Edit: This second edition has been expanded in story, revised in language, and condensed from four chapters into a oneshot. There are subtle changes and expanded footnotes, so if you have read it before and enjoyed it, I would recommend reading it again. You might be surprised. - 13 January 2018
He had no sense of Time. The only Time he could feel was pain—endless, everlasting pain. It clouded his eyes, rang hungry in his ears, numbed his tongue and every appendage with a burning fire.
There were times that he was aware of something moving in the dark, times he felt someone else's cool skin touch his feverish flesh and ignite flames underneath.
Sometimes he heard the screams of the dying, the agony of the wounded, lost in a place between spaces—here and there but never quite where he needed to be.
Few times could he formulate any thought beyond a desperate desire for an end, but when he did, it was always the same:
Dad, I need you to tell me what to do.
18 April 1861
The coffeehouse was nowhere near as busy as it would be by fourteen. To the wives and ladies who came in then, the patrons currently spaced between the tiny, dimly lit tables cradling warm teacups—some of which contained more than Earl Grey—as excuses to save their clothes from the cold, drizzling rain were industrial men who carried too much burden on their shoulders and should have at least waited for them to join if they insisted on a break.
After all, what was tea if it wasn't at a proper time and supervised by vultures?
As it so happened, Arthur Kirkland didn't particularly care what they thought. This was a business errand, nothing more, and he would be grateful if he managed to leave before the Colonial Secretary tried to swindle him into negotiating a union between the Canada colonies again.
He hadn't returned to the Americas since he left in 1781, and he would prefer to keep it that way until a visit was unequivocally necessary.
"…this nasty business in India, no doubt," the Duke of Newcastle was saying, his carefully combed red hair hidden behind that morning's paper. "So glad to wash my hands of it. What a mess it all was, don't you agree, Lord Britain?"
"Hm? Oh, yes, quite so." Arthur had been watching a patron in the corner dump an entire flask of whiskey into his teacup. He didn't seem to notice when it overflowed and spilled onto the table, simply staring at its sloshing contents. He had the ruddy, weary face of a dock worker, though as to why he idled in a coffeehouse in the middle of the day when the docks were crowded with imports, Arthur could think of only one explanation: he was out of work. How long, his lank, patched clothing spoke too much.
Arthur was considering marching over under the pretense of an entitled aristocrat whose sole purpose in life was to restore class order by kicking him out—only to slip a few coins into his hand and advise him to spend it on foodstuffs as he did—when Lord Newcastle spoke. Unfortunately, he noticed the slip in attention. Turning in his seat to see for himself what fascinated Arthur more than his company, he scoffed.
"Filthy labourers—can't keep to their own corners, can they? Have to intrude on our spaces," he groused, none too quietly, though Arthur thought that an anvil could have dropped through the ceiling and he wouldn't have roused, the dock worker was so enthralled by the rippling movement of his spiked tea.
Newcastle's comments, however, put Arthur on the verge—once again—of wanting to slap those large muttonchops off his hook-nosed face. Unfortunately, Arthur had long ago given up trying to explain the differences to them, how they weren't that many, regardless of class; their priorities were simply of a different mind due to their circumstances. None of them ever really understood; they never had, and they didn't care to. One of the many reasons Arthur couldn't stand aristocratic company for long periods, despite being a lord himself.
Arthur was on the verge of changing the subject when a small headline in Newcastle's paper caught his eye:
Rebels Victorious in American Naval Battle
Arthur almost couldn't believe his eyes. Rebellion, in America?
Again?
"May I borrow that paper?" Arthur asked. One would have thought he had demanded from the way Newcastle looked at him. He acquiesced nonetheless, folding it before handing it over.
Arthur snatched it, ripping the front page in his haste read the article.
'The rebellious "Confederate States of America" have, following a two-day siege and bombardment, emerged victorious in the capture of Fort Sumter, located on the coast of the State of South Carolina within the United States of America. No deaths have been reported, although conditions were dire within the fort by the time the siege began. These seven "Confederate States", which include South Carolina, claim to have successfully seceded from the American Union due to disagreements regarding slave rights. The site of battle, Fort Sumter, is a fortress built at the entrance to Charleston Harbor…'
Arthur scanned the rest of the article for any mention of a name he hadn't seen or spoken of in decades, but he knew he wouldn't find it. Without reading the causes, Arthur set down the paper.
