Sharpe, for want of office space and the time to look for it in a crowded city, had started shop in his own rented home on Lafayette Square. A few carefully selected military clerks had taken over the front parlor as an office. He took McPhail into the library and shut the sliding doors. “Jim, we have the labors of Hercules before us. This has never been tried before-a single national intelligence effort.”
“When do we start?”
“You already have by being here. You are my deputy, and I am going to work you near to death.”
McPhail grinned.
“This is how I see the President’s intent-to bring order to all these separate teams that are pulling each in its own direction, and this is where he is quite clear, he wants someone who will present him the equivalent of a thoroughly researched lawyer’s brief on any particular subject. He said Gettysburg taught him how dangerous it was that everybody seemed to have a finger in the pie when it came to finding out what General Lee was up to, including himself. Neither he nor Stanton had the time to do this well. He was also aware that in only the most haphazard manner, if at all, does one Union Army learn anything of use from another army.
“In practical terms, this is how I see our job. We must be the clearinghouse for all intelligence on the rebels. I do not mean to take over the staff work of the armies in the field, but they will provide us what they learn so we can build an overall picture to inform the President and Secretary Stanton. The President told me his inclination was to set up a separate agency that would report only to him, but he thought it not worth the fireworks from Stanton. He told me, ‘You need Stanton as an ally, not an enemy.’ For that reason I cannot touch Lafayette Baker’s National Detective Police. Baker and his NDP are Stanton’s pets.”
McPhail said, “I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole, George. Baker and his crew are a stench in the nostrils of honest men. Stanton protects them because they are his willing tools in any dirty thing he wants done.”
Sharpe was emphatic. “If we took over Baker’s crew, that stench would infect us as well. I mean the Bureau to be within the law, Jim. I shudder to think of how Baker has trampled on the law to abuse just about anyone he wants without writ or judge to stop him. I am a practical man, and in crisis I believe that the old adage ‘Never let your conscience stop you from doing what’s right’ is sometimes necessary. The President himself has skirted the constitutionality of some of his actions, but they have been forced on him by necessity to protect the Constitution itself from destruction. That is the real world, not the ivory tower of civil libertarians who would see the Constitution burn up in front of their eyes rather than accommodate it to the fact that the roof is on fire. We shall stand on the right side of the law, but we will also follow Mr. Lincoln’s policy of ‘bending it here and there’ where necessary.
“Baker trumpets how well he has cleaned up rebel spies in Washington, but you know as well as I do, they continue to flourish here. What Baker excels at is shaking down merchants who supply the South.”
McPhail commented, “Well, we will need our own organization to counter the enemy’s espionage. How will you get around Baker?”
“Simple,” Sharpe said. “I have an independent budget thanks to the President. Don’t ask me where he gets it. We shall just set up our own organization to catch spies. Quietly. Let Baker make all the noise he wants to about catching Belle Boyd. We will work rings around him. But watch him close, Jim; he’s a dangerous man.”
Their attention at that moment was drawn to the noise of the doors sliding open and the young soldier standing there. He was one of the studious young men clerking diligently in the outer office. In the two days since Sharpe had acquired the services of Cpl. Michael Wilmoth, the young Hoosier had shown a remarkable talent for order-of-battle analysis. He had already committed Lee’s order of battle to memory. “Sir, Professor Lowe is here.”
“Show him in.” Almost immediately the tall, lanky form of Thaddeus Lowe appeared. “Professor!” Sharpe exclaimed and rushed over to shake his hand. “Thank God, you’ve come. Here, let me introduce you to Jim McPhail.” The two shook hands as Sharpe waved them to sit. He sketched for McPhail’s benefit the travesty of Lowe’s treatment and the disappearance of the Balloon Corps. Lowe’s strong jaw tightened in the retelling. He was the foremost aeronaut in the United States, a gifted scientist, and a man of great energy who had the will and ability to get things done, none of which had been proof against military martinets.
“I tell you, George,” Lowe said, “that the only reason I have come is as a favor to you.” He looked at McPhail. “Colonel Sharpe was one of the few men I met who appreciated the value of my balloons. It was a pleasure to work with him, and I would have been a damn sight happier had I worked for him, instead of that officious.…” His voiced trailed off.
Wilmoth had appeared again and handed Sharpe a folder. Sharpe said, “And we’re going to do things right this time.” He drew a finely printed parchment out of the folder and handed it to Lowe. “Long overdue, it’s your commission as colonel, signed personally by Lincoln and countersigned by Stanton.” He drew another paper from the folder. “And here are your orders assigning you as chief of the Balloon Corps. You are in charge of all the U.S. government’s efforts at aeronautics. And you work directly for me.”
Before Lowe could reply, Sharpe went on, “Professor, you have no greater admirer than I. Your contribution during the Chancellorsville campaign made Gen. John Sedgwick’s victory at Marye’s Heights possible. I was with Hooker as he received your stream of reports within minutes of your dispatching them by telegraph from your balloons all the way down the Rapphannock at Fredericksburg.”
Lowe’s excitement had risen to the point where it seemed he needed a tether, like his balloons, to keep him grounded. “When do I start, General?”
6
LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND, 11:15 AM, SEPTEMBER 1, 1863
It was a grand sight, sailing up the Mersey River with the great entrepôt of Liverpool to larboard and the smaller shipyards of Birkenhead to starboard. Lamson allowed the crew to line the decks to enjoy the sight. It was exciting, and he tried not to let it go to his head that not even a month ago he had been chasing down this very ship he now commanded. Then she was a swift blockade-runner; now she was the USS Gettysburg, and her fleetness was in the service of the United States Navy.
Fox had pulled out all the stops to convert her in record time; the Navy Yard made it top priority, and the crews had worked in round-the-clock shifts to strengthen her hull and decks to take the huge soda bottle-shaped Dahlgren guns. Her belly had been filled with all the ammunition and other naval accoutrements of war as well as the stores and the best of hard anthracite coal to see her on her way. Lamson had requested and received his old crew from the Nansemond, plus the pick of seamen then in Washington and Baltimore. The voyage across the Atlantic was blessed with good weather, and the Gettysburg’s fine engines sped her in record time. Gunnery practice and battle drills had filled the days and made them short.
Lamson was thankful that the breaks had all gone his way; he was also worried that they had all gone his way. He wondered if he had he used up all his good luck on the way to England. He was normally a young man who acted on the belief that you made your own luck through working hard, knowing your job, and being bold. If anything, his success had come as a result of boldly bending luck to his will. But he also knew her to be a fickle goddess, apt to burst a boiler at a critical moment as to throw a laurel in your path. Overlaying this premonition were his confidential orders-“At all costs you will ensure that the rams do not escape.” At all costs.…