“Generals always have plans,” Scott said.

“Not another Anaconda,” Stanton said in a small attempt at humor.

“No,” Scott answered tolerantly. “Nothing more to do with snakes, unless you wish to compare it with an asp or cobra.”

The invitation to visit Colonel Garnet Wolsey at the Royal Navy's headquarters at Norfolk, Virginia, came as a welcome surprise to Captain John Knollys. Only twenty-nine, Wolsey was a young man whose career was destined to take him to high places. He had already served with distinction in Burma, the Crimea, the Indian rebellion, and China. He had lost an eye in the Crimea.

Wolsey, it was rumored, was accumulating friendships with men who could help him rise to the top of the army and stay there when he made the ascent. Knollys, without wealth, influence, or a mentor to help him, desperately wanted to be one of Wolsey's companions. But what was Wolsey doing with the navy in Norfolk? Last he^’d heard, the young colonel was the assistant quartermaster general in Canada.

The short dapper colonel greeted Knollys as if they were old friends, which they weren't. It almost made him giddy.

When they were seated and comfortable, Wolsey came right to the point. “Knollys, you're the man on the scene. Can the rebels defeat the North?”

Rumor had it that Wolsey didn't suffer fools, so Knollys decided to be blunt. “In a word, no. The North might defeat itself, but the South does not have the wherewithal to actually defeat the North. The South's best chance is that the North will become war weary and simply back away. But defeat the North? No.”

Wolsey nodded and urged him to continue. “Tell me about the Union army. You're one of the few men we can trust who has actually seen it.”

Knollys smiled. “As soldiers, they are good. They are well equipped and well trained. At the lower levels, they also appear to be well led. It is at the higher command that they are lacking. This is not surprising as they do not have any experience with large armies. The Southern generals seem to have picked up that skill more quickly than their Northern counterparts.”

Wolsey pulled at the end of his mustache. “Mr. Darwin says that we all evolve. Do you think the Union will evolve proper leadership?”

“Inevitably. They will get steadily better as the South deteriorates. It is simply a matter of numbers. The South lost a very good general when Albert Sidney Johnston was killed at Shiloh. His successor, Beauregard, is simply not as good as he was.”

“Shiloh was a complete and unpleasant surprise,” said Wolsey.

“Sir, Shiloh is what makes this war so frightening. The Union used close to a hundred thousand men against Lee at Culpeper and the Shenandoah. Yet their numbers are substantial enough that they had another fifty thousand plus on the field at Shiloh with an additional army en route. The South lost more than twenty-five thousand men in both battles and cannot replace them. There are more than four white Northerners to every white Southerner. When the North finally realizes that the South cannot compete with those numbers, the South will be in terrible trouble.”

“As might Great Britain,” Wolsey said thoughtfully. “We do not wish to fight the Union in a land war over the vastness of North America.”

“Colonel Wolsey, what is most disturbing is not only the discrepancy in numbers but the North's ability to manufacture items beyond measure. In the later phases of the battle, I rode with some of Jeb Stuart's cavalry. They are undisciplined savages, but they are marvelous fighters. We found several Union supply depots that we were unable to seize because of stout defenses. They dwarfed anything the Southern armies had. Their contents were either destroyed or tossed away by the retreating Northerners and will soon be replaced.”

Wolsey nodded. It was a real concern. The Union could supply its armies from its own local factories, while Great Britain had to supply hers from across an ocean that was sometimes hostile. Further, England had been called on by the Confederacy to supply her with the materials of war as well.

“But the hatreds are the most astonishing,” Knollys went on. Wolsey cocked an eyebrow in interest. “It must be what it was like when Edward Longshanks and William the Wallace went at it over Scotland, or when the Roundheads and the Cavaliers massacred each other in England. There is utter and savage hatred between many who are fighting that does not bode well for a settlement.”

“Yet there are those who say that the war must be won in this year of 1862. Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

Wolsey took a deep breath. “Do you know why I am here?”

“No, Colonel, I do not.”

Wolsey grinned. “I am the assistant quartermaster of Canada serving under Lord Cardigan. The job is so dull I could scream and Cardigan is, let's say, unique.”

It was Knollys's turn to grin. Cardigan had declared a harsh form of martial law in Canada and had rapidly become deeply resented by much of the Canadian population, which had been campaigning for less control from England, not more.

“I proposed a mission to tweak the United States and make them recognize their weaknesses,” Wolsey said. “Perhaps it might make them come to the bargaining table and begin to end this. At any rate, what I have planned, and am coordinating with the navy, will be bloody good adventure. Despite his advanced years, Admiral Sir William Parker has a good head on his shoulders and has endorsed the idea.”

Wolsey did not add that, as a result of those very advanced years, Parker was no longer onboard a ship. It had proven too difficult an endeavor for the old man. He had divided his navy into squadrons and commanded from the relative comfort of Norfolk.

Knollys leaned forward and tried to keep the desperation from his voice. “Sir, I. too, am totally bored. There is so little for a liaison officer to do between battles that it is maddening. I have no idea what you have in mind_: but I would be honored to accompany you.” Wolsey laughed. “And I would be delighted to have you along.”

Attila Flynn's return to Washington was met with mixed emotions by Nathan and General Scott. The Irishman had been gone for several weeks and it was presumed that he had disappeared forever since his idea of raising an Irish army had been rebuffed by just about everyone.

Prudently, he made no effort to enter the house where Nathan and General Scott lived. Former sergeant Fromm had returned to the warm bed_, round breasts, and eager thighs of Bridget Conlin_: and Flynn fully understood that his presence was not welcome. Instead, he arranged to meet Nathan by the truncated and partly built monstrosity that would someday be the Washington Monument.

“And what have you been up to, Mr. Flynn,” Nathan asked, “besides fomenting chaos and rebellion?”

“I ventured south, deep into the heart and belly of the secessionist beast.”

Nathan was impressed. “If nothing else, you are daring. How did you manage that?”

Flynn's accent immediately changed to that of a proper English gentleman. “I still have a British passport and a small gift for mimicry. I may hate the English bastards, but they are sometimes useful.”

“And what were you doing?”

“Sounding out the degree of hatred for England among those from the old sod in general and one man in particular.”

They paused at a tavern, where Flynn graciously permitted Nathan to buy each a mug of beer. The weather was bright and unseasonably warm. The beer was cold and delicious.

“Have you lately heard of one Patrick Ronayne Cleburne?” Flynn asked.

“According to the Southern papers, he did well at Shiloh and has been promoted to brigadier general,” Nathan answered.

“Indeed. He is a fine lad and a charming gentleman, as well as a hell of a fighter. He's from Cork, you know, or perhaps you didn't. You recall that he and I served together as privates in Her Majesty's Forty-first Foot, don't you? He was glad to see me.”