“Thank you, Arthur. It has been quite a time.”
Lord Palmerston eased himself into the chair with a sigh. “You are looking good,” he said.
Wellington laughed reedily. “When one is ninety-two it does not matter how one looks, rather that it is of paramount importance that one is there to be looked at at all.”
Thin, yes, the skin drawn back over the bones of his skull to further accent the mighty Wellington nose. Conky, his troops had called him affectionately. All dead now, all in their graves, the hundreds of thousands of them. When one reaches the ninth decade one finds that there are very few peers left.
There was a slight click as a silent servant placed a glass on the table at Palmerston’s elbow.
“The last bottle of the last case of the ’28 port,” Wellington said. “Been saving it for you. Knew you would be around here one of these days.”
Palmerston sipped and sighed. “By gad that is music, heavenly music not drink. To your continued good health.”
“May your toast be a true one. 1828, you remember that year?”
“Hard to forget. You were Prime Minister and I was the new boy in the Cabinet. I’m afraid that I was not as cooperative as I should have been at the time…”
“Water under the bridge. When one slowly approaches the century mark many things become no longer important. Since my illness in ’fifty-two I have the feeling that I am living on borrowed time and I mean to enjoy it.”
“It was a time of great concern — ”
“For me as well, I assure you. I was at death’s door — but that dread portal never opened. Now, to business. It cannot be the port nor the reminiscences that bring you here today. In your note you said that it was a matter of some importance.”
“It is. I assume that you read the newspapers?”
“You assume wrong. But my secretary does read to me from most of them. I imagine that you are referring to this matter with the Americans?”
“Indeed I am.”
“Then why are you here?’
“I have been asked to come. By the Queen herself.”
“Ahh,” Wellington said, stirring in the chair, pulling at the rug with skeletal hands where it had slid down. “My dear Victoria. She was quite an attractive child, you know. Round-faced and pink and bubbling with energy. She often came to me for advice, even after her marriage and coronation. For one with so little promise, with such a strange childhood, she has outdone herself. I believe that she has become a Queen in deed as well as name. What does she wish of me now?”
“Some sage advice, I believe. She is battered from all sides by conflicting opinions as to how the Americans must be treated. She herself believes that they are responsible for Albert’s death. But she also fears to let her emotions rule her head.”
“She is alone in that,” Wellington said with some warmth. “There is far too much hysteria about. Too much hysterical emotion and no attempt at logical thought. People, the press, the politicians. They all clamor for war. During my military career I always considered politicians to be self-serving and more loyal to their party than they were to their country. When I began my political career I discovered that my earlier opinion was far more correct than I could have possibly imagined. Now they bay for a reckless and needless war.”
“And you do not? Viscount Wellington and Baron Duoro.”
“Baron Duoro, conferred after Talavera. Only victors receive titles. You are deliberate in your choice of titles and remind me of my military career.”
“I do.”
“I prefer to remember my political career when considering this matter before me. I have always been for non-intervention in foreign affairs, you know that. It is terribly easy to begin wars, terribly difficult to stop them. We have not been invaded, none of our countrymen has been hurt, none of our property destroyed.”
“An English ship was stopped on the high seas. A most illegal act — and two foreign nationals taken from her.”
“I agree — a most illegal act. By international law the packet should have been taken to a neutral port. There it would be determined what the correct procedure would be. The two countries concerned would have their day in court. If this had been done, and the two men handed over to the Americans, why you would have no case at all against them. So why not let the lawyers in? If illegality is what we are talking about. There are enough of them around and I am sure that they would love to have a go at this one.”
“Is that what you want me to tell the Queen?”
“Not at all. I am sure that the time is too late for lawyers. Someone should have thought about this a very long time ago.”
“What would you have me tell her then?”
Wellington settled back into his chair, breathed out a low sigh.
“What indeed. On all sides the good and the great, as well as the low and the stupid, bay for war. It will be hard for her to go against that tide, particularly since she is inclined that way herself. And you have told me that she blames the Americans and this Trent Affair for her husband’s death.”
“She does indeed.”
“She was always good at languages. But other than that she was not a very bright little girl. Breaking into tears quite often and quite prone to give in to emotional fits. You must tell her to look into her heart and think of the countless thousands now alive who will die if war comes. Tell her to put rational thought ahead of emotion. Not that I think she will listen. Tell her to seek peace with honor if she can.”
“It will be difficult.”
“Nothing in warfare or politics is easy, Lord Palmerston. You shall tell Her Majesty that she must think most seriously of the consequences, if this matter is allowed to proceed in the future as it has in the past. I have seen too much of battle and death to take relish in it. Here, have another glass of port before you leave. You’ll not taste wine like that again in your lifetime.”
The old man’s eyes closed and his breath was a soft sighing. Palmerston finished the last of the port, sighed as well himself at pleasures spent. Then rose, quietly as he could, and saw himself out.
VICTORIOUS IN BATTLE
General William Tecumseh Sherman had woken at dawn, as he did most days, and watched the sky brighten outside the hotel window. Ellen was sleeping soundly, her even breathing almost a slight snore. He rose quietly, dressed and let himself out. The hotel lobby was empty except for the night porter who was dozing in a chair. He jumped to his feet when he heard Sherman’s boots on the marble floor.
“Mornin’ General. Looks to be a nice day.” He unlocked the front door and raised his hand in a most unmilitary salute. Sherman was barely aware of his presence. William’s Hotel was just across from the Presidential Mansion and he walked that way. The blue-clad soldiers at the end of the drive snapped to attention when he passed and he returned the salute. It was going to be a fine day.
The weather, that is. How fine it would be for him depended upon the man in the White House. He walked faster, as though to get away from his thoughts. Stopped for a moment to watch a flock of crows swirling about the stub of the unfinished Washington Monument, tried to think about anything except his approaching meeting with the President. He knew himself, knew how easy it would be to fall into the black humor that dogged his existence. Not now. Not today. He turned abruptly and retraced his path. Walking at a brisk military pace, staring straight ahead, fighting to keep his thoughts under tight control.
He smelled fresh coffee as he approached the hotel, went through to the bar, talked to the waiter there. The moment of blackness had passed; the coffee was very good and he had a second cup.
Ellen was seated before the vanity when he came back to their room, brushing her long black hair.
“You are up and about early, Cump,” she said.