The Dead Skunk
- Thread starter Lycaon pictus
- Start date
Sounds like Louisiana is not doing so hot. Three prongs of invasion: 1. A fort outmaneuvered with the invasion force advancing. 2. A stalemate stopping a prong for now. 3. And one fort lost albeit with great cost to the US Army.
So not a disaster yet but the news is bad. The Father of Waters is still guarded by the Volonte, but it can only project power as far as its canons reach from the river.
Will it be enough for the Grand Army to open its ranks to Freedmen? The Colonial Regiments back east are certainly proving their worth, so the idea the Freedmen will not make good troops is discredited to some degree (only some because of how stubborn the bias is). This could finally start a proper crack in slavery's grip on the republic.
So not a disaster yet but the news is bad. The Father of Waters is still guarded by the Volonte, but it can only project power as far as its canons reach from the river.
Will it be enough for the Grand Army to open its ranks to Freedmen? The Colonial Regiments back east are certainly proving their worth, so the idea the Freedmen will not make good troops is discredited to some degree (only some because of how stubborn the bias is). This could finally start a proper crack in slavery's grip on the republic.
The Stablers Send Their Regards (3)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
Carlyle, Fitzhugh and Feuerbach are more the intellectual progenitors of aristism than the people who try to implement it.
Now you've got me looking at all the Hegelians, trying to figure out which ones have gone to Hanover or Göttingen.
And if anybody's studied chemistry, please comment. I want to know if I got anything wrong.
Early in his administration, John Quincy Adams (a man whose enthusiasm for science at times exceeded his knowledge of it) had directed the War Department and the Department of the Navy to encourage America’s scientists to search for the lost secret of Greek fire. This enterprise, of course, could never succeed at that precise goal—even if some lucky chemist did indeed stumble on the correct formula, that chemist would never know, because there were no existing samples of Greek fire to compare it with. However, there was reason to hope that in the search, someone would come across something that would serve as an effective weapon against the Royal Navy.
As the War Department considered the problem, they realized that they needed more than one type of incendiary. Against the sides of the ships themselves, what was needed was a thick, adhesive substance that, like the original Greek fire, would cling to the tarred timbers of a ship while imparting enough heat to eventually ignite those timbers. Against sailcloth and rigging—as well as against artillery positions and the men who held them—what was needed was something thinner that aerosolized readily (so that the explosion would encompass the largest possible volume) and would penetrate cloth and rope before it ignited.
By 1837 there were over a hundred chemists vying for the government’s attention, from the Stabler brothers down to patent-medicine sellers. As these chemists guarded their secrets carefully, most of their formulas are as difficult to reconstruct as Greek fire itself. Through their own purchasing records, and descriptions of the effects of their incendiaries, we can sometimes infer at least some of the ingredients, if not their proportion or the method of their manufacture. Benjamin Talbot Babbitt, later remembered as the Stabler Brothers’ chief competitor in the manufacture of soaps and detergents[1] and for his assistance with the design of the Rasmussen gun or “barrel-roller”[2], amassed a small fortune during the War of 1837 through the manufacture of “Babbitt’s Best Incendiary,” a simple, predictable, and effective anti-sailcloth incendiary composed of triple-distilled alcohol and rapeseed oil (similar to modern brassicic oil)[3]. The reliability of his product, and his ability to produce it in bulk, made him one of the government’s most sought-after contractors.
Unlike Babbitt, most of the chemists the Army and Navy dealt with were indeed charlatans, unaccustomed to giving value for money. But it was more dangerous to defraud the government than to defraud the sick, and incendiaries were much simpler to concoct than medicines. If one began with naphtha[4], lard, coal oil, vegetable oil, distilled alcohol, tar, or resin, and mixed in such ingredients as saltpeter, sawdust, acetone, flour, powdered coal or charcoal, camphor, or sulfur, it would be hard to create something that didn’t light easily and burn hot. The challenge would be creating the hottest or longest-burning possible flame—or rather, in convincing the government’s factors[5] that one had done so.
Although at least 52 chemists are on record as claiming that they had indeed gone on some unattested expedition to some site in Greece, Albania, Bosnia-Rumelia, Turkey, or Syria where they discovered the secret of true Greek fire, the rest made different claims. Some asserted honestly that they had developed their incendiary through their own dangerous experiments. Thomas Dyott, whose career in marketing nostrums had led him as far as the city of Hanover and who composed a sulfur-rich anti-rigging incendiary he called “the Blaueblume,” attributed his invention to an unknown “Dr. Robertson,” as was his usual practice. Other chemists hinted vaguely at having made bargains with unnamed dark powers to learn the secrets of the hottest fires, and labeled their products with terrifying, sometimes alliterative names that often included words like “Hellfire” or “Hellbrew.”
As Naval Secretary Abel P. Upshur observed, “There appears to be an inverse relationship between the effectiveness of an incendiary and the frightfulness of its name.” One example of this would be “Dr. Draco’s Diabolic Dragonfire.” The exact composition of this substance is lost, but descriptions of its appearance and effect reveal that it was based on tar or naphtha and must have possessed a heavy admixture of sawdust, as it generated a smell of woodsmoke guaranteed to strike fear in the heart of any sailor. If the crew kept their heads, however, they could extinguish the fire by repeatedly pouring buckets of water down the side of the ship. This would be worse than useless against a similar anti-timber incendiary, “Dr. Faust’s Flame Inextinguishable,” which must have been partly quicklime, calcium phosphide, or both, as it only burned hotter when soaked. Possibly the simplest and most obvious incendiary was the anti-rigging concoction “Beelzebub’s Briton-Burning Black Brew,” a solution of activated charcoal in alcohol which could be (and often was) drunk with no worse effect than constipation.
And then, of course, there was “Stabler Brothers’ Incendiary No. 23,” first used on November 17 as part of the defense of Fort Severn…
-Jordan Hammer & Stephen Blackwell, Before the Bronze[6] Age; A History of American Military Technology, Vol. 1
November 17, 1837
Fort Severn[7], Annapolis
1 p.m.
As soon as he heard that the British had landed at Galesville to the south, Henry Hartshorne Stabler nodded to Demby and Crain. “It’s time.”
The two burly Negroes nodded and walked back to the wagon.
Commodore William D. Porter, who commanded the fort (and yet was still finding excuses to spend time in Henry’s company—such was the curse of being incredibly rich) waited until they were out of earshot, then turned to Henry and said, “I always heard you didn’t have slaves.”
“Nor do I. Those are freedmen, and my company pays them well. Both are married. Crain has two children. Demby’s wife is pregnant. I tell you all this only so you’ll understand—I prefer that the black crates be handled at all times by men with… reasons to remain loyal.” And I’d be happy to hire strong white men for the purpose, if there were any hope of finding a white man in a slave state who is willing to take a job that in any way resembles fetching and carrying. But one of those crates, in the hands of a man with nothing to lose, could bring about another Savannah.
