1862

Chapter One

Viscount Palmerston, the prime minister of Great Britain, grasped his glass tightly, The brandy in it quivered with his fury. “Some may accept this outrage, but, by God, I will not!” he snarled.

“Hear, hear,” said his companions, Foreign Secretary Lord John Russell and Chancellor of the Exchequer William Gladstone.

England was reeling with the shock and horror of having one of her ships, theTrent, stopped and boarded by a foreign power, That the offending nation was the United States, a nation that was both an economic and a military rival, made the situation worse. While the action was partly justified since the United States was at war and theTrent had been in a war area, it was the sort of thing that England did unto others, No one did it to England,

Worse, the Union captain had then taken the Confederate emissaries as prisoners and treated them shabbily. Thus, not only had a British government ship been stopped, but she had also been plundered of her human cargo, and now all England seethed at the insult,

Between them, Palmerston, Gladstone, and Russell had enough influence to control Parliament and determine the fate of the British Empire, While Palmerston had the more senior rank and title, the relationship was almost a partnership. Russell had been prime minister once and hoped to have the title again. As Palmerston was seventy-seven and Russell a mere sixty-nine, it seemed likely. Gladstone, also in his sixties, had his own hopes for a political future that included the title of prime minister.

All three were firm in the belief that the world was a better place because of the stability brought about by Britain's far flung empire, and they felt it was their duty to ensure that Great Britain's primacy in the world went unthreatened.

But now it was threatened. Ever since the beginnings of the American Civil War, there had been serious economic repercussions within the empire. The Union forces had declared a blockade of the Southern ports, thus almost eliminating the shipments of cotton to English mills. Fortunately, quantities had been stored up before the war, and the cotton fields of India were beginning to develop as an alternative, but there was unrest and unemployment in many parts of England. Newspaper headlines screamed that millions of Englishmen and their families would starve if something wasn't done about the blockade, and labor unrest was near crisis proportions.

Many in England were hostile to the United States for other reasons. The two nations had fought two official wars in less than a century, and had been on the verge of others several times as a result of border disputes between the United States and Canada. Relations between the two English-speaking nations had never been good, and had deteriorated badly since the start of the Civil War. Now theTrent Incident, as it was called, had again raised the specter of war with the United States, or at least the northern portion of the severed nation. The clamor for war was fast becoming an irresistible force, presuming that anyone in Her Majesty's government wished to resist it.

Many ordinary Englishmen appeared to want their government to use force to break the Union blockade and open the Southern ports to British ships. It was clearly understood that such a use of force would mean war. None of the three men gathered at Russell’s country home nine miles outside London were terribly upset at the possibility.

Palmerston had calmed down. “Tell me, John, who are our enemies?”

“Truthfully, we have none at the moment,” Russell replied.

Palmerston shook his head. “We always have enemies. Great powers cannot escape them. We have enemies of the past, enemies of the present, and enemies of the future. Think upon it, who might they be?”

While Russell pondered, Palmerston stood and walked to the window. For once it wasn't raining, although the late afternoon was bleak. The dark clouds created by the smoke from a hundred thousand coal-burning furnaces blanketed nearby London in filth.

“France is not our enemy of the moment,” Palmerston said, answering his own question, “although she would like to be. France is a nation of incompetents led by a buffoon, Napoleon III. No, France is not a threat. At least not right now. That she was in the past and will be in the future is both history and inevitability, but France does not threaten us today.”

Gladstone decided to join in. “Then what about Russia? Granted we pulled the bear's claws in the Crimea, but she is still vast and populous.”

“And filled with unarmed and illiterate millions,” Palmerston said. “She is even less competent than France. The only reason we had any difficulty fighting Russia in the Crimea was that we had to fight them on their home ground. No, Russia is not our enemy.”

“Prussia?” asked Russell.

“A good thought,” Palmerston said. “The Prussians are likely to succeed in organizing the German states into one nation, which would make them very powerful. But that will take many years to accomplish. They are a definite candidate for an enemy of the future, but not of the present.”

