That young officer had merely confirmed the truth of it.
‘The British are massing their resources for an offensive, men. And the spearhead of that offensive will be none other than this very sector.’
The men stirred; a wave of unease rippled across them.
‘The 38th Virginia will be in the first wave.’ The men shook their heads incredulously. They all knew what that meant. Appalling losses. As the landing boats spilled them out on the shingle on the far side, the enemy would be pouring a withering wall of gunfire on them from their entrenched positions. Enfilade fire on the right from the shattered end of the Williamsburg Bridge, on the left from the ruins of the factory. It would be a massacre.
He could see they were all making the same silent assessment. Wholesale slaughter.
But that isn’t the worst of it … boys.
‘The second wave …’ said Wainwright. He paused, waiting for the men’s murmuring to die down. They needed to hear this, hear this clearly.
‘The second wave … will include eugenics.’
His voice was drowned out by the roar of the men. Nearly three hundred voices raised in alarm, disbelief, anger and mostly … fear. He raised his arms to hush them. Despite the fact that these men trusted, obeyed and respected their colonel, the noise continued unabated.
He pulled his sidearm out of its holster and fired a shot for the second time in as many days.
The men’s voices quietened until all that could be heard was the uneasy shuffling of feet on gravel.
‘I believe …’ he began. Make this good, James … make this very good. ‘For a long time … for many years now, I have believed that we are no longer fighting for a Confederate cause. That we have become no more than cannon-fodder — meat for the grinder — in service of British interests.’
This time the men did roar in unison. A roar of support for someone who had dared to say what every man privately thought. Dared to say a thing that would guarantee an undignified traitor’s execution against a brick wall.
‘There!’ Wainwright stroked his chin. ‘It is said … and for that I am now a dead man!’
Across the river, Devereau’s men filled the bottom floor of the factory, and half filled the bomb-damaged floor above, rows of booted legs dangling over the rough edge where the floor had collapsed long ago.
‘… they will not allow us to retreat,’ he continued. He and the men gathered here knew exactly what that meant. Directly behind the front line, units of the French Foreign Legion patrolled. Federal troops falling back without approval from High Command would be considered deserters and shot on the spot.
Still, many of them must be considering that option … he mused. Far better to run and hope to evade the execution squads than stay and face those eugenic monsters from the South.
The factory echoed with the men’s response, clamouring voices that beat around the empty pockmarked walls of the building.
‘I …’ His voice was lost in the noise. ‘I do not believe …’ He stopped. The men weren’t going to hear him.
‘SILENCE FOR THE COLONEL!’ bellowed Sergeant Freeman.
The effect was almost instantaneous if not complete. Freeman glared at the few men still muttering to each other. They hushed quickly under his withering gaze.
Devereau tried again. ‘I do not believe we should fight in this war any more!’
Now the factory was silent.
‘No … I do not believe in it any more.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I do not have faith in our generals and I no longer have faith in our government of the Union of Northern American States.’
A lone voice towards the back of the factory whooped.
‘Ya say it, Colonel!’ shouted another.
‘Our home towns … our cities … our states … our nation, is a nation under foreign occupation. Make no mistake, men, we are already a conquered people. Conquered not by the Anglo-Confederacy but by France and their allies: Austria, Prussia, Switzerland … and a dozen other nations that I’m sure many of you have never even heard of!’
He laughed. A hollow laugh. ‘We weren’t beaten on some battlefield. We didn’t fight the good fight and lose … no. We did far worse, we invited our conquerors in!’
The factory echoed with angry raised voices. Devereau hushed them again by raising his hands.
‘This is the time, men … I believe this is the real fight. Not brother against brother. Not American against American. But men of America against the British and …’ Devereau paused. There was going to be no un-saying this. He glanced at Maddy, standing back and to one side of him, giving him the space on the small podium of ammo crates. She nodded slightly. She knew what he was going to say. ‘… and men of America against the French.’
The men stirred uneasily. Whispered.
‘We once shared a nation with those lads on the other side of the river. We could fight for that nation again …’
CHAPTER 61. 2001, New York
Wainwright nodded. ‘That’s what I said, gentlemen! A joining of forces! An uprising! Goddammit!’ He balled his fist and punched his own thigh angrily. ‘I’ll call this exactly what it damn well is! … A mutiny!’
The word hung heavy in the open air; it bounced off the far wall of a collapsed building, ricocheting like a gunshot.
‘Mutiny!’ he said again. ‘And it starts here with the 38th Virginia.’
The men roared support for that.
‘More than that, boys … more than that, we’re not going to stand alone. We shall be joined by others! The 11th Alabama to the north of us will join us … and next to them the 7th Maryland … and every other regiment along the Sheridan!’
The men roared jubilantly. Several forage caps catapulted into the air out of the huddled mass of shabby grey uniforms.
Wainwright smiled triumphantly, punching the air with his men. Of course only he knew that was a lie. He’d made no contact with their fellow regiments up the line. Not yet, at least. He was counting on their support. Banking on it, in fact. Surely they were going to follow the example set by the 38th?
‘But hear this, men!’ He raised his gun again to fire, to quieten them down, but they hushed anyway. ‘Hear this, men! We will be supported by regiments on the far side of the East River … by Federal troops from the Union of Northern American States!’
A mixed response from the men. Perhaps that announcement was a step too far for some of them to take. After all, for every man standing in front of him, the men across the river — the North — had always been The Enemy.
Wainwright realized he was committed now. He had to rally these lads, make them see they needed each other, needed those lads of the 54th Massachusetts.
‘They’re men no different to you or I. Americans … no different to us. You know, we shared a dream once! A language! A heritage! A belief … in a land of the free!’
He saw some heads nodding. He heard voices raised in ones and twos.
‘Once … a hundred and forty years back, we foolishly chose separate destinies. But now, do you see? Do you see? We can share a common goal once more! We can have one American nation again … be masters of our own destiny!’