There were shouts of “hear, hear” and some wild whistling. Meagher held up his hands for silence.
“Khaki, a sort of grayish brown, has been chosen. It may look a bit like mud, which is not a bad idea when you are lying down in the stuff. I, for one, am in favor of it. Anything that does not make a soldier stand out in the battlefield is a good thing. Of course we will keep our dress uniforms for important occasions, and dances and suchlike.”
“When do we get our mud duds?” someone called out.
“A week or two. They’ll let us know.”
The door slammed open and Captain John Gossen came in. His expression was black, his mien angry when he hurled his coat onto a chair.
“Betrayal!” he said as he glowered around at the other officers.
The usual air of good cheer and friendliness seemed to vanish in an instant.
“What’s wrong?” Meagher asked.
“Death and betrayal,” Captain John Gossen said bitterly, his manner now so different from his usual lively self. He had served previously with the Seventh Hussars of Austria, a dashing Hungarian regiment. “That miserable schoolmaster, Nagle, is in the pay of the British. Luby, O’Leary and Rossa have been arrested. The Irish People suppressed.” He was talking about the Fenians in Ireland, and their official newspaper.
“They never!” Meagher cried aloud.
“They did,” W.L.D. O’Grady said darkly. “I heard the same news myself, but I couldn’t believe it. I’ll believe anything about the English. I know the bastards. They’ll try them in a kangaroo court — then shoot them.” He did know the English very well, having once served in the Royal Marines.
“Is there nothing we can do?” Clooney asked.
“Little enough,” Meagher said, chewing over the bad news. “Send them money — they’ll need it for lawyers if there is a trial. And we will have to find a way to reorganize from the ground up. Our newspaper is suppressed, everyone taken I imagine — or on the run. If there is one informer in the organization there are bound to be others. Betrayal is in the air.”
“Aye — and right here in America, in New York City as well,” O’Grady said. “Red Jim MacDermot, him with the flaming beard, there is good reason to consider him an informer as well. Yet John O’Mahony who runs the office won’t hear a word said about him. But I have had a letter, from someone I can trust, that says he was seen coming out of the British Consul’s office.”
“I believe it,” Meagher said, “but you’ll never sell it to O’Mahony. Which means as long as he runs the New York office of the Fenians, the British will know everything that we do. Which means in turn that we must find a better way to further the cause. The first precaution must be to separate our Fenian Officers’ Circle here from the group in Ireland. There is no other way. With all of the leaders now captured we have a body without a head. I feel that we must start again from scratch. We must forget all of them. We’ll draw on the Irish-American community here for money. There will be no more recruiting in Ireland, for it seems we have recruited as many informers as we have loyal Irishmen.”
“And then what do we do?” Clooney asked.
“We must put our thinking caps on,” Meagher said. “And find a way to do it right for a change. But enough of that now! For the moment let us drown our sorrows. Is the milk punch ready?”
“It is indeed!”
With serious matters put aside they turned their attention to this lethal drink. The Fenian milk punch was concocted of whisky and condensed milk, seasoned with nutmegs and lemons, then stirred with a little hot water. Surgeon Francis Reynolds was the bard of the brigade and when they raised their glasses and mugs he cheered them on with a song.
“See who comes over the red blossomed heather, Their green banners kissing the pure mountain air, Heads erect! Eyes to front! Stepping proudly together… Out and make way for the bold Fenian men.”
This was well received. So much so that Surgeon Reynolds went on with all the rest of the verses hailing the fame of the Fenians. In the midst of all this jollity no one at first seemed to notice the two men who had entered and stood quietly by the door listening to the singing. It was only when Meagher went to refill his glass from the punch bowl that he noticed the newcomers and called out cheerily.
“Is that Gus Fox himself who has come to join us in our festivity? Come in, come in! Gentlemen of the Fenian Circle, meet the honorable Gustavus Fox, the Assistant Secretary of the Navy.”
He used that title, rather than any other that would explain their relationship. In truth, with his Fenian and other Irish contacts, Meagher had long been part of Fox’s intelligence-gathering organization.
“A glass of punch, now, that’s a good man. No, make it two, one each for Gus and his friend.”
They took the glasses, but before they could drink Fox raised his hand for silence, then took an official-looking envelope from his pocket. “I have just come from the War Department where, as you all undoubtedly know, they rest not nor do they sleep.”
There were catcalls and laughter at this. Fox waited for the sounds to die down before he held out the envelope. “This is for Colonel Meagher. Since I was on my way here I volunteered to act as messenger. Here you are, sir.”
Meagher read it through slowly, then climbed to his feet and called for silence.
“Boys, I want you all to hear this. You know that I have been in command of my regiment while we wait for General James Shields to arrive and assume command of the entire brigade. He’s Irish-born and a fine officer, or so I have been told. Unhappily for us the general has turned down command of the Irish Brigade. Sore news indeed.”
Meagher’s expression belied his words for he was smiling from ear to ear.
“Now I have even worse news for you. That good-for-nothing, lollygagging, Colonel Meagher has been appointed brigadier general and will take command at once.”
The news was greeted with great enthusiasm, more milk punch was poured, and Meagher was carried around the room on the shoulders of his officers. When the noise had abated slightly Fox added to the congratulations, then drew Meagher aside, towards the young man who had waited quietly by the door sipping his drink.
“Jim,” he said, “I want you to meet an associate of mine who has just returned from a fact-finding trip to Mexico. Jim Meagher, this is Ambrosio O’Higgins.”
“That’s a divil of a name for a good Irish lad. Welcome Ambrosio, welcome to the Fenian circle.”
“It is my pleasure to meet such a renowned officer,” O’Higgins said.
They shook hands and Meagher looked at those pale Irish eyes set in the lad’s well-tanned face, but forbore asking any questions. The rest of the officers were quiet now, intrigued by this mysterious stranger. It was Fox who broke the silence in a manner that instantly drew their attention.
“One of the things that O’Higgins recently found out was the fact that there are English invaders once more on our American shores.”
There was absolute silence now and the smiles were gone. Replaced by an intensity of feeling that emanated from these warriors’ faces.
“I have been in the south of Mexico,” O’Higgins said. “In the Mexican states of Vera Cruz and Oaxaca. I found there that there are many divisions of British troops that have been landed on the Pacific shore, theoretically invited into that country by the Emperor Maximilian. Who is himself a usurper, kept in power by the French invaders, who have driven into exile the legitimate government of Benito Juarez. They have even forced him to flee his country.”