Russell shrugged. “Then who's left? Surely you cannot be thinking of Portugal or Spain? And both Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire are sick and likely to fall apart before very long. Nor can you be thinking of Italy, which, like Prussia, may someday be unified. I must also admit that I find it difficult to consider a unified Italy a threat to anyone.”

“True enough,” said Palmerston. “Now, who does that leave us?” Russell smiled thinly. “The United States of America.”

“Correct. The United States is vibrant and energetic, and she has a population of more than thirty million, not counting her slaves. She has a continent to fill up, which she will do about the same time Prussia consolidates the German states. Right now, the United States is both our economic customer and our most serious rival in the world of commerce; thus, she will be an enemy in the coming years. The United States has the resources and the wealth to be a threat to our well-being in the not-too-distant future.”

“So what do you propose?” Gladstone asked.

“I propose that we regard theTrent Incident as an opportunity to put the United States in her place and ensure our rightful position in world affairs,” Palmerston said. “The Union government has sent an apology that would otherwise be considered most generous as it contains more than a proper amount of groveling. They say that Captain Wilkes acted beyond the scope of his orders and will be punished. It is apparent that Mr. Lincoln does not want a war with England concurrent with his war with the Confederacy. The question then remains: Does England want a war with the United States?

“Under ordinary circumstances,” Palmerston continued, “the American apology would be eminently satisfactory and require our acceptance of it. However, two things give me pause. First, if this Wilkes creature acted without orders, then why did it hail him as a hero. I believe it will even vote him a medal. Second, why hasn't he been incarcerated and charged with a crime? Instead, our ambassador to Washington, Lord Lyons, reports that Wilkes is cheered to the heavens wherever he goes. No, it is time to teach the Yankees a lesson. I am reminded of the situation between Rome and Carthage. In order to remain supreme, Rome constantly fought and ultimately destroyed Carthage. We do not propose to destroy the United States, merely teach her a stern lesson, and, by assisting the Confederacy, we will ensure the South's independence. As a result, the United States, instead of being a continental power, will be fragmented. Who knows,” he mused, “perhaps we can cause other parts to break off. California, for instance.”

Russell and Gladstone both smiled tolerantly at the Rome versus Carthage analogy. Palmerston frequently equated the British Empire with the Roman Empire and was determined that Britain's would not suffer the same fate as Rome's. The barbarians would not overwhelm her on his watch as prime minister.

“Prime Minister,” said Russell, “there are many who say that Great Britain and the United States should be allies against the real barbarians of the world.”

“And someday that may happen,” Palmerston replied. “But first we shall have to make certain it is England who leads that alliance and not the United States. The United States is a democracy and her success imperils those, like us, who have traditionally governed England by right of heredity and breeding. The United States has neither tradition nor breeding and is not ready for leadership. Should she ascend to primacy in the world without a more learned power to guide her, chaos would ensue as other, even less-qualified levels of people seek to rule. Surely you haven't forgotten the horrors that occurred in France when there was government without restraint? No, democracy in the New World must be shown to be a failure.”

“And what about the slavery issue?” Russell asked. He had stepped into his usual role of devil's advocate to Palmerston's ideas. “What will the queen say about allying ourselves with a slaveocracy?”

Palmerston smiled. “Her majesty is distracted with the illness of her beloved Prince Albert. She is also aware that President Lincoln's position on slavery is utter hypocrisy. The war has been waging for the better part of a year and Lincoln has done nothing regarding freeing the slaves. In fact, I believe slavery is still legal in Washington, D.C., although I doubt anyone really practices it there. No, the slavery issue is a moot point. The people of England will support our decision. There is an overabundance of anger towards the Northern Union that needs to be satisfied. They cannot sink our ships and, more important, they cannot threaten the strength and well-being of the British Empire, either now or in the future.”

“Then we shall have war,” said Russell.

“Indeed,” Palmerston replied. “And we must make absolutely certain that we win it both decisively and quickly. A long war would be a drain on the economy, and defeats could render both it and us vulnerable to changing opinions. We cannot have another bloody debacle like the Crimean War. No, we must fight and win decisively.”

“When?” Gladstone asked.

