They bade their farewells to the Count and boarded the ship’s boat; their luggage had already been stowed aboard. They waved good-bye to the Count and the little ship. At a shouted command all of the sailors aboard her snapped to attention and saluted.
“I shall miss her,” Wilson said. “She’s a grand, stouthearted little vessel.”
“With a fine captain,” Sherman said. “We owe a great debt to the Count.”
When they boarded the Dictator, they discovered that she was preparing to go to sea. In the wardroom Captain Toliver himself told them why.
“Of course you would not have heard — I’ve just been informed myself. Virginia stopped at Cork on the way home. Telegraphed me here. She has been in battle. Apparently she was attacked by a British ironclad.”
“What happened?” Sherman asked, his words loud in the shocked silence.
“Sunk her, of course. Only proper thing to do.”
“Then it means…”
“It means the President and the government must decide what must be done next,” Sherman said.
Captain Toliver nodded agreement. “There will be new orders for all of us. I hope that you will sail with us, General; you as well, Mr. Fox. I am sure that Washington will have assignments for us all.”
To say that the British were perturbed by the sinking would be the most masterful of understatements. The ha’penny newspapers frothed; the Thunderer thundered. Parliament was all for declaring war on the spot. The Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston, was summoned by the Queen. It was an exhausting two hours that he passed in her presence. Lord John Russell waited patiently at Number 10 for his return. Looked up from his papers when there was first a rattling at the door, and then it was pushed wide. One of the porters stepped in, then opened the door as far as it would go. A bandage-wrapped foot came through first, gingerly followed by the rest of Lord Palmerston, seated in a bath chair that was pushed by a second porter. A moment’s inattention caused a wheel of the chair to brush against the man who was holding the door open. Palmerston gasped out loud and lashed out with his gold-headed stick. But it was a feeble blow and the porter merely cringed away. Russell put down the sheaf of papers that he had been studying and rose to his feet.
“I have read through all of the armament proposals,” he said. “They all seem most sensible and very much in order.”
“They should be. I drew them up myself.”
Palmerston grunted with the effort as he pulled himself out of the bath chair and dropped into the armchair behind his massive desk, then waved a dismissing hand at the porters. He took a kerchief from his sleeve and mopped his face and did not speak again until the door had closed and they were alone.
“Her Majesty was unconscionably unreasonable today. Thinks we should go to war by tomorrow morning at the very latest. Silly woman. I talked of preparations, organization, mustering of troops until I was blue in the face. In the end I just outlasted her. She summoned her ladies-in-waiting and swept out.”
Palmerston spoke in a thin voice, very different from his normal assertive self. Lord Russell was worried, but knew enough not to speak his reservations aloud. After all, Palmerston was in his eighties, tormented by gout — in addition to all the usual ailments of old age.
“She has been like that very much of late,” Russell said.
“The German strain has always had its weaknesses — not to say madness. But of late I despair of obtaining any cooperation or reasonable response from her. Yes, she despises the Yankees and wishes to exact a high price from them for their perfidy. As do we all. But when I urge upon her approval of one action or another, she simply flies into one of her tempers.”
“We must take her wishes as our command and act accordingly,” Russell said with the utmost diplomacy. He did not add that the irascible Prime Minister was no stranger himself to bullheadedness and irrational fits of temper. “The yeomanry are being assembled for active duty, as is required in any national emergency. Orders have gone out to India and the antipodes for regiments to be transferred here as soon as is possible. For almost two years now the shipyards on the Clyde and the Tyne have been building the finest ironclad vessels ever conceived by the genius of our engineers. There is little else that can be done to prepare for any emergency. While on the diplomatic front our ambassadors press on indefatigably to wrest every advantage from the Americans—”
“All this I know,” Palmerston said testily, dismissing any argument with a wave of his hand. “Preparations, yes, we have enough of that. But preparation for what? Is there any overall strategy to unite all this and the nation into a cohesive whole? If there is, I see it not. Certainly the Queen cannot provide us with any aid or succor in this matter.”
“But the Duke of Cambridge, commander of the armies, can certainly be relied upon to—”
“To do what? Vacillate? Get drunk? Spend his time with one of his ladies? No salvation there. He has some good men on his staff, but he overrides them more often than not.”
“Then, unhappily, the burden is still yours.”
“It is indeed.” Palmerston nodded weary agreement. “But the years begin to show. I should have put myself out to pasture long before this. But there is always one more crisis, one more decision to make — with no end in sight.”
He had slumped deeper in his chair as he spoke. His face, despite the fullness of his jowls, was slack and pendulous, his skin an unsightly gray. Russell had never seen him look this ill in all their years of association, was about to remark upon it but held his comment for now. He temporized instead.
“You have worked too hard of late, taken too much upon yourself. Perhaps a spell in the country, a good rest—”
“Cannot be considered,” Lord Palmerston said fiercely. “The country is going to hell in a handbasket, and I shall not be one to hurry it on its way. There is too much to be done, too much…”
Yet even as he spoke these words, his voice died away, ending in a wordless mumble. Russell looked on horrified as his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell forward in a slump, his head dropping onto the desk with a resounding thud. Russell jumped to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor, but even as he hurried forward, Palmerston dropped heavily onto the carpet and slid from sight.
COMMAND DECISION
General Sherman had met President Lincoln at the White House. From there they strolled over to the War Office together. They talked a little about the hot weather that had seized the city in a relentless grip for almost two weeks now. Then Sherman inquired about Mrs. Lincoln’s health, which was improving. Lincoln reported that everyone was pleased that General Grant’s wounded arm had healed so well. They talked about everything except the matter that was of the greatest concern to them. But Gus Fox had been adamant about this; no discussions about the details of the trip aboard Aurora unless it was in Room 313. Which was where they were headed now.
The two guards snapped to attention when they came down the corridor.
Sherman returned the salute, then rapped on the door. Fox unlocked it from the inside and stepped aside so they could enter. He locked the door behind them, then crossed over the small anteroom and unlocked the other, inner room. Once inside, they discovered that the windows were all closed and sealed and it was stifling hot.
“Just a moment,” Fox said, quickly throwing wide the curtains and opening both of the windows. Thick bars prevented any access from outside, but at least the air could circulate now. Lincoln took out his kerchief and patted his face and neck dry, then dropped into an armchair, letting his long legs dangle over one arm.