Stars and Stripes Forever

AN ULTIMATUM FROM BRITAIN

“Mrs. Lincoln said you had no dinner to speak of last night — and that you were to come down to breakfast now.”

Keckley was more than a Negro servant these days; the President could hear a ready echo of his wife’s voice in her words. Mary had originally hired her as a seamstress but that relationship had shifted and changed to an ambiguous but important place in the family.

“I’ll be there in just a minute…”

“She said that you would say that too and I shouldn’t believe it.”

Keckley stood in the open doorway silent and unmoving. Lincoln sighed and stood. “Lead the way. I trust you will take the word of the President that I am right behind you.”

As always the hall was filled with petitioners seeking jobs in the government. Lincoln thrust his way through them, as though wading through an angry sea. If he addressed one he must address them all. Not for the first time he wondered at the long-established policy that allowed anyone — and his brother — easy access to the Presidential Mansion. Of course, America was an egalitarian society. But there were, he was beginning to think, certain demerits in complete openness. He sighed and opened the door to the dining room, closing it behind him with a satisfactory thud.

The table was already laid when he came in; buttermilk cakes with honey, always a family favorite.

“You start with that, Father,” Mary said. There was a thunder of feet as the boys rushed in.

“Paw, Paw!” Tad shouted as he rushed at his father and seized him around the leg. Willie, always more restrained, seated himself at the table.

“Tad — you stop that,” Mary ordered, but was completely ignored. The boy climbed his father as though he were a tree, wrinkling his already wrinkled trousers and jacket in the process. He did not stop until he was perched triumphantly on his father’s shoulder. Lincoln marched twice around the table while Tad screeched with pleasure, before he lowered the boy into his chair. Willie had already poured honey on his cakes and was chewing an immense mouthful.

Keckley and Mary were bringing in more food, as well as hot freshly brewed coffee. Lincoln poured a cup and sipped it as the table slowly filled with more and more attractive dishes. Under Mary’s watchful eye he forked a spicy Virginia sausage onto his plate, took some hominy grits and poured some red-eye gravy over them. He ate slowly, his thoughts a hundred miles from this warm domestic scene. The war, the endless dreadful war. Mary saw this clearly, pressed her hand to his shoulder in silence, then joined them at the table. She ate well, too well if the tightness of her dress meant anything.

She went to fetch more milk for the boys and he was gone when she returned, his plate scarcely touched. He worked too hard and ate too little she thought. And he was losing weight steadily. The war was eating him up. He would be back in his office now and it might be another day before she saw him again.

“John,” Lincoln said, “I want you to write a letter for me.” Hay used his own system of shorthand to record Lincoln’s dictation. Now it was yet another memorandum from the President to General McClellan asking some sharply pointed questions about a possible forward movement of the Army of the Potomac. There was exasperation in Lincoln’s voice as he concluded.

“ ‘And how long would it require to actually get into motion? You have the army and you have the recruits and all are well trained, if I can believe the reports. But to win this war this army must be used in battle and Richmond must be taken.’ End there and have that telegraphed to him at once. Now cheer me up, John. Tell me some good news from the morning reports.”

“Good news indeed, sir. We now occupy Ship Island and all resistance is ended. The mouth of the Mississippi is close to this island so that part of the blockading fleet will be well supported and supplied. More news at sea. The USS Santiago de Cuba has halted a British schooner, the Eugenia Smith, near the mouth of the Rio Grande River.”

“Are any reasons given why?”

“Indeed. Commander Daniel Ridgely has explained that the British vessel had called at a Texas port. His suspicions were confirmed when a well-known Confederate purchasing agent was found aboard. J. W. Zacharie, a merchant from New Orleans. He was removed from the schooner which was then allowed to proceed.”

Lincoln shook his head wearily. “This will only add fuel to the fire we are having over the Trent. Is that all?”

“No, sir. The Rebels are so sure that Savannah will shortly fall to our troops that they are burning all of the cotton on the docks and in the fields. At sea the gunboat Penguin has captured a blockade runner trying to get to Charleston. A rich cargo indeed. The manifest lists small arms, ammunition, salt, provisions of all kinds. Not only fancy fabrics from France but saddles, bridles and cavalry equipment which is valued at $100,000.”

“Capital. Their loss, our gain. Is the Attorney General here yet?”

