Stars & Stripes Forever (8 page)

"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.

ON THE BRINK

Dr. Jenner closed the door to Prince Albert's bedroom as quietly as he could, turning the handle as he shut it so there would not be the slightest click of metal on metal. Queen Victoria watched him, eyes wide with fright and apprehension; the flame on the candlestick in her trembling hand wavered and smoked.

"Tell me..." she said, almost breathlessly.

"Sleeping," the doctor said. "A very good sign."

"It is, of course!" Victoria felt the slightest lift of spirits. "It has been, I don't know how long, days, nights since he has slept a little, or not at all."

"Nor you either, for that matter."

She dismissed this with a disdainful wave of her small and chubby hand. "I am not ill, he is the one whom you and Sir James must be concerned about. I have been sleeping on that makeshift bed in his dressing room. But he walks about, does not lie down—and he is so thin. Some nights I do not believe he sleeps at all. Nor does he eat! It tears at my heart to see him like this."

"His gastric fever must run its course so we must be patient. You can be of immense help by doing what no one else can do. You must see that he eats something every day. Even if only gruel, his body must need all the help to fight this disease." Jenner took the candle from her trembling hand and placed it on the table next to the couch. "You had best sit, ma'am."

Victoria sat as bid, spreading her skirts wide. Trying to fold her hands steady on her lap, but kneading them ceaselessly instead.

"I saw Lord Palmerston today," Jenner said. "He was most concerned about the Prince's health and had what I consider to be a most worthwhile suggestion. I am of course most qualified, but I see no reason that other physicians might—"

"He has talked to me too. You need not go on."

"But his suggestion may be a wise one. I would certainly not take umbrage if another physician, or even more, were consulted."

"No. I do not like Palmerston's interference. You are my dear husband's doctor and so you shall remain. This hasty feverish sort of influenza and deranged stomach will soon pass as it has done so before. At least he is resting now, sleeping."

"The best medicine in the world for him in his condition..."

As if to deny his words the candle flame guttered as the door to the bedroom opened. Albert stood there in his dressing gown, clutching the fabric to his chest, his pale skin stretched taut across his cheekbones.

"I awoke—" he said weakly, then coughed, a racking cough that shook his frail body.

Jenner sprang to his feet. "You must return to your bed—this is most imperative. The chill of the night alone!"

"Why?" Albert asked in tones of deepest despair. "I know how ill I am. I know this fever, an old enemy—and knowing it I know that I shall not ever recover."

"Never!" Victoria cried. "Come dearest, come to bed. I shall read to you until you fall asleep."

Albert was too weak to protest, merely shaking his head with Teutonic despair. Leaning on her arm he shuffled across the room. He was not wearing his slippers, but the long underwear he insisted on using had fabric feet sewed to them, offering some protection against the cold. Dr. Jenner lit the bedside lamp as Victoria saw her husband back to bed. Carefully walking backward, Dr. Jenner bowed and left.

"You will sleep now," she said.

"I cannot."

"Then I will read to you. Your favorite, Walter Scott."

"Some other time. Tell me—is there still talk of war with the Americans?"

"You must not disturb yourself with politics. Let others concern themselves now with affairs of state."

"I should have done more. That ultimatum should not have been sent."

"Hush, my dearest. If I cannot read to you from Scott—why then you have always been fond of the writings of von Ense."

Albert nodded agreement and she fetched the book from the shelf. The memoirs of Varnhagen von Ense, the famous soldier and diplomat, indeed was his favorite. And hearing her read in German seemed to soothe him somewhat. After some time his breathing steadied and she saw that he was asleep. Lowering the lamp she found her way by the light of the flickering fire, in the grate to his dressing room, and to her improvised bed.

The next day was December eleventh and the coldest day of this coldest month on record. England and London were in the grip of the deepest of deep frosts. Here, in this stone castle, if possible the chill and dank corridors of WindsorPalace were colder than ever before. The servants stoked the many fires, yet still the cold prevailed.

At noon Albert was still in his bed, still asleep. Victoria's daughter, Alice, was at her side when Dr. Jenner came to examine his patient.

"He is sleeping well, isn't he?" the Queen asked with some apprehension. "This is a change for the better?"

The doctor nodded, but did not speak. He touched his hand to his patient's forehead before taking his pulse.