“As soon as possible,” Palmerston said softly, “and we shall give them the same warning the immortal Nelson gave the Danes at Copenhagen.”

The others in the room nodded grimly. The immortal Admiral Horatio Nelson had given the Danes no warning at Copenhagen.

Private Billy Harwell shivered in the cold November rain. Washington, D.C., might be a Southern town, but today it had early winter weather that knifed to the bone, causing Billy to think that volunteering for the Union army was one of the dumbest things he had ever done in his seventeen years of life on this earth.

Billy had joined for the great adventure of military life to get out of having to work in a bakery in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Like so many thousands of other volunteers, he'd thought the war would be over in a few weeks and consist of a lot of flags flying, marching around, and kissing girls. It was commonly believed that the scrawny and illiterate rebs would shit their pants when they saw the mighty Union host marching against them. Then they would see the light and stop this war before anyone got hurt. The worst thing that could happen was that there would be one battle with a few heroic dead and wounded, and then everyone's honor would be satisfied and peace would resume.

The bloody catastrophe at Bull Run had cured him of that fantasy, and standing in the rain guarding a small useless bridge over a muddy creek north of Washington had convinced him that he would not reenlist when his time was up. Right now. being warm and dry in a hot bakery sounded just fine.

A rider was approaching. The misty rain and low gray sky had obscured Billy'svision until the rider was very close. Of course, he hadn't been looking all that hard, since it was highly unlikely that the rebels would have gotten this far without someone noticing. He thought about calling for his sergeant but that fine man was warming himself by a fire in a hut with a deck of cards, a bottle of cheap booze, and several cronies. Sergeant Grimes had told Billy only to call him out into the rain if it looked like Jesus Christ or the rebel army showed up.

Since it was highly unlikely that the one rider coming from the direction of Baltimore was either Jesus or the advance of the rebel army, Billy decided he could handle the situation by himself. He would not call Sergeant Grimes. The sergeant was a surly drunk and Billy wanted nothing more than to drive his bayonet right up Grimes's big fat ass.

Billy shifted his rifle. It was a little awkward since it was so large and Billy so small, but he was glad he did. The rider might be wearing civilian clothes, but he carried himself like an officer and the clothes were damned expensive-looking. Billy particularly envied the waterproof rain gear that must have kept him fairly dry. The rider was clean-shaven, looked muscular, and had piercing eyes that seemed to look right through Billy, who automatically drew himself to attention. It was impossible to gauge the man's height, but based on the length of the stirrups, Billy surmised that he was at least a little taller than the average man.

Nor was the rider unarmed as Billy had first thought. There was a knife in one boot and a cane resting across the saddle that was thick enough to carry a blade within it. Billy thought there was probably a pistol under the rain cape. Hell, why not Billy concluded. A person alone on the road needed all the protection he could get. If this man wasn't a high-ranking officer, he sure might be one soon. Billy was convinced the stranger wasn't one of those fat and puffy congressmen who all looked like they'd rather die than be out in weather like this.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Billy said.

Nathan Hunter looked at the bedraggled private and smiled. “Afternoon yourself, Private. How'd you get the honor of guarding this forsaken place all by yourself?”

Billy grinned back. “Short straw, sir.” He didn't add that asshole Grimes didn't like him.

Nathan flipped him a small coin that Billy managed to catch without dropping his rifle. “Buy yourself something warm to drink, and next time stay out of trouble.”

“Thank you: sir.”

Nathan had been impressed by the way the boy had shifted the rifle and caught the coin. Most people would have dropped one or the other. In the early days of the war, it would have been the rifle. “You know how to use that thing?”

“Yes, sir. Used it fine at Bull Run. There're a couple of rebs that won't fight again.”

Nathan was impressed. “You're a good shot?”

Billy pulled himself up proudly. He still wasn't that much taller than the rifle. “Sir, if I can see it I can shoot it.”

Nathan didn't laugh at the bravado. It was a time when young boys were becoming men through the simple act of firing a bullet through another man's brains. The young soldier had lost his innocence in a battle that didn't have to occur, and would never be a boy again. Nathan shivered, but not from the cold. He wished the boy well and rode on into Washington, DC.

