“Do you threaten me, Mr. Keitt?”

“More of a promise than a threat.” But the arrogance in his voice belied the words. He loosened his pistol in his tailcoat pocket. Benjamin pointed at it.

“You have brought a gun into this Congress to enforce your threat? You do this after what has happened to Jefferson Davis?”

“A gentleman does not go about unarmed — ”

“Sergeant at arms,” Benjamin called out. “Arrest this man for his threatening behavior.”

He had planned for this and the squad of soldiers was ready. All of them veterans of battle, all returned home to recuperate from wounds. All grimly eager to see the end of this war. Keitt shouted angrily and pulled out the pistol — but was quickly disarmed and half-carried, half-dragged from the hall.

There was much argument and raised voices at this, but Benjamin would not permit dissension to rule.

“The dead, think of the dead. Do we really want to begin over again a war that has been brought honorably to an end? Must we once again pick up the guns that have been peacefully laid down, and once again begin killing each other? Have we learned nothing from the deaths of our loved ones? You are the ones who must decide — and posterity will never forget what was decided here this day.”

One by one they were won over until, at close to midnight, the final vote was made to accept the conditions of the Congress.

It was carried by the smallest of majorities.

A single vote. But it was enough.

The War of Secession was over at last.

A DIRTY WAR

The frigate Speedfast had not been the first British warship to be engaged by the Avenger during the brief and deadly Battle of the Potomac. Two others had taken the full impact of her broadsides. The fact that only one of the American warship’s guns had been reloaded and run out when the two vessels exchanged fire was all that spared her. A single 400-pound shell had torn though her. The Avenger had steamed on to attack the rest of the flotilla — leaving Speedfast with dead crewmen, dismounted guns, her wheel and helmsman blown away. Captain Gaffney was an experienced and proficient officer. While his ship drifted helplessly down the river he had the wrecked masts cut away and relieving tackle rigged to the rudder. It was a clumsy arrangement but it worked. Shouted orders were relayed from the bridge; sailors belowdecks pulled on the ropes to move the rudder. Maneuvering was slow and arduous, but it could be done. The battle was far upstream behind them by the time Speedfast got up steam again and was brought back under control. Much as he wanted to, the captain knew that it would have been suicide to rejoin the one-sided battle. Speedfast had no choice other than to turn her bow downstream in the wake of the escaping transports, to limp sluggishly back to sea and to her home port in Kingston, Jamaica.

An investigating board had cleared Captain Gaffney of any misconduct in leaving the scene of battle. Despite this he felt humiliated by the engagement. Now, refitted and repaired the Speedfast was back at sea again. Her mission, as Gaffney saw it, was a simple one.

Vengeance.

Lieutenant Wedge, the commander of her marine detachment knocked and entered the captain’s cabin.

“We are hitting back,” Captain Gaffney said. He was an angry man. Angry at the enemy who had wrecked his ship and killed his men. He was well aware of the greater military disaster that was befalling Britain, but his feelings about that were distant and controlled. He would willingly join in that battle and do the best that he, his men, and his ship could possibly do. That went without saying. But now, on this mission, he would take great pleasure in wreaking personal revenge upon the country that had so personally tried to destroy him.

“These are our orders,” Gaffney said, holding up a single sheet of paper. “They are from the Secretary to the Lords’ Commissioners of the Admiralty. Succinct and to the point and I am sure that they will be followed with a great deal of pleasure. You may read them.”

“Understood, sir. And to be obeyed with the greatest of pleasure, sir!”

Wedge’s hair was grizzled, his face red from drink or rage — or both. He had been passed over for command too often and would never rise to a higher rank. His men hated him, but they fought well for him, since he hated the enemy even more. He was a formidable fighter and this was his kind of battle.

“Do you have a site in mind, Captain?”

“I do. Here.” They bent their heads over the map. “On the coast of South Carolina, a small town called Myrtle Beach. I called in there once for water. There are some fishing vessels, and a railroad station at the end of this line that goes inland. The buildings, as I recall, were mostly wooden.”

“They’ll burn well. When do we attack?”

“We are making six knots now which should bring us within sight of land at dawn. We will go in as soon as the target is identified.”

The postmaster of Myrtle Beach was just raising the flag when the unmistakable sound of cannon fire boomed from the direction of the harbor. By the time he had hurried to the corner, to look down the road to the shore, dark clouds of smoke were roiling up above the roofs. There were screams now and people running. The fishing boats tied up in the little harbor were all burning. Boatloads of soldiers in red uniforms were coming ashore. Beyond them the dark hull of a warship brightened suddenly with the flames from its guns and an instant later the front of the First Bank of South Carolina exploded outward.

The postmaster ran. Through the crunch of broken glass to the train terminal, throwing open the door to the telegraph office.

“Get this out on the wire! The British are here, burning and blowing up everything. Firing cannon, landing soldiers. The war has come here…”

The burst of musket fire hurled the postmaster back onto the telegraph operator, threw them both dead to the floor.

Lieutenant Wedge and his marines stamped across the floor in their heavy boots and on into the empty station beyond. A black, diamond-stack locomotive waited on the tracks there: the crew had fled. A trickle of smoke rose from the stack; steam hissed lightly from a valve. “Just what I had hoped to find. Bring up Mr. McCloud.” The captain had agreed at once when the marine lieutenant had suggested that the ship’s engineering officer accompany them ashore. Wedge pointed at the locomotive when the engineer appeared.

“Can you take care of that thing? Blow it up. Will you need black powder?”

“Not at all, sir. A steam engine is a steam engine, none much different from the other, at sea or on land. I’ll just stoke her red hot, close all the outlet valves — and tie down the safety valve. After that the boiler will take care of itself.”

The town was in flames, the fishing boats burnt down to their waterlines, the townsfolk who had not escaped were dead in the streets. A satisfactory morning’s work, Lieutenant Wedge thought as he climbed back to the deck of the Speedfast. He turned to look at the burning buildings when there was a great explosion and a white cloud of steam shot up out of the black clouds of smoke.

“What was that?” Captain Gaffney asked. “A powder store?”

“No, sir. A steam engine blowing itself to kingdom come.”

“Well done. Be sure to mention that in your report.”

“Another town burnt, Mr. President,” Nicolay said. “Myrtle Beach, little place on the South Carolina coast. And at least seven American merchant ships have been attacked and seized at sea. Even worse, there have been two more armed incursions across the Canadian border. A most serious one in Vermont. People are in panic up there, leaving their homes and fleeing south.”