Henry turned to his white assistant. “Lieutenant Evans?”
“Yes, sir?” Young Samuel B. Evans from New York State was from an old military family[8], but this was less important to Henry than the fact that he was one of the rocketeers who’d brought HMS St. Lawrence to bay at Fort Niagara. For this operation, only the best would do.
“What is the highest point on this fort from which you could fire a rocket?”
“I can fire them from the top of the watchtower,” said Evans. “Shall I take the tripod up there?”
“Do so.” Henry was about to explain that according to eyewitnesses, the British were draping the sides of their ships with wet sailcloth, and there was only one reason he could think of that they would do that—to protect their ships against rocketry—and that if he had a dozen crates like this one, he would use some of them to burn the sailcloth away and deploy the rest against the naked hulls, but having only the one, he thought it best to… but none of that needed to be said. Evans was already following orders, as quickly as if he’d been an employee at one of the Stablers’ factories.
Although he’d bought a commission in the Virginia militia for the purpose, and was wearing their uniform, Henry knew he himself was no soldier. He was, in fact, a Quaker, and a part of his conscience was troubled at taking part in war in any way. But Galesville was an old Quaker settlement, and that hadn’t kept them safe from invasion. And his younger brother Dick was studying at Ferry Farm, which was not far out of the way of one of the two British armies now on American soil. The nation that had taken such losses to burn down the U.S. Naval Academy would surely not miss the chance to do some violence to one of America’s officer training schools. And who knows—perhaps this will be the weapon that finally makes war too terrible for men to wage. We can hope.
Henry was more certain that Ferry Farm would be attacked than he was that the British would attack this city, or Baltimore, or both. Did they care that it was a state capital? Did they know that USS Chippewa was at Baltimore, along with the rest of the fleet they’d forced to retreat? Their attack on Baltimore in the last war had been a failure—would that spur them to try again, or to choose a safer target this time?
Demby and Crain came back. They were carrying a box between them. It was cube-shaped, with handles on two sides, and it had been tarred all over like ship’s timbers so many times that it was waterproof.
“Do you really need two of them for a crate that size?” said Commodore Porter.
“No, but it makes accidents less likely. Speaking of which, does that tower have a pulley?”
“Yes, it does. We installed it so we could send up food to whoever’s keeping watch.”
“Can it handle fifty kilos?”
“It’s never had to, but there’s no reason it couldn’t.”
“Good.” The crate was heavy for its size. If they tried to carry it up that slender wooden ladder… there were too many ways that could go wrong.
“You seem to be going to a deal of trouble about this Greek fire of yours,” said Porter. “Forgive my skepticism, but as of now, I have rockets filled with three different ‘genuine’ Greek fires, as well as something called ‘Belphegor’s Bale-Fire’ and ‘Dr. Flammifer’s Hottest Hell-Brew.’ I have no doubt that all of them will burn, but…”
“Commodore, my brother and I do not claim that this is the Greek fire of history,” said Henry. “Indeed, I’m quite sure it’s not. If it had been, the Turks would never have dared leave the steppes.” At least until the Greeks poisoned themselves making it.
* * *
4:15 p.m.
Standing watch at the top of the tower, Henry and Lieutenant Evans saw the signal rocket from the south long before anyone else did, and the British squadron came some ten minutes later. It couldn’t be the whole fleet from Galesville—just a portion of it. And Henry didn’t see anything that looked like one of the rocket or bomb ships they’d had in the Battle of Baltimore. This is a probing attack. They didn’t come prepared for a serious attack on a city. They just want to know what they’re up against here.
Well, we can certainly enlighten them on that matter.
Lieutenant Evans picked up a headless rocket, made as if to fit it onto the tripod, and then turned to look at Henry. “Is it time, sir?”
Henry nodded, took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the crate, which was full of water to the brim. Inside, under the surface of the water, there were four Henry-Hunt bombheads[9] waiting to be screwed into place. The metal bombheads weren’t meant to be immersed in water, but they could survive it for a time, and what was inside them was never meant to be exposed to the air until it was exposed to the enemy.
“They’ve got ships there that fought us at Baltimore last time,” said Evans, looking through his spyglass. “The Madagascar, the Havannah…”
“How about the big one over there?”
“That would be… HMS Howe. One of their first-rates. A hundred and… well, a lot of guns, sir. But I think we should be more concerned about the one wheeling around behind it. That’s… that’s the Canopus, and it’s headed our way.” He took out a bombhead and screwed it into place. “In fact”—he held out the tip of his thumb at arm’s length, as if comparing it to some part of the approaching ship—“I do believe it is coming within range, sir.”
“Fire when ready, Lieutenant.”
The rocket screwed its way through the air towards the nose of the oncoming warship… and exploded a little too soon, engulfing the last few meters of the bowsprit in a cloud of smoke.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Can’t be helped. Reload and aim.”
As Evans was reloading, Henry took the spyglass and saw that the rocket hadn’t been completely wasted. Some of the incendiary had gotten on the bowsprit, creating a dazzling spatter of yellow-white fire that crackled and threw hot sparks in all directions. Henry knew that the smoke from that fire would burn the eyes and lungs of anyone it touched, that the heat would turn thick oak into charcoal, and that even if the crew could pour enough water to douse it, the No. 23 would begin smoldering again as soon as it dried out. But burning off the tip of a warship’s bowsprit was not what either of them had come here to do.
Evans fired the second rocket. This one tumbled so much in the air, Henry was afraid it would miss. Instead it struck the starboard railing and burst open, scattering gunpowder and No. 23 over the forecastle and down the side of the ship. A swathe of sailcloth burned clear through and fell into the Chesapeake. Henry couldn’t help pitying the men who were caught in that smoke. And from his vantage point, that cloud of smoke hid most of the deck of HMS Canopus. But the ship was already beginning to turn.
Unfortunately, Howe had already opened fire, and it had a lot of guns to do it with. Henry could see the pieces being knocked out of the sides of the fort. Intellectually, he knew that the odds of any one of those cannonballs hitting his watchtower were low. That didn’t stop him from wanting to scamper down the ladder and take shelter in whatever this place used for a cellar. He kept his eye on Lt. Evans, who was reloading as calmly as if the enemy weren’t there at all.
Evans fired again. This time he didn’t even wait to see if it hit, but reached down into the water for the last bombhead. Henry, however, could see it smash headfirst into the wall of the poop deck. The fire was so bright he had to shut his eyes for a moment, and it spat at the sailors on the quarterdeck as if it bore each of them a personal grudge. Then the smoke concealed it. Henry was beginning to feel like Dr. Frankenstein, tampering with forces he didn’t fully understand and could not control.