"This is a turning point," Jenner said with an inadvertent air of deepest gloom. "But he is very weak you must remember—"

"What are you saying? Are you giving up hope?"

The doctor's silence was answer enough.

Victoria no longer protested at additional medical support. There were other doctors in attendance now, five specialists who aided Jenner, who spoke to each other in murmured whispers that the Queen could not hear. When she became upset Alice led her gently from the room, sent for tea.

For two days the Prince lay very still, his face ashen, his breathing labored. Victoria never left his side, holding his pale hand with its weakening pulse. In mid-afternoon of the second day clouds broke and a ray of golden sunlight illuminated the room, touching his face with a sheen of color. His eyes opened and he looked up at her.

"The
Trent
Affair..." he whispered, but could not go on. Victoria wept silently, clasping his cold and limp hand.

At sunset the children were brought in to see their father. Beatrice was too young to be allowed to attend this depressing scene, but Lenchen, Louise, Alice and Arthur were all there. Even Bertie came by train from Cambridge for a final visit to his father. Unhappily Alfie and Leopold were traveling abroad and could not be reached. Vickie, pregnant again, could not make the exhausting trip from Berlin. Still, four of their children were present in the sick room, clutching hands, trying to fathom what was happening to their father. Even Bertie, always at odds with his father, was silent now.

The following morning, in bright sunlight, a military band playing faintly in the distance, Albert sank into a final coma, Victoria still at his side. His eyes were open now, but he did not move or speak. Her vigil lasted all of that day and into evening and night.

At a little before eleven o'clock he drew several long breaths. Victoria clutched at his hand as his breathing ceased.

"Oh! My dear darling!" she cried aloud as she dropped to her knees in distracted despair. "My Angel has gone to rest with the angels."

She leaned over to kiss his cold forehead one last time. And unbidden the last words he had spoken sprang poisonously to her mind.

"The
Trent
Affair. Those Americans did this. They have killed my love."

She screamed aloud, tore at her clothing, screamed again and again and again.

Across the Atlantic the winter was just as bad as that in England. There were thick sheets of ice in the river water that were struck aside by the ferry boat's bow, to thud and hammer down her sides. It was a slow passage from the island of Manhattan. When the ship finally tied up in its slip on the Brooklyn shore of the East River, the two men quickly went from the ferry and hurried to the first carriage in the row of waiting cabs.

"Do you know where the Continental Ironworks is?" Cornelius Bushnell asked.

"I do, Your Honor—if that is indeed the one on the river in Greenpoint."

"Surely it is. Take us there."

Gustavus Fox opened the door and let the older man precede him. The cab, stinking of horse, was damp and cold. But both men were warmly dressed for this was indeed a bitter winter.

"Have you met John Ericsson before?" Bushnell asked. They had met at the ferry and had had little chance to talk before in private.

"Just the once, when he was called in by the Secretary of the Navy. But only to shake his hand—I had to miss the meeting, another urgent matter."

Bushnell, although chairman of the navy committee funding the ironclad, knew better than to ask what the urgent matter was. Fox was more than the Assistant Secretary of the Navy; he had other duties that took him to the Presidential Mansion quite often. "He is a mechanical genius... but," Bushnell seemed reluctant to go on. "But he can be difficult at times."

"Unhappily this is not new information. I have heard that said of him."

"But we need his genius. When he first presented his model to my Naval Committee I knew he was the man to solve the problem that is troubling us all."

"You of course mean the ironclad that the South is building on the hull of the
Merrimack?"

"I do indeed. When the Confederates finish her and she sails—it will be a disaster. Our entire blockading fleet will be in the gravest danger. Why she could even attack Washington and bombard the city!"

"Hardly that. And not that soon as well. I have it on good authority that while her hull and engines have been rebuilt in the drydock, there is a serious shortage of iron plate for her armor. There is no iron in the South and they are desperate. They are melting down gates and fences, even tearing up disused railroad sidings. But they need six hundred tons of iron plate for that single ship, and that is far from easy to obtain in this manner. I have men reporting from inside the Tredegar Iron Works in Richmond, the only place in the South where armor plate is rolled. There is not only a shortage of iron—but a shortage of transportation as well. The finished plates just lie there, rusting, until railroad transportation can be arranged."