“I’ll go and see.”

Lincoln looked up from the sprawled papers on his desk when Edward Bates came in.

“I would like a moment of your time,” Lincoln said. “I must give my State of the Union address to Congress tomorrow. That the State is perilous they must know, but I must extend some hope for the future. May I read you some of what I plan to say to them and seek your opinion?”

“A responsibility that I willingly accept.”

The President coughed lightly, then began.

“ ‘The Union must be preserved, and hence, all indispensable means must be employed. We should not be in haste to determine that radical and extreme measures, which may reach the loyal as well as the disloyal, are indispensable. To continue and to fight this war the raising of funds is as inevitable as it is necessary.” Lincoln looked up and Bates nodded.

“I agree. Taxes, I imagine. To fund this war they must be raised yet again. And more men must be raised for the army. Despite the draft rioting among the Irish immigrants in New York you must press on.”

“I appreciate your endorsement. I must also dwell some on popular institutions for we must be always aware of the reasons we are fighting this war.” The President turned to the next page. “ ‘Labor is prior to, and independent of, capital. Capital is only the fruit of Labor, and would never have existed if Labor had not first existed. But Capital has its rights, which are as worthy of protection as any other rights.’ ”

Bates, a shrewd politician himself, knew that all sides must be pacified. The workers, who gave their labor and their bodies to the war effort, certainly must have these efforts acknowledged. But, at the same time, businessmen must not feel that they were bearing the sole burden of taxes for the war effort. But when Lincoln read on about the Negro problem he shook his head in disagreement and interrupted.

“You know my feelings on this matter, Mr. President. I see the Colonization of free Negroes as a very remote possibility.”

“You shouldn’t. A location could be found, perhaps in the Americas to the south, where an independent colony could be founded. With the Negroes removed from the equation there would be no reason left to continue the war.”

“But I have talked to free Negroes here in the North and they think this ill-advised. They consider themselves as American as we do and feel no desire to depart to some distant shore. When you met the delegation of free Negroes it is my understanding that they told you the same thing.”

Before Lincoln could respond Nicolay knocked and entered.

“Sorry to interrupt, but General Ramsay has arrived. You asked to meet with him as soon as possible. He is waiting outside.”

“Fine. As soon as we are finished here have him sent in.” He turned to the Attorney General. “We must discuss this in greater detail later. I am firm in my resolve that this is a real solution to our problems.”

“I find this difficult to say, Mr. President. But in this matter I think that you are alone. Perhaps it would be a good idea to found these colonies — but who would go there? The Negroes will not volunteer, there seems to be complete agreement upon that. But can we ship them there in shackles? That would be equal, or worse, than the slave trade that brought them to this country in the first place. I ask you to reconsider this matter, with deepest respect, consider it in all its aspects.”

When Bates had gone out Ramsay was ushered in. The general was an impressive man, tall and erect. However he wore a simple blue uniform with none of the braid and decorations that the other staff officers seemed to prefer. He was an engineer and technician and it was obvious that he thought more of that, and the war, than he did of a glittering uniform. He stood at attention and only sat down when Lincoln waved him to a chair.

“This accident of Ripley’s is a tragic thing, General, most tragic.”

Ramsay nodded and thought a moment before he spoke. He was a man of firm decisions but never of hasty ones. “He was a good officer, Mr. President, and a brave fighting soldier as well. This is not the way he would have chosen to go.”

“I am sure not. Is there any more news of his condition?”

“Only that he is weakening and cannot breathe well. The doctors do not give him too much time.”

“I am most sorry to hear that. Yet despite our casualties the war must go on. And General Ripley’s most vital work must continue to be done. You have been aide to the general for some time?”

“I have.”

“Then there is nothing I can tell you about the importance of the Bureau of Ordnance, nor how vital to our country it is?”

“Nothing, Mr. President. We both know that the war could not be fought without a constant flow of weaponry and ammunition. We are better supplied than the enemy at all times and that must never change if we are to have victory.”

Lincoln nodded solemnly. “May it always be thus. Now I have been consulting with my Cabinet about this matter. Secretary of War Cameron speaks very highly of you. He feels you are ideally suited to head the Bureau of Ordnance. What do you think?”

