North of Albany, New York
January 1864
John Lane was in Viola’s farmhouse, sitting in the wooden chair before the fire. Viola and her mother were in the other room, putting the children to bed. Below, in the cellar, Lane could hear the occasional muffled conversation or scrape of a chair or table on the stone floor. They wouldn’t be able to leave anytime soon.
Lane went over in his mind the events of the day and wondered if the plan, his plan, would really begin to unfold in the morning.
Colonel Kelly had been easy to find. What was left of the Irish Brigade was indeed camped near Viola’s farmhouse. O’Mahony was the first to spot the Brigade flag, a harp and shamrocks on a green field with a motto in Irish. He stopped at the sight of it, and muttered aloud, “‘Who has never retreated from the clash of spears.’ My own suggestion.”
Meagher, in his peculiarly accented English, said, “Aye, and true enough. The lads were demons in front of the sunken road at Fredericksburg, eh John? But they mowed us down like hay. Chancellorsville was worse if anything.”
Colonel Kelly was seated on a cracker box around a campfire, surrounded by other officers. Meagher said, louder than necessary, “God save all here,” and the men shot to their feet. Meagher shook hands all around, smiled at the familiar faces, and introduced the others.
Kelly smiled. “Look what the fine weather brought. General, it’s a pleasure. Couldn’t bear to be away, is it? And you’ve brought your friends, I see.”
O’Mahony spoke up. “Colonel Kelly, would you have a moment to walk with us?”
“I do, though I have a feeling from the look of ye that I might regret it.”
Lane had lagged behind and watched. By agreement, Meagher would explain the situation to Kelly. Meagher, he thought. The hero of the 1848 rising, disastrous as it was. Exile in Tasmania. Escape to America. Then commander of the Irish Brigade, by any measure one of the bravest and most gallant units in the army. Lane had fought alongside them on Marye’s Heights and had seen their mettle firsthand. Meagher was the kind of man others followed to their deaths.
Lane had watched as they went back and forth, though Meagher was doing most of the talking. Kelly looked stunned at first, then nervous, then sad. They rejoined O’Mahony and Lane.
“John, tell the colonel what Burgoyne told you.”
“That ninety days after the war ends, assuming that the Irish have supported the British to a successful end, Ireland will be granted Home Rule.”
All eyes had been on Kelly. O’Mahony spoke. “Paddy, it’s the best chance we’ll ever have. And your men hold the key. If the Brigade refuses to fight, the other Irish units will follow. Sure the lads run a great risk if things go poorly. But if we win, their place in Irish history is assured. And your own, for all that.”
Kelly had looked at each of them in turn and smiled, though there was little humor in it. “Sure the easiest way to enter Irish history has always been feet first, as a martyr. But I’ll do my best. I’ll talk to the lads.”
Meagher’s friendly face had grown dark and hard, the eyes burning, the body tensed and coiled. “See that you do, Paddy. Irish freedom rests on your shoulders. They’ll write songs about you, lad.”
Kelly no longer smiled. “That’s what I’m bloody afraid of.”
Lane’s thoughts returned to the present as Viola came out of the room and latched the door quietly. She pulled another chair from the table to the fire, and said, “Who were those men with you today?”
“There’s going to be a big battle tomorrow.”
“Here?”
“Close enough. I believe McClellan will attack the British in the morning. You might want to take your children and your mother and go to Albany.”
“I’m not going anywhere. And besides, I can’t leave . . . I can’t go. And you didn’t answer my question. You generally never answer my questions.”
“The leaders of the Fenian Brotherhood.”
“Fenian Brotherhood? Irish?”
“Yes.”
“You went and did it, didn’t you? You’re going to sell out the Union for your people.”
“I’m not selling out anyone. I’m striking a blow for oppressed people everywhere, and especially in Ireland.”
Viola stared at the fire, then turned back to Lane. “You’re not striking a blow for your people. You’re guaranteeing the enslavement of my people, like Michael and Sarah in the cellar. Like millions of others. And you’re committing treason while you’re at it.”
Lane was silent. He felt sick to his stomach.