Behind him, the flap to the tent opened and a large man in a flannel undershirt and wearing military pants peered out. He had no boots and his socks were filthy.

“What the hell was that about,” yelled Sergeant Grimes.

“Just one harmless rider,” Billy yelled back.

“You sure he wasn't a rebel spy?”

Billy stifled a laugh. Grimes saw rebels everywhere. If it weren't so rainy, he'd see his shadow and be afraid of it. Grimes grumbled something and went back to his card game.

Nathan Hunter's first visit to Washington had been as a small boy. He had visited his uncle, who had served one term as a congressman from Indiana. Nathan recalled the city as being little more than a raw small town with more than a hint of the frontier about it. That had been more than two decades ago, and Nathan had been there since then and seen the city expand and grow but little.

Nathan's uncle had managed to get him into the Military Academy at West Point just before Nathan's father, another Indiana lawyer and politician, had died in a wagon accident. Nathan's mother had died trying to give birth to what would have been a brother for Nathan.

The last time Nathan had been to his nation's capital, it had been with his wife, Amy, at his side. Dear Amy, he thought sadly, How incomplete his life had been since the moment she had died. He shook his head. So much death had touched his family, and now so much was touching the entire country.

As he rode, he digested the immense changes that had occurred since the beginning of the war with the Confederacy. The sleepy frontier town of Washington was still raw: but no longer sleepy.

Despite the bad weather, the streets were clogged with people and animals. There was a newness about the nation's capital that astonished first-time visitors, in particular those from more elegant European cities. The unpaved roads generated clouds of dust in the dry weather and oceans of mud in the wet. There were many streets where modern buildings faced farmland, and the handful of stone-and-marble government buildings, such as the Treasury and the Patent Office, always seemed to be in the wrong spot. Construction was racing on, but still the dome of the Capitol was incomplete and protected by wood, and the Washington Monument little more than a stone stub that inspired many crude phallic jokes. The old City Canal cut across the Mall between the unfinished Capitol and the President's House, and ran near the building that was Mr. Smithson's death bequest to the country. The canal was fetid and stank with the rot of small animals. As he passed it, Nathan saw several dead cats floating in it and wondered how they'd gotten there.

The President's House was commonly called the White House and Smithson's was called the Smithsonian Institute. Temporary barracks and office buildings had been thrown up almost everywhere, and with little apparent planning to house the large garrison that guarded the city. The effect was to increase the sense of rawness of the place. Washington City was very much a work in process.

The streets were clogged with civilians. Many walked, while others rode carriages and wagons, rushing God only knew where. Alongside them, formations of soldiers marched to wherever their duty called. If there was a plan, it looked like no one knew it. At one point, a small herd of cattle pushed its way through the crowds, driven by laughing drovers who seemed to enjoy the disruption they were causing. In a little while the unknowing cattle would be beef filling soldier's bellies. They would join the growing herd at a place called the White Lot at the southern end of the White House grounds.

Less than a year before, about fifty thousand people had lived in the city, and now it had doubled and was continuing to grow. God only knew where they were all going to sleep, and he began to hope that he truly had his own place to rest.

The streets were so congested that he congratulated himself on having arrived on horseback, rather than in a carriage. He might have been drier in a carriage, but that would have been the only advantage. Many carriages were stuck in traffic or were wallowing up to their axles in stinking brown goo, while his horse easily picked its way through the mess. Of course, sometimes Nathan drew glares as he guided the horse across some private property, or through pedestrians, but he didn't let it bother him.

Finally, he drew up to his destination, a large house on a low hill in the prestigious Georgetown area, overlooking the Potomac River. Nathan was pleased to see that there was a stable behind the house, and wondered if that was where he would be sleeping. At least it would be dry, he thought.

As he dismounted and eased the pain from his stiff leg, a boy ran from the stable and took the horse, which Nathan gratefully gave up. He walked to the front door of the house, which opened before he reached it. A stocky, middle-aged man with the aura of a retired sergeant glared at him-a bulldog protecting his master.

“I am Nathan Hunter,” he said as he handed the former soldier his card, “and General Winfield Scott is expecting me.”