“I know that I can do the work, sir. But before any appointment is approved I think you must know that General Ripley and I did not see eye-to-eye on a number of things. Most importantly we differed completely on at least one matter of some gravity. When I was his subordinate I was honor bound not to mention this. But I feel I must do so now. I do not speak in anger or envy. I feel that I was a good and loyal lieutenant to the general. While he was alive I never considered speaking aloud of our differences. But everything is changed now. If I am to occupy this position I must make the changes that I believe in.”

“I admire your honesty in coming forward with this. What was this major bone of contention?”

For long seconds the officer looked discomfited. Looking first at the floor, then out of the window. Then he sat even more erect and sterned himself to speak.

“The general was a firm believer in the virtues of standard muzzle-loading rifles. They are proven and reliable and with proper training can deliver a good rate of fire.”

“And you don’t agree with this?”

“Of course I agree, Mr. President. But we live in an age of progress. I see new inventions almost every day. I believe in examining all these inventions — but more strongly I also believe in the virtues of breech-loading rifles. We have put numberless samples to the test and frankly most of them were useless. They jam and explode, break down very often and are difficult to maintain. But there are two breech-loaders that we have examined and fired at length, two remarkable weapons that stand out from all the others. The Spencer rifle and the Sharps. I wished to order a good quantity of them, but General Ripley disagreed strongly. Therefore nothing was done.”

“Did he say why he disagreed?”

Ramsay hesitated to answer. When he did not speak Lincoln broke the silence. “I appreciate your loyalty to your superior officer. But by speaking honestly and frankly now you do him no harm — and you will be aiding the great effort that we are all so deeply involved in. If it helps I, as your Commander-in-Chief, can order you to tell me what you know.”

Ramsay responded with great difficulty. “That will not be needed, sir. It was a matter of, well, opinion. The general felt that using breech-loaders would encourage the soldiers to waste ammunition. I do not think it a waste because the role of a soldier is to fire at the enemy.”

“I agree, Ramsey, I do agree. You must arrange a demonstration of your wonderful rifles at the earliest opportunity. That will be your first order of business as our new Chief of Ordnance. Is there anything else that I should know about?”

“Well — it’s Colonel Berdan and his regiment of sharpshooters. You have heard of him?”

“A memorandum in my desk somewhere. Didn’t he use his own money to organize the regiment? With every man an expert shot.”

“He did indeed. But here, again, and I do not blame General Ripley for having firmly held values. But Berdan’s men have been lumbered with the Colt revolving rifle. The thing is like a revolver pistol with a long barrel. They misfire and, well, there is nothing really good that can be said about them. It was a bad second choice. What they want, what they need, is the Sharps breech-loading rifle. A precision instrument in a marksman’s hands.”

“See that it is done.”

The general saluted and left. Ramsay was a good man and would do an excellent job. Lincoln brushed away the unkind thought that General Ripley’s tragic accident might have been a work of God. An intervention by Him who ruled all, an intercession in this war. One man’s death to save countless others. But if the Supreme Being really were on his side he, for one, surely would not mind. Being President of the United States had endless burdens, not the least of which was this great war that had started as soon as he had been elected. Fighting and winning the war was the first priority and any aid — particularly that of the Almighty — would be greatly appreciated.

Sixty short miles away, in the city of Richmond, Virginia, the President of the Confederacy was weighted down by the same intractable problems and priorities as the President of the United States. But Jefferson Davis did not have the advantages of Lincoln’s strength and stamina. Always weak in the aftermath of severe pneumonia years earlier, his eyes ravaged by snow blindness. Each day was a battle to be fought against unending pain. But no one had ever heard a word of complaint from him. A gentleman does not humble himself before any man. Today an ear infection troubled his concentration and he fought to quell any visible reaction to the enduring pain.

The South was as ill as their President. It was a cold winter and supplies of everything were running low. And the list of the dead in battle mounted. But the Southerners tried not to notice, tried to keep their hopes and their morale high. There were songs and rallies and it seemed to help. But the blockade had bitten deep and there was a shortage of everything, everything except valor.

Davis had a new Secretary of War, whom he hoped would help him cope with the endless struggle to supply the fighting forces. Jefferson Davis tapped on the thick sheaf of paper that rested on the desk before him.

“Judah — do you know why I had you appointed to replace LeRoy Walker?”

Judah P. Benjamin took the question to be a rhetorical one so he simply smiled in response and waited patiently for the answer, his folded hands resting lightly on his ample waistline.

