“It ’pears like they think we got something catching,” James Longstreet observed.
“Maybe we do,” Lee said, and smiled enigmatically.
When he reached his headquarters the officer of the day had a message for him.
“Delegation of the locals here to see you, General.”
“How many of them?”
“The Mayor, a Mr. John Lytle, and ten members of the Belfast City Council.”
“Too many. Tell them that I’ll see the mayor and one more of them, that’s enough. And before you let them in send for Surgeon Reynolds.”
He went through the accumulated reports on his desk until Reynolds came in.
“Sit down, Francis, and look military. The locals have finally decided that they want to talk to us.”
“Well that is surely nice to hear. I wonder what they will have to say for themselves.”
“Complaints, first off, I imagine.” Lee was right.
“Mayor Lytle, Councilor Mullan,” the sergeant said as he ushered them in.
Lytle, a plump man in a dark frock coat looked decidedly angry. “I protest, sir, at the exclusion of the councilors…”
“Please be seated, gentleman,” Lee interrupted. “I am General Lee, military commandant of this city. This is Surgeon Reynolds, on my staff. This city is under martial law and it is I who decide the size of all meetings both public and private. I am sure that you will understand that. Now — how may I be of service?”
Lytle sat down heavily in his chair and fingered his gold watchfob before he spoke. “You say martial law, sir? And why is that — and how long will it continue?”
“I have declared martial law because this country is in a state of war between two opposing military groups. Once all military opposition has been eliminated and peace restored, martial law will be lifted.”
“I protest. You have fired on this country’s armed forces—”
“That I have not done, sir.” Lee’s words were sharp, his voice cold. “This country is Ireland and I have engaged only British troops.”
“But we are British. We protest your presence here, your invasion…”
“If I might speak,” Reynolds said quietly. “I would like to point out some inescapable truths.”
“You’re not American,” Mullen said accusingly, hearing Reynolds’s Irish accent.
“Ahh, but I am, Mr. Mullen. Born in Derry and educated here in Belfast, but just as American as the general here. Ours is a nation of immigrants — as is yours.”
“Never!”
“I would like you to remember that you are a nationalist and a Protestant, whose ancestors immigrated here from Scotland some many hundreds of years ago. If you wish to return to that land, General Lee informs me that you are free to do so. If you remain here you will be fairly treated as will be all Irishman.”
“You’
re a Teague,” Lytle snarled.
“No, sir,” Reynolds said coldly. “I am an Irish Catholic who is now an American citizen. In our country there is complete separation of Church and State. There is no official state religion…”
“But you will side with the Catholics against the Protestants, that’s what you will do…”
“Mr. Lytle.” Lee’s words cracked like a whip, silencing the man. “If you came here for a religious argument you may leave now. If you came as an elected official of this city, then address yourself to your reasons for your presence.”
Lytle was breathing hard, unable to speak. It was Councilor Mullan who broke the silence.