Rebellion. In America. Secession. In America. It was essentially independence, reluctant and unwelcome though it seemed. Just as before.
Arthur felt a tremendous sense of déjà vu and shameful pride. He hated the smug smirk that crept up his lips, and he loved the freedom of it.
Let's see how it feels to be on the receiving end, shall we?
This was simply too good to be true.
"Reading that business in America? Yes, it is a bit exciting—a bit of sweet revenge, you know—but I do hope it doesn't affect the Canadas—that's the last thing my office needs at the moment. Another eighteen twelve, honestly…" Newcastle went on muttering—to himself, for Arthur had ceased listening before he even opened his mouth.
The Canadas. Canada.
Matthieu. He would know what was going on with—him.
Was it unequivocally necessary for Arthur to go there? No, but he suddenly found that he wanted to, if for nothing more than to hear from America's brother's own lips that nothing was fine in the south.
Their teatime concluded half an hour later, and as they stood to leave, Arthur excused himself for the men's lavatory, which took him past the dock worker's table. As he passed, he slowed and, when Newcastle wasn't looking, slid a small stack of silver pence onto the tabletop.
"Don't spend it all on drink, all right?" he whispered, relishing the glint of surprise in the dockworker's bleary, bloodshot eyes before moving on.
Blood pooled beneath the skin of his abdomen for over a month, creating an unsightly bruise-colored sac in the place of a discolored crescent which had laid there, un-healing, for months beforehand. When he first saw it, Matthieu hadn't been sure what to make of it, and the only person he could think to ask was someone he didn't think he should lest his questions provoke outrage. Thus, whenever Alfred panicked that it was getting worse, he simply told his brother it would be all right, that he ought to keep moving like normal and his body would work it out as it always did.
Until, a few days ago, the wound broke open.
Matthieu remembered with vivid clarity being in Alfred's rooms shortly after four-thirty that morning, drinking coffee and laughing about a play they had seen with his president a week earlier when the smile froze on his younger brother's face, then fell. The cup slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor, his limp body falling with it. Matthieu barely caught him in time to watch in horrid slow motion as the blood bloomed bright red on his shirt.
Since then, he had lost track of the days he had spent within the dark confines of a sick room in the White House, struggling to keep Alfred sane while he sweated and cursed and fell into half-delirious comas. Between this and Alfred's constant visits in the months leading up to it to vent about his increasingly deteriorating state union, Matthieu hadn't slept properly in weeks. He was fortunate that his colonies were mostly self-governing, and that they didn't have many problems save for a scuffle or an economic drought here and there; otherwise, there was no possible way he could spend as much time away from home as he was. No possible way he could take care of his brother.
And yet, among the long hours, he couldn't help but wonder—if the roles were reversed—if Alfred would have done the same for him.
His blood was caked under Matthieu's fingernails when he closed the door and sank against it, exhausted. He grimaced at the sore sight of them. No matter how he tried to wash them, the blood stuck—dry, flaky, and brown, as if Fate wanted him to bear the reminder of just how dire his brother's situation was.
When he heard the footsteps, he nearly groaned. The last thing he wanted to do was play optimistic, but he managed to straighten up with a passive expression, sliding his bloodstained hands behind his back.
"How is he?" President Lincoln paused before him, already worse for wear in his new title. His presidency had lasted three months before all hell broke loose. No one in the Union blamed him (how could they, when Buchannan had practically sprinted from the office upon hearing the election results?), although Matthieu was not keen on his views towards Indigenous peoples.
Still, it relieved him to see the genuine concern on Abraham's prematurely lined face—not for America. For Alfred.
"He's had better days, sir," he answered, smiling wanly.
Abraham nodded in sour sympathy. "If only those wretched states would see reason."
Matthew maintained his thin, unconvincing smile, spared from answering by another arrival, walking in silence muffled by the runner under his feet, a silver tray bearing a single card in his gloved hand.
"A message for you, Mr. Williams," the aged butler said plainly. Matthieu spared him the weight of the card in his still hand and read: STOP—NEED TO TALK—STOP—AK—STOP.
AK.
Matthieu cursed quietly.
Abraham's brow furrowed into another line on his face. "Mr. Williams?"
"It's nothing," he said quickly, unsuccessfully masking his dread. He smoothed a hand through his unkempt hair before he remembered the dried blood. "I just—er—I need to reply to this. Can you lead me to the telegram office?" he asked the butler. He couldn't remember his name; had he ever learned it to begin with? He didn't think Alfred had ever told him.
