“More of the blockading fleet being withdrawn, I imagine.”

“They would not have received their orders yet,” General Pope said. “Only those in port that could be reached by telegraph.” He signaled to an aide to bring his telescope, raised it to his eye.

“Damnation!” he said. “Those aren’t American ships. Union Jacks — I can see them! That is a British fleet!”

“Which way are they going?” Lincoln called out, feeling a dreadful anticipation. “Send for the captain.”

The ship’s first officer came down from the bridge and saluted. “Captain’s compliments, Mr. President, but he would like to know what he should do. Those are British warships.”

“We know — but we don’t know which way they are going.”

“Same heading as ours, the mouth of the Potomac River. Towards Washington City. All but one of them.

“One of the battleships has altered course and is coming our way.”

PRESIDENTS IN PERIL

There was a feeling of tension released, and even pleasure and happiness, in Whitehall as they went through the reports that the packet had brought from Canada to Southampton.

“I say,” Lord Palmerston called out, waving a paper in the air. “General Champion reports that the Yankees appear to be putting up only the poorest of defenses. Plattsburgh taken and the troops marching on, advancing steadily. Jolly good!” And his gout had eased as well; the world had become a sunnier and more beneficent place.

“And this from the admiralty,” Lord Russell said. “The fleet in the Gulf Coast attack should have completed their task by now. They are expecting the first reports of victory very soon. From the Washington City attack as well. The navy showed great foresight and tactical acumen there. I must say that the Admiralty has more imagination and tactical ability than I ever gave them credit for. Perfectly timed. Waited until the reports came in that troops were being pulled out of the defenses of the capital. Then, while the American soldiers rush to defend their borders — attack the heart of their homeland. They will soon be brought to heel.”

Palmerston nodded in happy agreement. “I do agree. And I know that I can confide in you, John, that at times I have been a bit worried. It is one thing to talk about war — another thing completely to take the first step and open battle. I like to think that I am a peaceable man. But I am also an Englishman and will not suffer in silence when insulted. And this fair land has been insulted, gravely, gravely. And then there is the fact that Wellington was so positive that we should not go ahead with the war. That worried me. But, still we pressed on. But now, by hindsight, I can see that this war has all been right and proper, almost preordained.”

“In truth, I am forced to agree. I look forward to the next reports with utmost expectation.”

“As I do, old friend, as I do. Now — I must to Windsor to bring these good tidings to the Queen. I know that she will share our pleasure at the good news. Preordained, preordained.”

Captain Richard Dalton, 1st U.S. Cavalry, had not seen his family in over a year. If he had not been wounded at the battle of Ball’s Bluff he might have gone another year without getting home. The piece of shrapnel that had lodged in his right shoulder hurt bad enough, hurt even more when the surgeon cut it out. He could still ride pretty well, but it would be some time before he could raise a sword or fire a gun. His CO. had been willing to grant him sick leave so, despite the almost constant pain, he felt himself a lucky man. He was still alive when a lot of his men were not. The ride south from the capital was an easy one, his welcome when he opened his front door worth all the pain past, pain to come. Now the sun was warm, the fish were biting, he and his seven-year-old son had almost filled the creel in a few hours.

“Daddy — look at our ships! Ain’t they great?”

Dalton, almost dozing in the warm sunlight, looked up at the mouth of the inlet where it met the Potomac.

“Sure big ones, Andy.” Ships of the line, hurrying upstream under sail and steam. White sails filled, black smoke roiling from their funnels. It was a grand sight indeed.

Until a puff of wind caught the flag on the stern of the third vessel in line, spread it out before flapping it about the staff again.

Two crosses, one over the other.

“The Union Jack! Row for shore Andy, just as fast as you can. Those aren’t our ships, not by a long sight.”

Dalton jumped onto the bank as soon as the bow grated on the sand, bent to tie it up one-handed.

“Go on Andy. I’ll bring the fish — you just run up to the barn and saddle up Juniper.”

The boy was off like a shot, along the lane that led to their house at Piney Point. Dalton secured the boat, then grabbed up the fish and followed him, found Marianne waiting at the back door, looking troubled.

“Andy shouted something about ships — then ran into the barn.”

“I’ve got to ride to the depot in Lexington Park, they have a telegraph there. Got to warn Washington City. We saw them. British warships, an awful lot of them, heading upriver toward Washington. Got to warn them.”

The boy led the big gray out. Dalton checked the tightness of the girth, smiled and tousled the lad’s hair. Grabbed the pommel with his left hand and swung himself up into the saddle.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Soon as I tell them that the war is on its way to the capital.”

Mary Todd Lincoln laughed aloud with happiness as she poured the tea. Cousin Lizzie, who was new to Washington, was not impressed by the local ladies and was so funny when she strutted across the room, flouncing an invisible bustle.

“Why I tell you — I am not making this up. They just don’t have style. You don’t see ladies in Springfield or Lexington walking like that — or talking like that.”

“I don’t think that this is a real Southern city,” Mary’s sister, Mrs. Edwards said. “I don’t think it knows what it is, what with all those Yankees and politicians infesting the place.” She took the cup of tea from Mary. “And, of course, none of them are Todds.”

The sisters and cousins and second-cousins all nodded at this. They were a close-knit family and it was Mary’s pleasure to have them visiting her. Just for a change the talk of the war was taking second place to gossip.

“I am so afraid for Mr. Lincoln and this mysterious meeting that no one will tell us about,” Cousin Amanda said. “An Abolitionist going into the deep South at this time!”

“You mustn’t believe everything you read in the vampire press,” Mary said firmly. “They are always after me as being pro-Southern and pro-slavery when y’all know the truth. Of course our family kept slaves, but we never bought them or sold them. You all know my feelings. The first time I saw a slave auction, saw them being whipped — why I became as much of an abolitionist as a Maine preacher. I’ve always felt that way. But Mr. Lincoln, the thought of his being an abolitionist is so absurd. I don’t think he knew anything about slavery until he visited me at home. And he has the strangest idea about slaves. Thinks that if you bundle them all off to South America that would solve the problem. He is a good man but not knowledgeable about the Negro. But he does want to do the right thing. What he believes in — is the Union, of course. And justice.”

“And God,” Cousin Lizzie asked, a twinkle in her eye. “I do believe that I haven’t seen him in church at all during this visit.”

“He’s a busy man. You can believe in God without going to church. And vice versa, I must say. Have some more tea? Though some argue with that.” Mary smiled, sipped her tea and sat back.

“Now you didn’t know him when he first ran for Congress because that was many years ago. The man running against him for the office was a hellfire and brimstone Methodist preacher who always tried to make out that Mr. Lincoln was an infidel. Then one day he saw his chance when he was preaching in church and Mr. Lincoln came in and sat in the back. The preacher knew what he had to do and he called out ‘All of you who think you are going to Heaven, you rise.’ There was a bustle as most of the congregation got up. Mr. Lincoln did not stir. Then the preacher asked for all those who expected to go to Hell to stand. Mr. Lincoln did not stand. This was the preacher’s chance.