1901

Communication with the outside world came in the form of newspapers, some only a day old, from nearby towns. These the men devoured immediately; given the lack of any real command structure in the area, newspapers were the only reliable source of information. Through newspapers they learned of the fall of Manhattan and the imprisonment of thousands of American soldiers. They also learned that their battle, although acknowledged as a defeat, was praised to the skies as a valiant effort to rid the country of the invaders. This was a great boost to their morale. The reading and passing around of newspapers became an afternoon ritual not to be trifled with.

Patrick was walking about and simply observing when several men, lolling and reading their papers, noticed him.

“Hey, Cunnel, come here a minute.”

Patrick winced. In a real army enlisted men do not summon their commanding officer so cavalierly. But he had to remind himself for the hundredth time that day that these were volunteers and not regulars, and their training in such arcane matters as saluting was, at best, negligent. Doing as he was bid, he tried not to laugh.

“What’s up, boys?”

“Just a question, sir.” The speaker was a young private with glasses and a stringy beard. He had obviously been reading aloud for the benefit of the others. “Is your first name Patrick?”

He was puzzled. “Yes, why?”

“Well, according to the Hartford paper, you’ve just been made a general.”

Patrick swore and grabbed the offered paper. Yes, there it was, Patrick Mahan, brigadier general, U.S. Army. The rank was temporary, of course, but temporary or not, he was a general! He scanned the list and saw the names of a score of others both appointed and promoted. At last, something was happening.

The men gathered around and offered handshakes, which he took eagerly. They pumped his arm and pounded his back. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled that enlisted men don’t do this in a regular army. But the front of his mind didn’t give a damn, and he exulted in it. The private who had first summoned him insisted on his keeping the newspaper as a souvenir. Why not? he laughed, and stuffed it in his pocket.

Later that afternoon and following congratulatory drinks, he and several other officers were gathered in his tent-the one he had inherited from Blaney-to discuss the next day’s training and patrol routine. On his collar he wore the star of a brigadier, courtesy again of the little tailor from New York.

The men paused when they heard the sound of a horse outside and a man dismounting. Through the thin wall of the tent a voice bellowed, “Where the hell is that ignorant Yankee asshole who thinks he’s a general? Jesus Christ! Did the army run out of qualified Southerners and have to promote ignorant Michigan farmers who don’t know how to wipe shit from their boots?”

The others in the tent froze in astonishment and shock, but Patrick flushed and grinned and found his own loud voice. “The Confederacy lost! Damnit, why do slow-learning rednecks who never figured out how to spell Confederacy have to be told that simple fact over and over again?”

Patrick rushed outside. “General Wheeler!” He gave a salute, which the other, much older and smaller man returned. Then, never one for formality, he grabbed Patrick’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder. Major General Joe Wheeler of the U.S. Army, hero of the Spanish-American War and ex-Confederate States of America, grinned happily. The man his soldiers called Fighting Joe had arrived.

After quick introductions, Patrick chased the other officers out and sat down with Wheeler, who looked in amazement at the elaborate tent. “Boy, you don’t have anything to drink in this canvas whorehouse, do you?”

“I sent Blaney’s personal effects back home,” Patrick said, reaching into a trunk. “I did not consider his liquor to fall in that category.”

“Spoils of war,” said Wheeler, taking a glass. “To your promotion, my command, and death to the goddamn Germans.”

Patrick took a swallow. It was good whiskey and a mighty toast. Joe Wheeler was sixty-five years old and had served the Confederacy as a brigadier general himself almost forty years ago. Later, he’d been resurrected and given command of a division against Spain in what had been described by some as a sop to the South to show that the Civil War was really, once and for all, over. It had worked. Wheeler, white bearded and in his sixties but still wiry and spry enough to look like a jockey, had performed well and inspired his men. But what was he doing here?

“Patrick, lad, I hope you aren’t too fond of these troops, because your talents are required elsewhere. Washington, to be precise. Your president calls you for more help, anticipating what the nasty shithead Germans might do.”

“And what about my little army?” The whiskey was starting to warm him. With Wheeler here, he frankly felt better, further assured that people elsewhere were aware of what was going on.