The butler answered as if his name and manners were of no importance. "Of course, sir. I will call for a carriage to bring you." Turning, he started down the hall without preamble, his spine impossibly straight and moving quite fast in spite of the white whiskers on his head.
Matthieu worried his lip, facing Abraham. "I'll return as soon as possible, Mr. President. Have someone keep an eye on Alfred until then, please," he requested—not unkindly, albeit hurriedly—before darting down the hall after the butler.
"Oh, yes, of course, I shall see you at supper, then—there's going to be a reading of Julius Caesar in the study tonight, if you're interested!" Abraham called to his retreating back. Matthieu didn't respond. All of his thoughts were on Alfred and the little card in his hand. He knew exactly what it was for, and the thought of Shakespeare made him all the more nervous for—well, the inevitable. He was anxious to get to the telegram office and wasn't looking forward to the lengthy carriage ride it would take.
When he finally arrived there, however, Matthieu's reply was simple:
STOP—WHEN—STOP.
30 April 1861
Canada had grown up quite a lot since Arthur last saw him beside France at the signing table in Paris, seventy-eight years ago now. The first thing he noticed was that Matthieu now passed him in height by two centimetres, making him about 183. Emerging nations grew, certainly, but it was rather disconcerting considering Arthur still held custody of him. It made him feel old…older than usual, anyhow.
In the back of his mind, a quiet voice also wondered if his brother was as tall now—or taller, if the stories that Arthur had read about his westward exploits were true.
"Good to see you, Arthur," Matthieu greeted upon his descent from the steamship harbored in Toronto. The second thing Arthur noticed: his smile was strained, and there were extensive shadows around his eyes. They alone gave him the air of having aged several years beyond his youth. In the few visits Matthieu had made to England and earlier, before the Seven Years' War, when Matthieu lived under his roof, Arthur had always had the impression that he was wiser beyond his years—a rare virtue in men such as themselves, whose greatest assets were often the mistakes they made and the rivalries they chose to foster or condemn.
"And a pleasure to see you," he returned, with his own uncommitted smile and a brief scan of his attire—cravat, waistcoat and all. Wrinkled. It told more than Matthieu perhaps would have liked. "You've grown up."
"Not too much—that's what Français tells me, at least." Matthieu shrugged with feigned nonchalance and gestured to the bag in Arthur's gloved hand. "Is that all you brought, or do you have more?"
Third: blood under his fingernails.
Arthur's disconcert turned into faint alarm.
His gaze shot up from Matthieu's bare hand before his subject could notice what Arthur saw. "No, this is all. I won't trouble you for long, although I will for a spot of tea. The Darjeeling on this trip was dreadful."
"How have you been? Reports I've seen have shown excellent progress—economically and socially. I trust I have you and 'responsible government' to thank?"
"Fine," Matthieu murmured, nodding absently. "Yeah—colonies are doing great. Governors happy, citizens happy, French-Canadians happy. What more could you want, right? You've even got the French on your side."
Arthur's lips twitched. "More than obedient colonies? Nothing, I suppose. It's certainly a more optimal atmosphere here than fifteen years ago." As he glanced around the street beyond the little café's patio they lounged within, he kept Matthieu in his periphery. His tea had hardly been touched and was undoubtedly cold by now, what with the combination of chill spring air and his relentless stirring. He'd put the spoon in five minutes ago to blend the sugar and hadn't stopped. He was obviously chafing in his cravat, and his knees kept bouncing under the table. Moreover, every time Arthur looked, all he saw was the blood under his fingernails, which he knew—because France had almost certainly taught him how—must ordinarily be pristine at all times.
But these were not ordinary times for him. His behavior was confirming it.
Taking another silent sip, Arthur added, "The Colonial Office is considering making an offer of autonomy, if you want it."
Matthieu nodded.
"You can't be entirely happy with colonial status, can you?" Arthur tried again.
He nodded again. The spoon grinding on the china set Arthur's teeth on edge.
"Newcastle's been imploring me to discuss with you about it," he said, a little forcefully.
Nothing.
Then—"I appreciate that you came out, Arthur, but if you have nothing pressing to discuss with me, then I have to return to work. There's a large stack waiting for me at home…"
Put off, Arthur didn't have a chance to respond before Matthieu rambled on, paying him only the barest of attentions as he rose from the chair. "Feel free to take a tour, check in with the governors—I can arrange meetings if you want—"
Arthur set his teacup on the saucer with a sharp clang. "How is he?"