Theirs were not the only incendiary rockets—others were being fired from the walls of the fort. But the wet sailcloth on the sides seemed to be protecting the ships from the worst of their effect. So much for Dr. Flammifer. And Belphegor, whoever he is. Buy all your incendiaries from the Stabler Brothers next time. We may not have enough of No. 23, but we’ve plenty of No. 19, and that burns as well as anything.
Evans fired again. This one was a perfect shot, hitting the quarterdeck at just the right angle to skip off it like a stone, spilling No. 23 across the deck in a broad fan. Oh, dear God. Some of it landed on men.
Evans was already making his way down the ladder. Smart fellow. I should do likewise. Now.
Looking through the ladder as he descended, Henry saw that Canopus’ deck was covered in smoke, and the crew had given up trying to put out the fires. They were now abandoning the ship to her fate.
Howe, alas, was still in the fight. One of its cannonballs cut through one of the supports of the watchtower, causing it to tip over slowly to the side. But not slowly enough for Henry, who was still some five meters over the brick pavement.
The ladder tipped over. Lieutenant Evans got underneath it and struggled to hold it up, but he seemed to have it at an awkward angle.
Then Demby and Crain arrived. Between them, they pulled the ladder forward and lowered it to where Henry could simply jump off. Without a word, all four of them ran for the nearest shelter.
* * *
The rest of the battle, for Henry, was just noise—cannons, rockets, the resonant thunder of columbiads, the unmistakable sound of Canopus exploding. Finally, the firing stopped. Henry got out to take a look.
HMS Howe was withdrawing—it must have been struck by a columbiad. The gaping wound in its side was above the waterline, but was still a potential target for an incendiary rocket. And the rest of the fleet was withdrawing as well.
“They can’t afford more losses,” said Porter a little too loudly—his ears must have been ringing from the battle. “They’ve landed two armies, and will need to withdraw them sooner or later.”
“Sooner, I hope.”
“I will say it,” said Porter. “Your invention is a most potent weapon of war.”
Henry nodded, feeling more than a little like a fraud. His older brother had made some discoveries himself and had hired men who’d discovered much more, but the key ingredient in this horror wasn’t even an American invention. Seven years ago, a Frenchman named Charles Sauria with whom Thomas Stabler was in correspondence had developed white phosphorus for use in matches[10]. But God forgive us, we and our man Dr. Long were the ones who found a way to make a weapon of it. And despite how dangerous it is to make, I’m only sorry we can’t concoct it faster and in greater quantity.
[1] IOTL he was also a big name in the soap business.
[2] I.e. the Gatling gun
[3] A name that covers IOTL’s colza and canola oil.
[4] The most popular American term for crude oil ITTL
[5] Purchasing agents
[6] A reference to Project Bronze, TTL’s version of the Manhattan Project.
[7] On the site of IOTL’s U.S. Naval Academy.
[8] His grandfather was an American general in the ARW, and his uncle was Gen. Jacob Brown. IOTL he died at the Alamo.
[9] I.e., warheads.
[10] As IOTL.
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So America has now shown people the potential of chemical warfare. Oh, goody. Seems like they've managed to prevent the British from landing at Washington for the time being as well, although two armies are something to worry about alright. The first is aiming towards Washington, but where is the second, unless I missed it?
Nice touch with Stabler's freedmen workers, well paid ones too it seems. A reminder after seeing the Deep South marching that antislavery forces are rising quicker in the USA OTL. With any ck Stabler's growing influence from this well hasten the decline of the institution.
Another defeat for the British, and a herad of tragedy too come.
The poor fellow, this is far from humanity's breaking point in atrocity for war.
Another defeat for the British, and a herad of tragedy too come.
The poor fellow, this is far from humanity's breaking point in atrocity for war.
It's interesting to note that, despite the victories of the Americans, they still seem to be on the backfoot in many ways. Even with the capture of Canada, it's like no one is really happy with how the war is going. I'm wondering what their present political situation in Washington is like.
Well the longer the war drags I think the more people will have to face it was started over slavery. Which the Florida campaign will remind people with the slavers going slaving on America's dime. The fact that campaign was a disaster too is salt in the wound.
For the North the slavery connection will be ever more problematic. For the South the issue will be how the Government is not able to effectively protect them.
Still the US army is advancing in Louisiana, so there's that for the South; and the North likely wats to restore that land to the Union too. As for Canada its been awhile since we heard from there. I'd assume Berrien put on the brakes wanting to shift focus to protevting the South, but that's not certain. We also need to consider if the Americans wear out their welcome where they are occupying. And if given time Brougham has been ble to reach an accomodation with the people of Quebec and elsewhere in Canada.
Winter Soldiers (1)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
November 18, 1837
southeast of Fredericksburg
4:30 p.m.
“Not a pretty sight,” said Major General Cole. The fact that the sun was going down and he was more or less looking into it was only part of the problem.
“No indeed, sir,” said his second in command and fellow Knight of the Bath, General Sir John Forster FitzGerald. The Americans were once again holding the high ground, between the Rappahannock and a creek called Little Falls Run. Their numbers were somewhere between as many and half again as many as the British army of 6,000. And judging by their uniforms, those in the front line were real army. That militia rabble they’d fought at Muddy Creek—Bloody Creek, the men were now calling it—was somewhere behind them, acting as a reserve. The army wasn’t strictly in their path, but they still had the Occoquan to cross and the capital district’s forts to overcome. It would be foolish to attempt any of that with a larger army behind them. But this time, let’s not break their fist with our face. We did enough of that yesterday.
“The scouts are reporting lines of yellow and red flags up ahead. The yellow flags are a bit more than half a mile ahead of their positions, the red flags halfway back from there.”
“So… a kilometer and half a kilometer, sir?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Range markers for these damned screws, no doubt.” FitzGerald touched the one American rocket they’d been able to take intact after its wobbling course carried it into the water and extinguished it. It was his regiment that had suffered the most—between the wounded and the men helping them, he’d sent half of them back to the ships at Port Conway, many of them with burns that would need all the opium in Virginia.
“I believe you’re right.”
“An escaped slave informed us that there’s a foundry upriver beyond the tracks where these rockets are built.”[1]
“It would be good to see that place burn.”
“Indeed. Whatever we do, sir, I recommend we do it at night. They won’t be able to see those flags, and our superior training and discipline will give us the advantage in the dark.”
“I concur.”
“They say that’s one of their officer training schools up ahead, at the near end,” said FitzGerald. “Ferry Farm, on the site George Washington once lived. Not the most prestigious one, perhaps—that would be West Point—but nonetheless…”
“No.”
FitzGerald looked at him with a little surprise.
“I wish to emulate the young Sir George Cockburn, not the old one[2]. I’m here on business. A symbolic victory is not worth one drop of our men’s blood. And after Sinepuxent, an attack on Ferry Farm is exactly what the Americans are most likely to expect.”