“LeRoy is an excellent man and a hard worker. But he made too many enemies in government. I think he had to spend more time fighting them than he did fighting the Yankees. Here.” Davis pushed the file across the desk. “Address yourself to these and see if the new Secretary of War can come up with some new answers. That’s why you have the job. You are a patient man, Judah, an elder statesman who has many friends. You can stop the bickering and see that everyone in harness pulls in the same direction. When you look at these reports you will see that we are short of everything — but mostly short of guns and powder. If we were not a rural nation we would be in a dreadful pickle. As it is almost every volunteer brings along his own gun when he joins up. But it is more than muskets that we need. We must find cannon — and gunpowder — if we are going to win this war.”

“It is my understanding, Mr. President, that a quantity of supplies was captured after the battle of Ball’s Bluff.”

“Indeed. It was a great victory and the bluebellies threw their guns away when they retreated. Our first victory since Bull Run. That helped — but not for long. There are also reports of Yankee foraging parties being captured, all good — but still not good enough. We can’t expect the North to be our sole source of supplies. The military front is very static for the moment and we must take advantage of this lull in the fighting. McClellan’s Yankee armies are being held at bay, but we can certainly look forward to some action there in the peninsula in the spring. But it is the naval blockade that is hurting us, hurting real bad. That is why we have been diverting all our resources to readying the ironclad Virginia for battle. When she sails our prayers go with her to break the blockade and sink the Northern fleet. When that happens we can bring in supplies by the boatload. Our cotton is eagerly sought in Britain and the funds from that will buy the gunpowder, cannon and supplies that we so desperately need.”

Benjamin had been leafing slowly through the file while the President talked. He pulled out a handful of newspaper clippings.

“They’re from the North,” Jefferson Davis said. “They are crowing like cockerels up there, all puffed with victory, over the imprisonment of Mason and Slidell. Let them gloat. I’m beginning to feel that this may all be a blessing in disguise. I do declare that those two Southern gentleman are doing more for the Confederacy sitting in that Yankee prison then they ever could have done in Europe. The British are all het up at this violation of their territory. I believe that every shipyard over there is building a blockade runner or a raider for us. And the wonderful part is that the Yankees did this to themselves. Nothing that we might have done could have been of greater aid to our cause.”

“I agree Mr. President, agree strongly. Our ambassadors to Boston are doing wonderfully fine there. Let us thank the Lord and pray to Him that they remain in that prison while the British get themselves more and more irritated. They should be congratulated on their sagacity in being captured by the Yankees.”

Lord Palmerston was seated in the wingchair before the glowing coal fire, his right leg extended and resting on a mound of cushions. His eyes were closed and ringed with lines of pain. He opened them slowly when the butler announced Lord John Russell.

“Ah, John, do come in. Pour yourself a port — and one for me if you please. A large one if you would be so kind.”

He sipped and smacked his lips with pleasure, then grimaced and pointed to his supported foot.

“Gout. Infernal bloody nuisance. Hurts like the very blazes of hell. Quacks can’t do a thing about it. I drink their foul nostrums and nothing improves in the slightest. They try to blame the port for the condition, simpering nonces. Port’s the only thing that seems to help in the slightest. But enough of that. Of greater importance. You must tell me. How did it go at the palace?”

“Wonderfully. Her Majesty agreed that we should make all preparations to increase the pressure on the Americans — even before they have had a chance to respond to our ultimatum. Prince Albert is doing very poorly, I regret to report. The physicians now are sure that his lung congestion is far more serious than they had previously determined. They believe that he has all the symptoms of the typhoid fever.”

“I say! But he has not been in the south, has not left London.”

“He doesn’t need to. You’ve smelled the drains in Windsor Castle. Mephitic! Anything could lurk in their bowels. Nothing has ever been done to improve the various closets and sinks there. Noxious effluvia escape from the old drain — the stench of the cesspools make parts of the Castle almost uninhabitable. I am surprised that more are not felled by the miasma.”

“Poor Albert, poor man.”

“If there is any good to come of his illness it is the Queen’s anger. She feels that, in his weakened condition, he should not have attempted to work on our dispatch. She is positive that he gave his strength for his country, and she fears he may perhaps, terrible thought, even give his life. She blames the Americans for everything, everything. No action we take will be too severe.”