Matthieu froze, open-mouthed. "I…don't know what you mean." His preoccupation slid for the first time since Arthur arrived into clear-faced clarity. Arthur would have to make it last.
He smirked. "Yes, you do. I've seen the articles. Rebel forces, defeating Americans… That can't be good for the boy—oh, stop staring at me like that. Stupidity doesn't become you." Arthur took a stubborn sip to avoid saying more and hurting Matthieu. Despite his outward loathing, he was desperate for news about the boy he'd once called a son. That small voice in his head simply wouldn't let up, and he had a feeling it wouldn't until his own hunger was satisfied, although he hadn't the slightest idea what that would take.
Matthieu clamped his gaping jaw shut. He seemed torn, pressing his lips together as though to keep from speaking, then sighing, and repeat. After the fourth pattern, he braced his hands on his hips and bowed his head. "Do you want to see him?"
The voice grew smaller, assuaged.
Oh, no.
1 May 1861
He hated to admit it, but the White House was beautiful. The painted sandstone glittered in the noon light among beds of lush green grasses and blooming daffodils. The striped flag Arthur detested flapped in the breeze. He saw immediately why Americans called it a "beacon", though whether of democracy or government or hope, he hadn't paid attention. Each one had its own bitter taste.
The corridors were lavishly decorated with plush rugs, oil portraits, doors lined with gold trim. It was suffocating, all of it, and Arthur had to fight the urge to cover his nose against the permeating wealth and cigar smoke. It was as if his troops hadn't tried to burn this place in 1814, in retaliation for the American attack on York. There were no scars, no marks—nothing to show that it had ever been damaged. No, it was perfect—too perfect, right down to the blood-red roses standing in china vases on the polished tables. History was under-appreciated here—undermined, almost, because every man who walked through that front door expected to make it merely by being President.
That wasn't how history worked. It required action, consequence, effect, and it disgusted Arthur to think that Americans were so ambitious as to delude themselves of anything substantial in lieu of shallow, superficial images.
But, even as every part of him yearned to rip the portraits off those perfect white walls for daring to glorify the rebellion, he bit back comment. Matthieu's clearance only allowed him so much freedom within these walls.
The closer they drew to his room, however, and the stiffer Matthieu's walk became, Arthur began to question his actions. Why was he here? He'd thought it was vengeance—grim satisfaction that his little colony couldn't last as an independent nation—but as the tobacco stench twisted into blood and alcohol, he didn't feel avenged. He felt concerned. He found himself wondering how badly he was hurt.
What if he shouted at him? Would he be delirious enough to think he was still a set of colonies? Even after eight decades, Arthur didn't think he could take another heartbreaking conviction that he was not his brother, although it was true. He wasn't a brother.
He had been a son, and that had only made the separation so much worse.
By the time Matthieu put his hand on the brass knob, Arthur was fighting the intensely seductive temptation to abandon the excursion. To run shamelessly, like a coward, and never come back.
Instead, he curled his fingers into his palms and followed Matthieu inside, forcing himself to remember why he was here: Proof that the fledgling nation was eating itself alive, proof that he could do something about it by sending guns, men, something to aid the Confederate States. If the naval battle earlier this month was turning into something more, this would show him, and that would be all he needed to know. There would be no tears, no sympathy, no compassion—not this time.
But the room was dark, lit only by the sunlight slanting through shutters on the lonely window.
As if sensing Arthur's confusion, Matthieu's whisper came from the far left interior, "I can't light the gas in case he knocks it over during one of his episodes."
"Episodes?" said Arthur hoarsely. "How do you mean?"
The silence rang uneasily between them—Matthieu's uncertain, Arthur's uneasy.
"Well," said Matthieu finally, and Arthur heard a drawer open, "I suppose I can light the gas for now…"
A strike of a match, a flare of flame that moved, reflected in the glass of a gas lamp on a table, and then flickering light revealed a prone figure on a narrow bed, a square-jawed face shining with perspiration; the blankets were a damp mess beneath him. Further down…
Arthur had to cover his mouth to keep from making a noise. What sort, he had no idea, but he didn't want to wait to find out.