“Of course, sir.”
“What troubles me is the railroad. So long as it’s intact, the Americans can bring in new regiments faster than even Wellington could destroy them. Nor need they ever fear the loss of their logistics train—they can be resupplied as easily as they can be reinforced.” Cole considered his next words. It wouldn’t do to sound defeatist. “We are making history here. This is the first time men have ever waged war in a land served by railroads. If the thing were impossible, no one would know until this day.”
“They can’t possibly be guarding the whole length of it, sir. A little shovel-work and black powder, and we can blow a hole in it they’ll be weeks repairing.”
“True, but they would still be able to unload fresh men and supplies nearby, and in the direction we most wish to… I wonder.”
“Sir.”
“The trains run at all hours of the night. If we could attack in the dark, seize a train or two, bring our men aboard… we could outrun any warning, drive into Washington before anyone can react. Could it work?”
“It sounds almost too good to be true, sir.”
“Indeed. If they realize what we’re about… then they’ll come out of their fortifications to stop us and we’ll be fighting them on our own terms. With luck, we can take them in the flank and roll up the whole army by morning.”
“More than one path to victory, sir.”
“Indeed. The mark of a good plan. At midnight, then.”
November 19, 1837
east of Falmouth, Virginia
2:30 a.m.
When the request came for cadets to volunteer as scouts, Michael Todd and Will Shannon tried to be the first to volunteer—but with everyone doing it at once, that was impossible. But they were two of the first to be accepted.
Now, Mike was on the edge of a harvested tobacco field. He moved silently, like an Indian out hunting, but Will was nearby and just as quiet—and well they might, since the same old Shawnee had taught them both. They were wearing moccasins instead of their uniform boots, they’d given their eyes time to adjust to the dark, and above all, they moved slowly. When you were trying not to make any noise, tall grass could be your best friend or your worst enemy.
Even knowing that horses were no good at stealth, Mike wished for a horse. He and Will had raced each other from Kentucky to Ferry Farm. Mike had taken the R&M from the new town of Claysburgh[3]—so new it was basically a collection of shacks around a rail station—to Raleigh, and then gone to Fredericksburg by stagecoach and Ferry Farm by, well, ferry. Will had simply rode. Mike had been sure he’d either run his horse to death or show up weeks late. Instead, Mike’s train had broken down in the North Carolina mountains and he’d arrived at the Farm to learn that Will had gotten there the previous evening. If they found anything, he wanted to be the first one back with the news.
And he was sure they would. Even for November, with the last of the crickets dead, the night was too quiet. Mike hadn’t seen or heard any sign of a deer. The little animals that should have been rustling in the undergrowth were hiding in their burrows. And it’s not on our account. Something’s up.
Mike stopped. Held still. He pictured his ears stretching out, taking in all the little noises out there… and what he heard was wrong.
Horses.
Footsteps. Not marching, but a lot of them.
The creak of wheels.
When Mike crossed the field, he could see them. The cavalry was in front. Smart. Horses can see in the dark better than people, and it’s easier to walk where they’ve trampled. As long as you don’t step in anything. It looked like only one regiment was carrying torches. Also smart. They can’t hide the fact that they’re making a move. This way it looks like a feint, not the whole army.
Will was at his elbow. Both of them were basically invisible to the enemy, two shadows in the dark.
“Get to town and warn ‘em,” whispered Will. “I’ll go back to the Farm.” Before Mike could object, Will pointed himself south and started padding away.
It was no time to argue. Mike went west, grimly certain Will was going to outdo him again.
In the words of Quincy Grissom, “Even Loki and Coyote would kneel in worship of the trickster we call the God of Battles, whose first commandment is ‘That which can go amiss, must and shall go amiss.’ This is why the best plans in war are simple and leave as little as possible to chance.”
Since Gen. Grissom’s time, military planners have studied the degree to which this holds true in a given situation. In modern parlance, “white chaos” is the usual level of confusion that accompanies military endeavors.“Black chaos” is a state of absolute disorder in which no one has the slightest idea what is going on outside their immediate vicinity, neither side can make meaningful plans, and even the simple orders of “advance” and “retreat” raise the unanswerable question of which direction to do these things in. Between these two is a state called “gray chaos,” in which the unexpected has already happened and/or key pieces of information are missing, but in which it is still possible for a level-headed commander to respond to immediate crises in an intelligent way.[4]
The first night of the Battle of Falmouth[5] is an example of gray chaos. When striking out northwest, Cole had used the standard ploy of leaving his campfires burning all night to make it appear from a distance as though his army was still there. On this night, the ploy backfired—literally. Sparks from one campfire got loose and set a hayfield on fire. It wasn’t particularly dangerous, but when it burned for over a minute with no one making a move to put it out, it showed Garland that the “diversionary attack” he’d spotted earlier was much more than that.
At around the same time he saw this, a young cadet—none other than William Shannon, in fact—was finding his way back to Ferry Farm and making his report… only to have it dismissed as an obvious feint. Both his instructors and the militia were sure the British had given up on their goal of attacking the capital and would settle for destroying another military school. His fellow cadet and lifelong competitor, Michael Todd, was having more luck in Falmouth raising the alarm.
Imagine General Cole’s army at the railroad tracks, a few hours before dawn. They have just finished digging under the tracks and planting black powder. They have a plan—wait for the sound of the next train coming from the north, then light the fuse. The crew of the train will see the explosion and throw on the brakes. With any luck (a phrase that should never, ever, be uttered by a military planner) the train will come to a stop before it hits the broken track and is derailed. Then the army will storm the train, bring as many of their men and guns as will fit on board, and force the engineer to drive it backwards through Stafford, over the Quantico and Occoquan and into the heart of Washington.
And then the sound of a train comes… from the south. The fuse is not lit, but the powder is planted and there’s no time to dig it up. Someone on the train spots the army and engages the brakes, but the locomotive is still moving when sparks from the brakes set off the powder, heaving the locomotive off the track and bringing the whole train to a crashing, derailing stop. Inside are the Richmond Zouaves, a new regiment which was sent this way after Todd got word to Falmouth and which is now having one of the worst introductions to combat of any military body in history.
The Zouaves’ stand was bold, but brief. The deciding factor was that the wooden sides of these 1830s railroad cars were not at all bulletproof. Cole’s whole army could fire into the cars and be sure of hitting someone, whereas the Zouaves, or those not already too injured by the crash to fight, could only fire out the windows. Cole quickly decided that the best place to hold them prisoner was the train they came in. He ordered them to surrender their weapons, but had no way of knowing if the number of weapons he received was anywhere near the sum total of the weapons the Zouaves had.