“Such a fine woman — and a veritable dragon in defense of St. George. So what shall we do first?”

“First we demonstrate to the Yankees the firmness of our will.”

“Which is indeed of the firmest.”

“We reconsider our neutrality in supplying military supplies to both antagonists in this conflict. We can order an embargo on all shipments of saltpeter to the North — the vital ingredient of gunpowder.”

“A fine beginning. And if we do that we must also forbid shipment of munitions and all other warlike instruments. We shall hit them where it hurts.”

“And we must prepare ourselves to show our warlike mettle as well. Two troop vessels have sailed for Canada this very day. Quite a spirited departure I am told with the bands playing ‘The British Grenadiers’ followed by ‘Dixie.’ But there has been another slight hold up. You will recall that we have another regiment and an artillery battery that were to be transferred to Canada.”

“I do,” Palmerston said, frowning. “But I assumed they were seaborne or in the province by now.”

“They are still in barracks. The Canadians say they have no quarters or tents for them…”

“Nonsense! These are hardened troops capable of living and fighting in any extremity. Have the orders issued for their transferral at once. And I suggest that we don’t wait for the navy and their transports. I can hear their delaying arguments already. Hire a Cunard steamer. What is the strength of our forces in Canada?”

“I am afraid that we have only five thousand regulars stationed there at the present time.”

“That must change. By God we should have finished the colonials off in 1814. We had the strength to do it. Burnt their cities of Buffalo and Washington as well, didn’t we? Would have won if it hadn’t been for the French. Well, spilt milk and all that. How about our situation now at sea? What is the condition of our fleet at the North American station?”

“Quite adequate, well over thirty vessels. There are three battleships, as well as frigates and corvettes.”

“Good, but not good enough. They must be reinforced with more capital ships. The Americans must see that we are very serious in this matter. The two Southern representatives must be returned, an apology must be made. On this we are adamant. With the country united behind us we can not be seen to be weak or pusillanimous. What is today’s date?”

“The twenty-first of December.”

“The very day that Lord Lyons is to present our dispatch to the Americans. I am sure that it was a singularly momentous occasion. Now, some more port, if you please.”

Lord Lyons hated the Washington weather. Tropically hot and humid in summer, arctic in winter. His carriage had bumped and slithered over the ice and slush, shaking him about like a pea in a pod. Finally back at his home he descended from the carriage and tramped through the wet snow, slammed the front door behind him. His manservant took his snow-whitened coat and opened the door to the study where a fire crackled on the hearth.

“William,” Lyons called out as he warmed his hands before the flames. His secretary slipped in silently. “Bring pen, ink and paper for yourself. I have met with the Americans and must write a report at once to Lord Palmerston. It has been a dreadful morning. That Seward is a cold fish indeed. He read our dispatch without moving a muscle at the demands and commands it contained. Even managed to look bored when I told him we must have an answer within a week. If our demands are not met, I assured him that I would remove my passports and return to Britain. He smiled at that — as though he enjoyed the idea!”

His secretary nodded understandingly, knowing that he was but a witness not a participant in the conversation.

Lyons walked back and forth before the fireplace, composing his words carefully. He was a small and plump man, with a smoothness of manner that hid the subtlety of his nature. William sat in silence, quill pen poised over paper.

“Usual honorifics, you know. Then — I have this day handed over to Secretary of State Seward your demands for the release of the Confederate commissioners Messrs Mason and Slidell. I am convinced that unless we give our friends here a good lesson this time, we shall have the same trouble with them again very soon. They will soon see the folly of their ways when they read this ultimatum. Surrender or war will have a very salutary effect upon them. Though I must say that our demands were met with a very cool reception.”

The fire crackled; the only other sound the scratch of the pen on paper. Lyons warmed his hands, aware of a sudden chill. Would there be war? Would it come to that in the end?

It was an exhilarating albeit a most depressing thought. War against aborigines was one thing. Against an armed and dangerous foe was another. But this was a country divided and the Union was already battling for its life. While Britain, at peace with the rest of the world, could draw upon the mighty strength of her Empire if it came to battle. The richest Empire the world had ever seen. America had managed to slip from the British grasp — but that could be rectified. There was a continent brimming with wealth here that would only add greater luster to the Empire.

Perhaps a war would not be such a bad idea after all.