin of Saratoga from his soul.
“Thomas.”
Packenham looked up, startled. Had the general used his Christian name?
“Sir?”
“Walk with me a moment. You’ve been idle too long. I should like to see Mr. Lane, the, em, Fenian. Would you be so kind as to fetch him here?”
“But he was just here a day or so ago, sir, was he not?”
“Indeed he was, Thomas. I need to see him again. Things are afoot, do you see?”
Packenham smiled. “Right away, sir.”