Somewhere between half an hour and an hour later, Garland attacked out of the southeast. One of his first acts was to send riders north to the next station to warn them of the situation. He had no way of knowing that by doing so, he had effectively already won the battle, in the sense that Cole’s goal of attacking Washington, DC had just gone from difficult to impossible. Garland’s actual attack was less successful—the north wing of the British rallied, swung round and forced him south. In the confusion, many of the Zouaves were able to escape, and even bring some of their unsurrendered firearms with them.
This was the situation by morning: Garland’s army, defeated but still intact and receiving fresh recruits, was standing on the defensive in the hills north of Falmouth. Cole’s army still stood astride what was left of the railroad from Washington to Fredericksburg. Garland’s riders had been too late to prevent the last train from leaving the station at Stafford, and it had crashed into the derailed locomotive. That train was loaded with provisions intended for Garland’s army. Cole’s army now had all the cornmeal they could eat. Unfortunately, it proved to be infested with mealworms.
And this was the least of Cole’s problems. He could not press the attack on the capital with Garland in his rear. Every day he delayed the attack, General Worth’s[6] defenses grew stronger. If he simply gave up the campaign and withdrew, Garland would go north and join the fight in Maryland, overwhelming Kennison’s army…
[1] The Rappahannock Works, an old foundry which did employ a lot of slaves and ITTL found a new lease on life casting railroad track before being refitted to make weapons again, including Henry-Hunt rockets.
[2] I.e., when he sacked Washington in the War of 1812, not when he died at Sinepuxent.
[3] OTL Middlesboro, Ky., built earlier thanks to the Raleigh and Mississippi Railroad and intended (rather optimisticly) to emulate Pittsburgh as a center of industry.
[4] This is TTL’s equivalent of SNAFU, FUBAR and the lesser-known intermediate stage TARFU “Things Are Really… Fouled… Up.”
[5] The 1690 battle in Maine is known as the Battle of Fort Loyal ITTL, to avoid confusion with this one.
[6] In command of D.C.’s defenses.
southeast of Fredericksburg
4:30 p.m.
“Not a pretty sight,” said Major General Cole. The fact that the sun was going down and he was more or less looking into it was only part of the problem.
“No indeed, sir,” said his second in command and fellow Knight of the Bath, General Sir John Forster FitzGerald. The Americans were once again holding the high ground, between the Rappahannock and a creek called Little Falls Run. Their numbers were somewhere between as many and half again as many as the British army of 6,000. And judging by their uniforms, those in the front line were real army. That militia rabble they’d fought at Muddy Creek—Bloody Creek, the men were now calling it—was somewhere behind them, acting as a reserve. The army wasn’t strictly in their path, but they still had the Occoquan to cross and the capital district’s forts to overcome. It would be foolish to attempt any of that with a larger army behind them. But this time, let’s not break their fist with our face. We did enough of that yesterday.
“The scouts are reporting lines of yellow and red flags up ahead. The yellow flags are a bit more than half a mile ahead of their positions, the red flags halfway back from there.”
“So… a kilometer and half a kilometer, sir?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Range markers for these damned screws, no doubt.” FitzGerald touched the one American rocket they’d been able to take intact after its wobbling course carried it into the water and extinguished it. It was his regiment that had suffered the most—between the wounded and the men helping them, he’d sent half of them back to the ships at Port Conway, many of them with burns that would need all the opium in Virginia.
“I believe you’re right.”
“An escaped slave informed us that there’s a foundry upriver beyond the tracks where these rockets are built.”[1]
“It would be good to see that place burn.”
“Indeed. Whatever we do, sir, I recommend we do it at night. They won’t be able to see those flags, and our superior training and discipline will give us the advantage in the dark.”
“I concur.”
“They say that’s one of their officer training schools up ahead, at the near end,” said FitzGerald. “Ferry Farm, on the site George Washington once lived. Not the most prestigious one, perhaps—that would be West Point—but nonetheless…”
“No.”
FitzGerald looked at him with a little surprise.
“I wish to emulate the young Sir George Cockburn, not the old one[2]. I’m here on business. A symbolic victory is not worth one drop of our men’s blood. And after Sinepuxent, an attack on Ferry Farm is exactly what the Americans are most likely to expect.”
“Of course, sir.”
“What troubles me is the railroad. So long as it’s intact, the Americans can bring in new regiments faster than even Wellington could destroy them. Nor need they ever fear the loss of their logistics train—they can be resupplied as easily as they can be reinforced.” Cole considered his next words. It wouldn’t do to sound defeatist. “We are making history here. This is the first time men have ever waged war in a land served by railroads. If the thing were impossible, no one would know until this day.”
“They can’t possibly be guarding the whole length of it, sir. A little shovel-work and black powder, and we can blow a hole in it they’ll be weeks repairing.”
“True, but they would still be able to unload fresh men and supplies nearby, and in the direction we most wish to… I wonder.”
“Sir.”
“The trains run at all hours of the night. If we could attack in the dark, seize a train or two, bring our men aboard… we could outrun any warning, drive into Washington before anyone can react. Could it work?”
“It sounds almost too good to be true, sir.”
“Indeed. If they realize what we’re about… then they’ll come out of their fortifications to stop us and we’ll be fighting them on our own terms. With luck, we can take them in the flank and roll up the whole army by morning.”
“More than one path to victory, sir.”
“Indeed. The mark of a good plan. At midnight, then.”
November 19, 1837
east of Falmouth, Virginia
2:30 a.m.
When the request came for cadets to volunteer as scouts, Michael Todd and Will Shannon tried to be the first to volunteer—but with everyone doing it at once, that was impossible. But they were two of the first to be accepted.
Now, Mike was on the edge of a harvested tobacco field. He moved silently, like an Indian out hunting, but Will was nearby and just as quiet—and well they might, since the same old Shawnee had taught them both. They were wearing moccasins instead of their uniform boots, they’d given their eyes time to adjust to the dark, and above all, they moved slowly. When you were trying not to make any noise, tall grass could be your best friend or your worst enemy.
Even knowing that horses were no good at stealth, Mike wished for a horse. He and Will had raced each other from Kentucky to Ferry Farm. Mike had taken the R&M from the new town of Claysburgh[3]—so new it was basically a collection of shacks around a rail station—to Raleigh, and then gone to Fredericksburg by stagecoach and Ferry Farm by, well, ferry. Will had simply rode. Mike had been sure he’d either run his horse to death or show up weeks late. Instead, Mike’s train had broken down in the North Carolina mountains and he’d arrived at the Farm to learn that Will had gotten there the previous evening. If they found anything, he wanted to be the first one back with the news.
And he was sure they would. Even for November, with the last of the crickets dead, the night was too quiet. Mike hadn’t seen or heard any sign of a deer. The little animals that should have been rustling in the undergrowth were hiding in their burrows. And it’s not on our account. Something’s up.