His shirt had been ripped wide open to reveal a gaping wound in his abdomen, glistening as it rose and fell above his diaphragm. It was as if someone had taken a hack saw and sliced back and forth—enough to draw blood, shred muscle and cause pain, but not deep enough to reach the organs.
Arthur thought of the similar scar under his waistcoat and rough linen shirt and bit his lip until it bled. He knew exactly what this was. His own pain- and blood-riddled memories told him what to expect.
A civil war was here, as real as the darkness Arthur stood in. Rebellion was happening, and only the aggressors could stop it. The representatives could not negotiate on their behalf. Not unless he found the strength to push both opinions out and take his own stand—the one thing Arthur knew he could not do, because he valued his peoples' thoughts too highly.
Promise me, Alfred.
He flinched and looked away. No tears, no compassion. He had his proof; he ought to turn and go, start making plans to send men into the South, but.
He couldn't make his feet move.
Spotting the pooling blood on his abdomen, Matthieu cursed and reached for a towel to clean it. The second he touched the wound, however, his brother moaned, and his slack expression crumpled. He swatted at something neither Arthur nor Matthieu could see, forcing the latter to snatch the gas lamp out of reach.
When he calmed, his arms falling back to his sides with a weak escape of breath, Matthieu blew out his cheeks and replaced the lamp with a quiet thunk. "See what I mean?"
"Yes…I do," Arthur croaked. He was having a hard time not keeping his eyes on him, but he forced himself to look around. The room was astonishingly empty for someone as old as America, adorned with only a dresser, a wooden-backed chair, and a chest at the foot of the bed. There were no personal belongings to brighten the drab walls or liven the stale, metallic air.
"He doesn't live here," said Matthieu suddenly, his calm voice loud in the silence as he mopped the blood. Its owner kept twitching and turning his head, caught in the whiles of a bad dream, it seemed. "He has rooms in New York and here in Washington, but he tries to stay away from the politics."
"Why?" said Arthur, unintentionally sharp. "Managing the politics is his purpose."
"Not in his eyes."
"He ought to have them checked, then." Arthur huffed and crossed his arms, careless of creasing his lapels.
Matthieu chuckled wearily. "Oh, he has." He jerked his head to the side table. A pair of spectacles that Arthur hadn't noticed before lay abandoned on it, their lenses reflecting the gaslight.
Arthur wasn't sure what left him more surprised: the fact that he had them, or that no one had told him. Surely, someone—France, most likely—had seen him with them.
Why had no one told him?
You aren't a part of his life anymore, that's why.
Grinding his teeth, Arthur pushed the spectacles out of his head and was just about to request to be dismissed when a knock came at the door.
"Monsieur Williams?" came the timid, lilted voice of the young, freckle-faced maid who accompanied them on the train here.
Matthieu didn't look up, responding immediately in kind, fluid French. "What do you need, Isabella?"
"Mr. President Lincoln"—his name, so undeniably English, was spoken with the slow, forced articulation of a word from a strange tongue—"wishes to speak with you in his office."
"Tell him I'll be right there."
The maid bobbed her head and left.
Sighing, Matthieu tossed the bloody towel into a pile of them in the corner, muttered something about finding a maid to wash them, and turned to Arthur. "I wouldn't ask if it weren't necessary—"
"I'll stay with him."
Matthieu looked shocked, then wary. "Are you sure?"
"Why shouldn't I be?" Arthur jerked up his chin, daring him to contradict again. It was already taking more convincing to keep with his decision than he would have liked. He had been with him before, when he was sick. He had taken care of him when he was ill. Even if he hit Arthur or cursed him or told him how much he hated him and how glad he was to leave, Arthur could take care of him for one measly hour.
He held firm until, with more than a little reluctance, Matthieu flashed him a grateful grin and followed the maid out, shutting the door quietly.
Arthur sank into the chair the moment his footsteps faded. All the fight in him drained. He hadn't realized how badly his knees had been shaking until he was off them. He pinched his brow and scrubbed his face, wondering what sort of hare-brained idea he would come up with next—global warfare, perhaps?
Alone in the hot, stuffy room, one measly hour began to feel a lot longer. It was certainly a lot of time to voice everything on his mind, if he had anything to say. Instead, he sat in the silence, trying not to think about all the times when he was little that Arthur had told him about his fights on the seas or the valiant quests he made up for stories; it was a blessed thing that the chair didn't rock.
