Montgomery County, Maryland
March 1864
General Burgoyne was seated on a folding chair in his tent. John Lane stood before him, his hat in his good hand, looking tired and unshaven. And scared.
Major Packenham had led Lane from the guard outpost to the headquarters tent. Lane had spent enough time in army camps to see that in this one discipline was slack and the soldiers were relaxed. Anyone could see that this army was comfortable and not expecting to see action anytime soon. Lane deduced that Burgoyne would be content to threaten Washington City without actually attacking. Hold McClellan in place and let Grant and Longstreet do the fighting.
“Mr. Lane, I see that you’ve escaped capture. Thus far.”
He apparently finds it amusing that I’m running for my life. “You know they’ve shot O’Mahony and Meagher. As traitors. And they’re looking for me. I’m asking for your protection.”
Burgoyne looked at Lane, the corners of his mouth upturned. “So, you’d like to join the British Army. Well, you’ll find thousands of your compatriots in our ranks. You should feel at home.”
Holding up the stump where his hand used to be, Lane said, “I’m not in a position to fight . . . I’m simply asking for protection.”
Burgoyne tired of the game. “Major Packenham can take you to the Irish Brigade. Colonel—”
“Kelly.”
“Just so. Colonel Kelly. I’m sure they can spare a shelter half and some potatoes. That will be all, Mr. Lane.”
Lane didn’t move. “You’ve every intention of keeping your promise, General? Regarding Home Rule for Ireland?”
Burgoyne, seemingly absorbed in looking at a map, did not look up. “I gave you my word, Mr. Lane. I’m a British officer and a gentleman. I am a man of my word.” A pause. “Whether I am in a position to keep my word, that is a different question entirely. It will all depend on success in the field. You’ll recall that our, em, arrangement was always contingent on success. On victory. On the Southern states winning their independence. No independence, no deal.”
Lane felt sick as well as scared. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. Home Rule, certainly. But at the price of Southern independence and the maintenance of slavery? He thought of Viola.
Burgoyne finally looked up from his map. “I’ve no personal objection to Irish Home Rule, Mr. Lane. I’ve spent considerable time on your island and know many of your countrymen. In this army and in society. I would be pleased if our agreement were finally consummated. But as I say, it is out of my hands. Good luck to you, Mr. Lane.”
As Lane turned to leave the tent, he heard a shrill whistle, rising in pitch, which he recognized immediately, followed by a tremendous explosion, followed by another, then another. In the distance, he heard the crack of a rifle, followed by the familiar ripple of rifled muskets discharging up and down a line.
Burgoyne pushed Lane out of the way, bursting through the tent flap to find chaos outside, men on foot and horseback shouting and charging in every direction.
Major Packenham rode up at a gallop, leapt from his horse as it stopped short, and yelled over the din. “The enemy is attacking in force, sir. From the west and the north, it would appear. Our men are falling back, and some are running. Sir, there is no time to lose. I suggest you mount and we find a place to make a stand.”
Burgoyne stood motionless in apparent disbelief. He’d thought his war was over.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Thomas. We shall find a place to make a stand.”
An orderly brought Burgoyne’s horse on the run, and Packenham fairly threw the general up into his saddle.
“This way, sir.”
Lane watched as red-coated soldiers came through the headquarters area in waves, some in small groups, stopping to fire. Others had dropped their weapons and were running as fast as they could. Lane joined the runners, knowing that he was literally running for his life.