The van of the Royal Navy squadron swept past the Maryann and ignored her. The old barkentine didn't interest them. Captain Webster and her crew felt their frightening contempt as seamen looked down on the diminutive vessel that wasn't even worth their indifference. Hell, Webster thought, they were nothing more than a fly on an elephant's ass and the elephant wasn't concerned enough to swat at it.

After the van came another, larger, squadron of warships, and this, too, swept regally by the Maryann. Webster ordered sails lowered as flight was useless and this enabled him to watch the parade as it went by. The warships were followed by scores of transports that were flanked by swift frigates. Still another squadron brought up the rear.

When it was over, the Maryann tacked and was headed due south. She could make Portland in a day's sailing and she had news to deliver. The British were invading.

Edwin Stanton had replaced Simon Cameron as secretary of war, and General McClellan was unable to attend; otherwise, the group assembled in Lincoln's office was unchanged since the start of the war. John Hay thought it amusing that Cameron had accepted the position of ambassador to Russia, but had made no plans to leave for St. Petersburg. It was too dangerous a journey, he'd said. At least, Hay conceded, he was no longer a member of Lincoln's cabinet and no longer a threat to the Union army.

“Governor Washburn has called out the Maine militia,” Stanton said, “but he has made no move against the British. In point of fact, he has been in communication with their commander, one General Campbell. Another British general, Lord Cardigan, had landed with the British but has moved on towards Canada.”

“Indeed,” said Lincoln. “And what did either of these worthy men give as their reason for attacking our soil?”

“General Campbell told the governor that his force had been sent to reinforce the garrison in Canada,” Stanton replied. “However, they found the St. Lawrence too choked with ice to permit a safe passage, so they have landed at Bangor and will move up the Penobscot and march overland and on to Canada.”

“In winter?” Secretary of State Seward scoffed.

Stanton shrugged. “Not something I'd wish to do, but they are all Scotsmen, so I guess they are used to the rigors of harsh land.”

“How many?” asked Lincoln.

“About ten or eleven thousand,” Stanton responded. “Hardly enough for a conquest of the United States, so it is probably true that they are only passing through.”

“And doing so with utmost contempt,” Welles snarled. “Is there nothing the army can do about this insult to our sovereignty?”

Stanton continued. “As I said, Governor Washburn has called out the Maine militia, and both Vermont and New Hampshire are responding with men. Massachusetts has declined with the reason that they may be the next to be attacked and should keep their militia at home. However, it will take some time for any militia contingents to gather in force. At that time any attempt to dislodge the British could easily become a bloodbath. While we might defeat, even overwhelm, the British by sheer weight of numbers, our militia would suffer badly against their better-disciplined army.”

“What about the regulars?” Welles asked.

Stanton looked chagrined. “General McClellan informed me it would not be wise to divide his forces at this time with such an overwhelming enemy to our south, and with his own plans afoot to attack them. He also mentioned that it would take more than a month to get a sizable force to the Bangor area. By that time the British would have gone, or, if they are lying, would be fortified and reinforced. While I question his logic in the first instance, he is correct in the second. It would take forever to get a sufficient force of regulars to Bangor.”

“So, once again, we do nothing while our poor country is insulted,” Lincoln said sadly. “How are the British behaving?”

“With great discipline, sir.” Stanton answered. “As there has been no resistance on our part, there has been no destruction on theirs. They are even paying for supplies and purchasing barges with gold.”

Lincoln nodded. “Tell Governor Washburn to continue his policy of nonresistance. I will countenance no useless bloodshed. Now, gentlemen, when the British army is gone, what will that fleet of theirs do?”

Welles pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “The British fleet consists of eight battleships of the line, including the Warrior, twenty frigates, and a number of sloops and schooners. Our admirals are of the opinion that the British can go anywhere they wish, but that they will head south in a show of strength, perhaps bombard some forts or cities, and then break our blockade of the James River and of Charleston. There is nothing we can do to prevent them from doing any of that.”

Lincoln tilted his head back and looked upward. “We are so strong and yet so helpless. Is nothing going right?” “Fremont's gone,” Stanton answered with a wry smile.

John Charles Fremont had been the Union commander at St. Louis, where the man known as the Pathfinder had proven to be bullheaded and incompetent, even to the point of being oblivious to the corruption occurring in his name. He had further offended Lincoln by a unilateral, if limited, emancipation proclamation for the state of Missouri. An embarrassed Lincoln had found it necessary to repudiate it, and Fremont had been fired.

“Gone to California,” Stanton chuckled. “He and a couple hundred fellow idiots are heading west. They left word that they will raise an army and drive the British from Vancouver Island.” Lincoln could not keep from smiling. “Imagine that. Pity the poor British.”

Nathan Hunter's leg was a torrent of agony. He could feel the broken bones grate as he slid along the sun-baked ground. He bit his lip until blood flowed. He had to remain silent. Any sound would announce to the Apaches that he was alive and uncaptured. As of now, they didn't even suspect his existence. There had been five men on four horses because one horse had broken its leg the day before, and not four men on four horses.

The Apache ambush had been swift and deadly. One moment the cavalry patrol had been riding through the twilight towards their camp, and the next they were being tossed about by bullets from a dozen hidden rifles.

Nathan had been flung from his horse, which had then rolled over him, smashing his leg. The horse had gotten up while Nathan's body slid down into a ravine, where he passed out.

Now he was conscious and it was broad daylight. He must have been out the entire night. What had happened to his men? He'd heard screams when the bullets hit, so someone must have been hit. But had they gotten away? And where were the Apaches? Were they waiting and watching him, grinning and laughing, as he crawled around like a crippled insect?

Nathan climbed with agonizing slowness over the edge of the ravine and onto flatter ground. A dead and bloated horse stared at him. Its wide nostrils were full of flies. Behind the horse lay something pink and horrible. It was Bellows, the corporal who^:d accompanied them. He'd been shot several times and scalped. He was naked. Boots and uniforms were valuable to the Apaches.

He crawled past Bellows's cadaver and found the body of Private Cullen. He, too, had died in the ambush, and had been stripped and scalped. Perhaps they all had? Maybe Nathan was the only one alive, and he wouldn't last much longer. The pain in his leg surged through his brain and he couldn't stifle a moan. At least it looked like the Apaches weren't around to hear it.

Nathan caught the scent of something burned. He gagged as he realized what it was. A few yards away lay the body of Private Fulk. He was naked and spread-eagled face up on the ground. He had not been killed in the ambush. Fulk had been captured and had taken a long time to die. His eyes had been gouged out, but what had killed him was a campfire that had been lit on his stomach. It had slowly burned through to his spine and still smoldered. His feet and fingers were also charred ruins. The Apaches liked to use fire.