A groan came from the bed. Through a break in his fingers, Arthur saw his toes curl into the mattress.
What am I doing here? He should leave—to hell with his promise to Matthieu. He had what he came for, and he didn't belong here. The teenage boy five feet from him had made that quite clear eighty years ago. Seeing him like this now, trapped in such miserable pain, brought up all sorts of questions and memories that he had spent long nights trying not to think about.
At the top of that list: Arthur still didn't understand why he had to leave. In spite of all their rows, he didn't know why they couldn't have maintained contact, if for nothing more than to use Arthur as an advisor. It didn't have to involve anything personal. He would have been content with a business partnership, and while his country had wanted that—even after such a humiliating defeat at the hands of a few loosely-united, selfish colonies—and been granted it, it hadn't been enough to bring him back to Arthur. Nothing had been.
The answer, truthfully, was lying right there in front of him, feverish and delusional.
He never could shut those damn opinions out.
Before he fully realized what he was doing, Arthur was lowering onto the bed and brushing the damp hair from Alfred's forehead.
Alfred. The voices in Arthur's head struggled to form the name after being so long in disuse.
Just like his brother, he had grown up. He was undoubtedly as tall as Matthieu and bore battle scars on his arms and face, including an aged-yet-familiar round one in the shoulder from when one of Arthur's men shot him with a musket. The regular had been aiming for Washington, but Alfred saw and threw himself in front of the bullet.
Arthur allowed himself a small, bitter smile. He always did want to be a hero—or, as Arthur had made it seem, a knight. Just as you were, dad! Glittering eyes, flushed cheeks and broad smiles, a battered copy of Le Morte d'Arthur open in front of them, the Middle English near-unintelligible in their patterns so strange nowadays.
As slowly as it came, Arthur's smile slid off. That day, when he saw Alfred fall and stay there, and Washington dismounted his horse to kneel at his side, he'd ignored the lines and his bright red coat and gone alone across the battlefield to meet them, earning himself a scrape in the leg from a rebel's shot. He'd barely felt it, out of his mind with worry as he dropped to the grass across from the general, found Alfred bleeding heavily and started barking orders. Washington, whom he was certain hadn't known who he was then, listened, and he surely never forgot his face afterward.
Arthur had spared Washington's life that day, let him go freely if he promised to acquire immediate care for Alfred. It was the best and the worst he could do for his Continental equivalent, for Alfred's new father.
He wasn't a hero, but he had been a guardian, one who knew at that time that Alfred was new to battle, had been hurt, and that was all that mattered.
It didn't seem to anymore. When Arthur smoothed a finger over a small scar on his chin, the beginnings of a beard pricked through his glove.
He had grown up, indeed…without Arthur.
Despair shot through his pride, and he found himself fighting back tears, looking around desperately for a distraction.
Another moan made him stiffen. Alfred muttered something nonsensical and turned his head, his brow screwed so tightly together… It was almost as if he actually heard Arthur and cared.
Then, incredibly and terribly, his eyes opened.
They were still the same blue that Arthur remembered, his dilated pupils bordered with the same cacao brown of his indigenous origins. Though glassy and panicked, they seemed to find Arthur with clear focus.
He waited, unbreathing, but Alfred did nothing. Said nothing.
After a long moment, he closed his eyes again, and they did not reopen.
Arthur deflated, pressing his hands against his head—pushed until he saw spots behind his eyelids. He would be fortunate if Alfred didn't remember this when the civil war was over. He spared himself another minute of relief, and then sense crept in.
The wound. Towel. Needed to be cleaned.
Arthur found a fresh towel in the chest and searched the side table for a disinfectant. Finding none and grumbling about the unhygienic idiocy of Americans, Arthur pulled the flask of scotch he kept handy from his tailcoat's inside pocket and proceeded to splash its contents straight onto the wound.
Alfred's howl could have been heard a mile away. His back arched and his hands squeezed, arms locked tightly against his sides. Arthur shushed him as best he could while cleaning the spurting blood, seizing a fist as it soared for his face. Eventually, Alfred's yell disintegrated into moans and whimpers, resuming the twitches and tortured murmurings from before, but Arthur wasn't any less perturbed. The alcohol burned off any bacteria crawling inside the wound. With any luck, it would also numb the pain a little. But not forever.
Arthur didn't start when the door burst open and Matthieu hurtled into the room, taking one look at Alfred's anguished face and the fisted hand clutched between Arthur's fingers and crying, near to hysteria, "What the hell are you doing to him?"