Mike stopped. Held still. He pictured his ears stretching out, taking in all the little noises out there… and what he heard was wrong.
Horses.
Footsteps. Not marching, but a lot of them.
The creak of wheels.
When Mike crossed the field, he could see them. The cavalry was in front. Smart. Horses can see in the dark better than people, and it’s easier to walk where they’ve trampled. As long as you don’t step in anything. It looked like only one regiment was carrying torches. Also smart. They can’t hide the fact that they’re making a move. This way it looks like a feint, not the whole army.
Will was at his elbow. Both of them were basically invisible to the enemy, two shadows in the dark.
“Get to town and warn ‘em,” whispered Will. “I’ll go back to the Farm.” Before Mike could object, Will pointed himself south and started padding away.
It was no time to argue. Mike went west, grimly certain Will was going to outdo him again.
In the words of Quincy Grissom, “Even Loki and Coyote would kneel in worship of the trickster we call the God of Battles, whose first commandment is ‘That which can go amiss, must and shall go amiss.’ This is why the best plans in war are simple and leave as little as possible to chance.”
Since Gen. Grissom’s time, military planners have studied the degree to which this holds true in a given situation. In modern parlance, “white chaos” is the usual level of confusion that accompanies military endeavors.“Black chaos” is a state of absolute disorder in which no one has the slightest idea what is going on outside their immediate vicinity, neither side can make meaningful plans, and even the simple orders of “advance” and “retreat” raise the unanswerable question of which direction to do these things in. Between these two is a state called “gray chaos,” in which the unexpected has already happened and/or key pieces of information are missing, but in which it is still possible for a level-headed commander to respond to immediate crises in an intelligent way.[4]
The first night of the Battle of Falmouth[5] is an example of gray chaos. When striking out northwest, Cole had used the standard ploy of leaving his campfires burning all night to make it appear from a distance as though his army was still there. On this night, the ploy backfired—literally. Sparks from one campfire got loose and set a hayfield on fire. It wasn’t particularly dangerous, but when it burned for over a minute with no one making a move to put it out, it showed Garland that the “diversionary attack” he’d spotted earlier was much more than that.
At around the same time he saw this, a young cadet—none other than William Shannon, in fact—was finding his way back to Ferry Farm and making his report… only to have it dismissed as an obvious feint. Both his instructors and the militia were sure the British had given up on their goal of attacking the capital and would settle for destroying another military school. His fellow cadet and lifelong competitor, Michael Todd, was having more luck in Falmouth raising the alarm.
Imagine General Cole’s army at the railroad tracks, a few hours before dawn. They have just finished digging under the tracks and planting black powder. They have a plan—wait for the sound of the next train coming from the north, then light the fuse. The crew of the train will see the explosion and throw on the brakes. With any luck (a phrase that should never, ever, be uttered by a military planner) the train will come to a stop before it hits the broken track and is derailed. Then the army will storm the train, bring as many of their men and guns as will fit on board, and force the engineer to drive it backwards through Stafford, over the Quantico and Occoquan and into the heart of Washington.
And then the sound of a train comes… from the south. The fuse is not lit, but the powder is planted and there’s no time to dig it up. Someone on the train spots the army and engages the brakes, but the locomotive is still moving when sparks from the brakes set off the powder, heaving the locomotive off the track and bringing the whole train to a crashing, derailing stop. Inside are the Richmond Zouaves, a new regiment which was sent this way after Todd got word to Falmouth and which is now having one of the worst introductions to combat of any military body in history.
The Zouaves’ stand was bold, but brief. The deciding factor was that the wooden sides of these 1830s railroad cars were not at all bulletproof. Cole’s whole army could fire into the cars and be sure of hitting someone, whereas the Zouaves, or those not already too injured by the crash to fight, could only fire out the windows. Cole quickly decided that the best place to hold them prisoner was the train they came in. He ordered them to surrender their weapons, but had no way of knowing if the number of weapons he received was anywhere near the sum total of the weapons the Zouaves had.
Somewhere between half an hour and an hour later, Garland attacked out of the southeast. One of his first acts was to send riders north to the next station to warn them of the situation. He had no way of knowing that by doing so, he had effectively already won the battle, in the sense that Cole’s goal of attacking Washington, DC had just gone from difficult to impossible. Garland’s actual attack was less successful—the north wing of the British rallied, swung round and forced him south. In the confusion, many of the Zouaves were able to escape, and even bring some of their unsurrendered firearms with them.
This was the situation by morning: Garland’s army, defeated but still intact and receiving fresh recruits, was standing on the defensive in the hills north of Falmouth. Cole’s army still stood astride what was left of the railroad from Washington to Fredericksburg. Garland’s riders had been too late to prevent the last train from leaving the station at Stafford, and it had crashed into the derailed locomotive. That train was loaded with provisions intended for Garland’s army. Cole’s army now had all the cornmeal they could eat. Unfortunately, it proved to be infested with mealworms.
And this was the least of Cole’s problems. He could not press the attack on the capital with Garland in his rear. Every day he delayed the attack, General Worth’s[6] defenses grew stronger. If he simply gave up the campaign and withdrew, Garland would go north and join the fight in Maryland, overwhelming Kennison’s army…
Joseph Welcome, Case Studies in the Fog of War
[1] The Rappahannock Works, an old foundry which did employ a lot of slaves and ITTL found a new lease on life casting railroad track before being refitted to make weapons again, including Henry-Hunt rockets.
[2] I.e., when he sacked Washington in the War of 1812, not when he died at Sinepuxent.
[3] OTL Middlesboro, Ky., built earlier thanks to the Raleigh and Mississippi Railroad and intended (rather optimisticly) to emulate Pittsburgh as a center of industry.
[4] This is TTL’s equivalent of SNAFU, FUBAR and the lesser-known intermediate stage TARFU “Things Are Really… Fouled… Up.”
[5] The 1690 battle in Maine is known as the Battle of Fort Loyal ITTL, to avoid confusion with this one.
[6] In command of D.C.’s defenses.
Oh dear this is a dilemma.
It seems this war is going to be one of exchanged blows with neither being able to deliver the knockout.
In that case I bet on the Empire as they have the more united cause in defending their territory from invaders as things drag on. By contrast as things get nastier and the stakes potentially higher the divisions in the USA, particularly the Free-Slave divide will come up. Namely that they started this war to punish the British for granting sanctuary to rebel slaves and to liberate Canada(and the Canadians aren't all in favor of liberation even)
It seems this war is going to be one of exchanged blows with neither being able to deliver the knockout.
