1862 by Robert Conroy

fight on the land while we sweep the oceans.”
    “But we will not be allies?”
    “Associates,” Palmerston amended. “The fact that we have a common enemy does not necessarily require that we be allies any more than that relatives also be friends. We will be associates in name and allies in fact. I have sent a message on to Richmond for Lord Lyons in which this is outlined. It also contains stipulations regarding the future of slavery as it may impact on any formal treaty and any specific future aid that we might give the Confederacy.”
    Russell thought the whole idea to be an excellent one. Still, he saw several potential problems. For one thing, the Confederacy had been victorious in its battles with the larger and potentially stronger Union, proving that the Union armies were inept and poorly led. But how long would that last? If the larger Union forces found leaders, then the smaller Confederate army might start to bleed away.
    And then there was the question of the British people’s support for a war that supported slavery and did not threaten national security. How long would that support last?
    And finally, there was the question of the enthusiasm of Lord Richard Lyons. Ambassador Lyons was a shy, retiring, and almost scholarly bachelor who abhorred violence and seemed to be quite fond of the United States. How effective would he be as the representative of Her Majesty to the enemies of the United States? Russell sincerely hoped that Lord Palmerston knew what he was doing.
    Abraham Lincoln came at night with John Hay. The only others with him were the carriage driver and another man, a bodyguard.
    The first thing that impressed Nathan about Lincoln was his height. He was even taller than General Scott, who towered over most people. Between the two men, Nathan felt positively diminutive. At least Hay was shorter than he and seemed to enjoy Nathan’s brief discomfiture.
    Where Scott was enormously bulky, Lincoln was as lanky and lean as the pictures the nation had seen. Like Scott, he truly was a living caricature of himself. What was surprising was Lincoln’s face and his hands. His deeply lined face was that of a man a decade older than a man not yet fifty-three years of age. Although his sad eyes were rimmed with wrinkles, his mouth curled in a friendly smile.
    Lincoln’s hands were large and his fingers extremely long. His hands looked almost delicate, and it was difficult to relate them to the fact that Lincoln had been a wrestler and a farm worker in his youth. The hands were those of an artist or a pianist.
    “Let me guess,” Lincoln said, speaking first to General Scott, “you have returned to Washington because you are concerned about the direction the country is taking and that there might be war with Great Britain.”
    “Indeed, sir, although I have no doubts about war with England. It will happen.”
    Lincoln accepted coffee from a very confused and nervous Bridget Conlin, Scott’s housekeeper. She curtsied and left abruptly.
    “I hold out every hope that Ambassador Adams will see to it that cooler heads prevail. I have also heard it from Ambassador Lyons that England does not want war.”
    “But Palmerston does,” Scott said tersely. “I’ve studied his speeches and his writings, and I’ve spoken to those who know him. He sees this as an opportunity to advance British causes while hampering ours. We will have war.”
    Lincoln blinked. The blunt statement had surprised him. “Let us presume that you are correct. What do you propose?”
    “I wish to counsel you. I love this country and do not wish to see her dismembered. Remember, everything I said about the duration of the war and what would be necessary to win it is coming true. What had been disparaged as an Anaconda Plan is now reality.”
    “Yes, it is,” Lincoln admitted. “But such counsel as you would give would be military in nature, would it not? Shouldn’t it be directed towards General McClellan?”
    “Sir, General