This confronted Hawkes with a dilemma. His orders were to protect the Henrietta and nothing more unless the American tried something rash. But if war had been declared, the St. Lawrence was a legitimate target and should be taken. If he let her go, then she might prey on other British shipping.

“Order the American to heave to,” Hawkes commanded. He would board her and have her taken back to England, where people greater than he could sort it out.

When the St. Lawrence didn't respond, Hawkes ordered the Gorgon's guns run out and a warning shot fired. He noted that, while the St. Lawrence's gun ports were open, her cannon had not been run out. This was a condition that could be changed in an instant, and the American's gun crews were doubtless poised to do just that.

The St. Lawrence again did not respond. Instead, she turned and started to sail away. For an instant, Hawkes found himself admiring the graceful lines of a ship that belonged to a bygone era. Sail had first been replaced by the steam engine and the paddle wheel. Soon the cumbersome and vulnerable paddle wheel had been succeeded by a propeller, or screw, that was beneath the stern of a ship like the Gorgon and safely out of the way.

The St. Lawrence and others like her were two generations behind modern warships. Even the mighty Gorgon had fallen behind. She could not compare with ironclad monsters like the Royal Navy's Warrior and Black Prince, or France's Gloire.

“One more warning shot,” Hawkes said sadly. His course of action was now clear to him.

The Gorgon's naked masts were in stark contrast to the billowing sails of the anachronistic St. Lawrence, The U.S. ship continued to ignore him, and even ran out her guns. It was a threat the British captain could not ignore. Hawkes easily maneuvered the Gorgon so that his powerful port-side guns could rake the stern of the St. Lawrence.

“Fire,” he ordered and, seconds later, the broadside thundered out, causing the ocean around the ships to quiver. The shells from the Gorgon smashed through the St. Lawrence and streaked down her length, smashing the guns and maiming the crew, who were swept away by the torrent of metal and wooden splinters.

The Gorgon turned and presented her starboard guns to the desperately maneuvering American. A second broadside thundered, again raking the St. Lawrence, and she shook as if a giant hand had grasped her and pummeled her. A few of the American's guns returned fire, but to no effect. Hawkes wondered if they had been aimed or set off by the fires that were ravaging the ship. No matter, the American's honor was intact-she had fired back. Why didn't she strike her colors?

A third British broadside brought down a mast and caused a massive explosion within the smaller American vessel. Hawkes watched as a body was flown clear of the ravaged ship. It was enough. The American flag was run down.

Hawkes ordered the cease-fire and sent men to take over the frigate and to treat the American wounded. From the looks of the ship, there must be literally hundreds of casualties. God help the United States of America if this was the best they had in the way of warships. The St. Lawrence had been both toothless and helpless in comparison with the Gorgon . It had been an execution, not a fight.

“Well” Hawkes said grimly as he turned to the knot of officers gathered behind him. “If we weren't at war before, we certainly are now.”

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN NATHAN RETURNED to what he now referred to as home, it was late at night and he was attracted by the light in the first-floor sitting room. General Scott was in a chair and sipping a brandy. Beside him was an empty plate.

“I hope you fared better than I did,” Scott grumped. “The sandwich was dry. Sergeant Fromm made it for me since Bridget had the evening off. Fromm should stick to guarding me and answering the door.”

Nathan grinned. His earlier suspicions about the man who had opened the door had been correct. The man was a retired soldier who was devoted to Scott. Bridget was the young Irish woman who cooked and kept house. Nathan thought it amusing that the old man had been waiting up for him as if he were a child. “Let's say the food was adequate, General, but still superior to the wine.”

Scott shook his head sadly. “It's a long way from France to here, and wines do not always travel well. A pity we don't make any of our own that compares. Of course, I would not have expected the French to present their finest for uncouth Americans to guzzle.”

Nathan sat down across from Scott. “Has anyone ever compared you to Falstaff, General?”

Scott glowered at him. “I know my Shakespeare. Falstaff was a fool, and I am not a fool. Enough small talk; tell me what transpired. Did you get the message to John Hay?”

Nathan had gotten to the salon a little past the appointed time. John Hay had already arrived and was surrounded by people who wished to use him to gain influence with President Lincoln.

“I had to wait until he was alone. Then I gave him the envelope and told him it was a confidential message from you to Mr. Lincoln. He looked surprised, but recovered quickly and put it in an inside coat pocket. I must say I was impressed by Hay. He seemed very poised and confident. He just continued our polite conversation as if nothing had happened.”

“Then what?”

“Then I mingled and socialized.”

“Anyone important there?”

“Aside from some congressmen, only Generals Meigs and McDowell.” Meigs was the army's quartermaster general, while McDowell, the loser at Bull Run, was in charge of the defenses of Washington. “Neither man stayed long. Poor McDowell looked like a whipped dog.”

“Nobody likes McDowell because McDowell likes nobody,” Scott said. “All the man likes to do is eat. I consider myself a gourmet. He is a glutton. It's amazing he doesn't weigh as much as I do. General Meigs is an unpleasant man as well, but honest and capable.”

For the rest of the evening, Nathan had concentrated on socializing and enjoying himself. “I had a pleasant conversation with our host and hostess, the D'Estaings. Madame D'Estaing is quite charming and attractive. I had the distinct feeling she was quite a liberal woman.”

“That would be putting it mildly,” Scott said wryly. “She is at the center of many rumors. If only half are true, she leads a very interesting life. Her husband, Henri, has parlayed a distant relationship to the French general who succored us during our revolution into a position of a buyer for France.”

“What does he buy?”

“Congressmen,” Scott answered. “Henri D'Estaing may look like a plump little piece of pastry, but he is quite efficient at what he does. France has designs on Mexico, and it is in their interest to keep us from protesting their involvement too vehemently.”

Interesting, Nathan thought. “Valerie, I mean Madame D'Estaing, was with an American woman who was dressed in black, a Mrs. Devon. I presume she is a widow.”

Scott thought for a moment. “She is Mrs. Rebecca Devon. Her husband was an administrator in the War Department until he marched off to save his nation and was killed at Bull Run. I had met both of them. She's a very pleasant and intelligent woman, and reasonably attractive if you like them that thin and can ignore that scar on her neck that she tries to conceal. She was very much pro abolition and in favor of war to stop secession and free the slaves. Sadly, like so many other people, her wishes came true and contained within them the seeds of tragedy.”

“And her late husband?” Nathan asked, curiously.

“Never speak ill of the dead. Before the battle there were rumors of corruption. He was a crony of Cameron's and heartily disliked by Meigs.”