In that case I bet on the Empire as they have the more united cause in defending their territory from invaders as things drag on. By contrast as things get nastier and the stakes potentially higher the divisions in the USA, particularly the Free-Slave divide will come up. Namely that they started this war to punish the British for granting sanctuary to rebel slaves and to liberate Canada(and the Canadians aren't all in favor of liberation even)
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My take:
The single biggest issue is the rail network. The sheer quantity of men and material its let's the Americans bring to bear against them quickly is not something their doctrines have caught up with. Their plans hinged on striking quick and hard, keeping the Americans off balance. This blow was a win, but not one to put the Americans on the backleg. So they either gamble on the big win or withdraw, because anything else has them getting ground into paste.
For this campaign ithink their best option is to witthdraw possibly birning as they go to preserve their troop to be used eleshere either in other raids or defending. But if they do that the Americans can concentrate against the British force in Maryland.
Lycaon pictus
Donor
This is exactly right. And remember that Britain has to send everyone and everything over by ship, which means keeping men and horses fed and watered over a month or more of ocean voyage.
It's not much of a spoiler at this point to say that the '37 Chesapeake Campaign will be remembered as a classic example of generals fighting the last war, trying to duplicate Cockburn's rolling a nat20 in 1814 and hoping the Americans duplicate their nat[dice don't go that low]. The irony is, Goderich and Brougham tried very hard not to do that. They've sent much larger armies to attack the capital from two directions, but it's still not enough.
Brougham, of course, prides himself on never making stupid mistakes—only smart ones. We'll get to see him kick himself later.
Winter Soldiers (2)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
“An intelligence officer I know once told me, ‘The only soldiers who have our full trust and confidence are stationed at Mount Hope.’”
-Jenny Flynn
For a generation of American soldiers, shame had a name. That name was “Bladensburg.”
On August 24, 1814, an unprepared, hastily assembled army under Brigadier General William H. Winder met a much smaller British force, and was defeated and sent in headlong flight, leaving Washington, D.C. unprotected. A full description of the debacle may be found in Chapter 22 of this author’s The War of 1812. Suffice to say here that the correspondence of American colonels and generals reveals that as of 1837, almost every single one of them had replayed the battle a thousand times over in his mind, imagining a thousand different ways to win it: “field fortifications built the night before the attack might have made all the difference”; “a dozen cannons atop Lowndes Hill would surely have saved the Capitol and the president’s house”; “had we only burned the bridge”; “we should have made our stand in the town itself”; etc. Most of the criticism was of course directed at General Winder for his failure to keep track of who under his command was supposed to go where and do what, then-Secretary of War John Armstrong for his failure to assign Winder a staff to assist him in this, and the Maryland militia for failing to stand their ground.
Unlike the loss of New Orleans at the end of that year and the Treaty of Roxbury which rendered that loss permanent, Bladensburg and the burning of Washington were symbolic defeats—the small British force soon withdrew, leaving the government free to reclaim its territory and begin rebuilding. But for Americans and British alike, it was a most powerful symbol. Even Merrymeeting Bay the next year was less humiliating—there was no shame in being defeated by a stronger army, led by one of the greatest generals of his time. But to be routed by an army less than a quarter the size of one’s own, however well-led, and to see the capital of one’s nation put to the torch as a direct consequence, was a disgrace almost beyond description.
In fact, it is likely that the entire Chesapeake Campaign of the War of 1837 was a consequence of Bladensburg. It is difficult to imagine Brougham or Russell ordering a two-pronged attack on Washington, D.C. with a mere fifteen thousand men if not for the fact that a much smaller attack had succeded there twenty-three years earlier. (That, and the fact that British intelligence had confirmed USS Representation was hors de combat in Sinepuxent Harbor and they had every reason to believe USS Election could not be moved from the Potomac even before its destruction.)
In November of 1837, after 23 years and almost exactly three months, the Army got the chance to redeem itself—this time against an army six times the size of the one it had faced at Bladensburg…
Charles Cerniglia, 1837
McHenry Tilghman[1]
(Capt., U.S. Army)
“Mac” Tilghman was born January 24, 1816, at Rich Neck Manor in Claiborne, Maryland (now part of Milesmouth[2]) to James Tilghman and Ann Caroline Shoemaker Tilghman. The Tilghman family was already long known for national service. Matthew Tilghman, Mac’s great-great-grandfather, was part of the revolution from its earliest days, serving on Maryland’s Committee of Correspondence and Committee of Safety and heading Maryland’s delegation to the Continental Congress. Matthew’s nephew, Tench Tilghman (see below) was an aide-de-camp to George Washington himself during the Revolution. It is no surprise that Mac himself, named for the Baltimore fort that had stood off a British attack during the War of 1812, grew up with a strong sense of obligation to the republic…(Capt., U.S. Army)
Tilghman was accepted to Fort LaBoeuf in 1832 and graduated near the top of his class in 1836[3]. Classmates remember him as “studious but cheerful” and “determined never to earn a demerit for anything unless it was fun.” His classmate Quincy Grissom said, “I was sure I’d be under his command one day.”
Tilghman entered the army as a second lieutenant. With Berrien expanding the army for war, he was quickly promoted…
Gen. Worth, who commanded the capital’s defenses, had positioned units on every hill guarding the approach to the city. None of these units were adequate to do more than briefly delay Kerrison’s army, but all had the same orders—if the enemy was attacking, send up the signal rockets, then hold their ground until reinforcements arrived.
Battery D of the 5th Regiment of Artillery was at Mount Hope Plantation[4], on the crest of a hill overlooking harvested tobacco fields. This battery consisted of ten tripods and six 6-pounders (eight to ten guns being the average for an American battery). But the hill was covered with poppies, and although their seed pods had long since been harvested, their gray-green stalks still stood tall enough to hide the tripods. To British scouts, Mount Hope looked like a weak spot in the American defense. That was why, on November 19, General Kerrison ordered his army of 9,000 men to take the hill.
Seeing the British army charging in his direction, Tilghman launched the signal rocket. Although his guns were effective at more than a kilometer, because of his limited supply of round shot Tilghman chose to wait to begin firing until the British were closer.
He readied the 1-km rockets, and opened fire when the British were within range. (According to one of the few survivors of the battery, none of the rockets had been properly marked. When Tilghman fired them, he found out which ones were incendiaries and which ones were canister at the same moment the British did.) By now, the British had learned that a Henry-Hunt rocket not fired at a ship’s hull or other solid target had a pre-set range, and that if you could make it through that range alive, you were safe from them. Kerrison’s men went for about fifty meters as fast as they could run or gallop, then slowed to a walk.
When the British came within 500 meters, Tilghman concentrated his rocket fire on the enemy artillery, which could not move any faster through the rockets’ range. Although the artillery pieces themselves survived, much of their powder was ignited and the crews that were to service them suffered heavy losses. But neither this nor his cannon fire was sufficient to stop Kerrison.
At this point, seeing that reinforcements were approaching, Tilghman made the decision to hold his ground until they arrived, rather than yield the high ground. As the British charged up the hill, Tilghman’s men fought with round shot, then grapeshot, then canister, supplementing the artillery with fire from their own Francotte revolvers. Only four men from Battery D survived, and Tilghman was not among them, but they held just long enough for Major General Kearny[5]’s three regiments of dragoons to arrive. The shock of being met with fresh troops when they were almost at the top of the hill was enough to drive the British to retreat…
David Harvey Copp, An Encyclopedia of American Heroes, Vol. 10
Seeing that despite his losses and their reinforcements he still had the Americans outnumbered by almost three to one, Kerrison chose to make another attack. Since this attack had no guarantee of success, he prepared orders for Lt. Gen. Sir Arthur Brooke, a veteran of the failed Baltimore campaign, in the event of his failure.
The second charge did indeed fail, and Kerrison himself was wounded. Due to some confusion among his aides, the orders that Brooke was meant to have implemented that night were not delivered to him until dawn the next morning. Nonetheless, he obeyed them, bringing the 86th Royal County Down Regiment of Foot and the 91st Argyllshire Highlanders into a small valley to the north, between the hill and a neighboring hill. The result was “Brooke’s Charge,” which later became the subject of painting and poetry, and is honored and mourned to this day as an example of matchless valor doomed and wasted by simple errors in judgment.
The object of the operation, as conceived by Kerrison (according to his later testimony before a Parliamentary committee) was for these two regiments to slip unnoticed up the hill and into the rear of Kearny’s forces. This might have been possible during the night. But before dawn, a fresh American infantry regiment and two artillery batteries had arrived from the north, and were in position to fire into the valley. One in five[6] men from the 86th and 91st was killed or wounded. Brooke himself was killed.
While General Slade (effectively in overall command at this point) was extricating the remains of the two regiments from this disaster, the decisive blow came from the west…
Eric Wayne Ellison, Anglo-American Wars of the 19th Century
Scott’s official reason for choosing Burlington as his headquarters, rather than somewhere closer to the border, was that it was a large town at the end of the New Haven and Champlain Railroad and could keep his troops well-supplied in their barracks—and as a lumber town, it could easily build more barracks as needed. Unofficially, he was keeping an eye on one of his subordinates, Col. Harney, who had been entirely too enthusiastic about taking the war back into Lower Canada and had made several attempts to act against orders.
When word came up the railroad that the British had landed in Maryland and Virginia, Scott and Harney were for once of one mind in what needed to be done. They loaded 5,000 men onto trains and headed for D.C.
Scott arrived at Bladensburg on the morning of November 19 to find that the capital was being threatened by two armies each larger than their own. Harney wanted to divide his forces and attack both, but Scott overruled him. He spent the day assembling his forces at Bladensburg as the trains bearing them came in one by one.
He attacked at midmorning, as soon as the sun was high enough not to be shining right into his eyes. General Slade would later say that it was all he could do to prevent a rout. He quickly organized a fighting retreat, spiking the artillery and carrying the wounded.
Mount Hope was not the first American victory in the War of 1837, but it was the first that the Americans won without a decisive advantage in numbers. It not only forced the withdrawal of British troops from Maryland, but convinced General Cole (for whom November 20 represented a day of expensive and inconclusive fighting) that the entire campaign was doomed, and that it was time to withdraw from Virginia.
David Harvey Copp, An Encyclopedia of American Heroes, Vol. 9
The Chesapeake Campaign in the War of 1837 is responsible for two American cultural milestones. The first was the creation of Mount Hope National Cemetery. After hearing of Battery D’s sacrifice, General Worth and War Secretary Poinsett persuaded Congress to authorize the purchase of the hill so that they could be buried there with full military honors. Eventually, of course, the Army would buy the entire plantation, and it would become the sacred burial ground of American soldiers who die on active duty.
The second was the formalization of Thanksgiving as a national holiday. The holiday already had an informal existence in many states (usually on a Thursday in November) and more than one president had proclaimed National Days of Thanksgiving for specific years. On November 22, once it was confirmed that the British were withdrawing from Maryland and Virginia, Berrien shamelessly plagiarized George Washington for his own proclamation:
Now therefore I do recommend and assign Thursday the 30th day of November next to be devoted by the People of this Nation to the service of that great and glorious Being, who is the beneficent Author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be. That we may then all unite in rendering unto Him our sincere and humble thanks for the late deliverance of our land from the presence of the foe. I further recommend and assign that the final Thursday of November be a day of national praise, prayer, and thanksgiving to Almighty God for so long as it shall please the People of this Nation to honor myself with this Office…
(Not only was the war still underway, but as of November 30, there were still some British troops left in Virginia, although they were leaving as quickly as possible.)
Charles Cerniglia, 1837
[1] Allohistorical brother of Lloyd Tilghman
[2] McDaniel IOTL
[3] This is better than Lloyd Tilghman did at West Point. Mac’s a better student, and Fort LaBeouf isn’t quite as tough as West Point.
[4] The southern half of Cheverly, MD
[5] Stephen W. Kearny (whose more famous nephew, Philip Kearny Jr., does exist ITTL, if you’re wondering).
[6] This is a lower casualty rate than the Light Brigade suffered during its famous charge, but it’s happening to a much larger force.
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Well that is certainly one for America. The USA shows they still have it in them to win.
So what now the question will be? Rush troops to Canada? Invest a large number in the area to avoid any repeats? Rush the freed up troops south to conquer Louisiana and avenge the humiliation in Florida?
Well, no Pilgrims at this Thanksgiving eh?
I wonder about the men Brougham is sending to Louisiana; any Colonial Marines among them to teak the planters?
So what now the question will be? Rush troops to Canada? Invest a large number in the area to avoid any repeats? Rush the freed up troops south to conquer Louisiana and avenge the humiliation in Florida?
Well, no Pilgrims at this Thanksgiving eh?
I wonder about the men Brougham is sending to Louisiana; any Colonial Marines among them to teak the planters?
Well that’s a bummer. Wanted the good guys to burn the White House again. But fair cop on a dumb plan against Americans who very much wanted to prevent the plan and knew how.
Excellent chapter in a most excellent timeline!
Excellent chapter in a most excellent timeline!
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Slaver imperialists versus unofficial slaver imperialists; whoever wins, India and the first nations will lose.
Still, given Florida is marginally better than the rest of the North American polities, I hope that Britain recovers from this setback.
Still, given Florida is marginally better than the rest of the North American polities, I hope that Britain recovers from this setback.
We should recall Britain is also preoccupied by the conflict in Europe.
Looks more and more like this war will end in a draw with both sides retirng to their corners with status quo antebellum. And the USA likely itching for round three.
Looks more and more like this war will end in a draw with both sides retirng to their corners with status quo antebellum. And the USA likely itching for round three.