"The wound needs to be disinfected," Arthur explained calmly.
"I know, but—"
"Better to do it now while it's still fresh than war with infection later," said Arthur firmly, tossing the used towel in the corner with the others. He stood and replaced his gloves, trusting there would be an opportunity to wash his hands later. "Next time, however, have some proper disinfectants on hand. And you'll want to bandage it soon, before the blood pools again—and for heavens' sake, launder those towels. It smells worse than a surgeon's work station in here."
Matthieu looked utterly bewildered. "All right, but Arthur—"
"Put him in a room with better ventilation and keep him hydrated. He won't last much longer in these putrid conditions. Do I make myself clear?"
Matthieu's eyes narrowed, exhibiting a clear, tempting desire to argue, perhaps to point out that Alfred would last much longer because he wasn't entirely mortal, but he didn't. Rather, through clenched teeth, he said simply, "Yes."
Arthur relaxed slightly, sloping his shoulders back into their characteristic haughtiness. "Excellent. After you've tended to all of that, send me a gram and we'll meet in a place of your choosing. Your current position within the Empire requires attention."
Footnotes:
1. The Duke of Newcastle (aka Henry Pelham-Clinton), served as Secretary of State for the Colonies under Viscount Palmerston until 7 April 1864. This is the guy Canadians would have gone to with any troubles they had. Speaking of Canada...
2. Arthur's dry remark about "responsible government" refers to the Canadian perspective of self-governing, part of which involved the governors of the various territories being responsible to their legislative assemblies in domestic affairs instead of the British Crown and Parliament. The British did not endorse this, however; in the 1840s, Britain adopted a policy called "Little Englandism" - isolationism and economic self-interest, basically - that regarded the Canadian colonies as liabilities, thereby justifying Newcastle's remarks about wanting Canada to become independent (or, at least, self-governing).
On a different note, Canada didn't really begin territorial expansion until the 1870s, remaining clustered near the eastern seaboard until Britain transferred possession of the Northwest Territories (everything from the present-day Yukon to Quebec) to them, so we can't really say Matthieu stretched across the continent yet.
3. The article Arthur and Newcastle read recounts the Battle of Fort Sumter near Charleston, South Carolina, 12–14 April 1861. This, as is later made clear, initiated the Civil War.
4. Originally, the White House's Aquia Creek sandstone was periodically applied with a lime-based whitewash to keep the stone from freezing and cracking. However, following the British attempt to burn it down in 1814, it started cracking and pitting in addition to the burn damage. Officials kept up with the whitewash for another four years before painting it over with white lead paint in 1818.
5. Abraham Lincoln liked Shakespeare (as did George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and John Adams). He quoted him in his first inaugural address and conducted readings in the White House - particularly from Hamlet and King Lear - accosting his aides to play supporting roles. Sadly, Shakespeare also seemed to have a part in his assassination: John Wilkes Booth considered Brutus, from Julius Caesar, a role model.
6. Arthur's memory of Alfred being shot in the American Revolution takes place during the British invasion at Kip's Bay, NY, on 15 September 1776. After transport barges emptied their infantry into the bay, their parent ships fired cannons at around eleven o'clock, and the militiamen who were stationed there fled in panic, spreading their hysteria among the surrounding troops. Hearing the cannonade, Washington rode down from his headquarters in Harlem Heights and, upon seeing the chaos, lashed out at the militia and officers with a riding crop, making it easy for someone to take a shot at him. Thus, Alfred—who would most certainly have gone down with Washington, refusing to be left in the dark or in safety—saves the day. In terms of the timing, Alfred's injury may have been a factor—though certainly not all—in Washington's choice to evacuate Manhattan later, on 16 October. I also imagine that, shortly after this, Arthur would have been called back to London as well for his insubordination and, well, near-treason for letting Washington go.
7. For those of you who may have been confused by Arthur's behavior, it bears note that England was considered a "hostile neutral" to the Union during the US Civil War. Slavery was abolished in the Empire in 1833, but many Englishmen sympathized instinctively with the South, and I don't doubt there was some thirst for revenge leftover from the Revolution. About 50,000 men chose to fight with the Confederacy, and British Parliament supplied everything from guns to uniforms to both sides. The Canadian territories likewise supported the South, although the shadow the Civil War left encouraged Confederation for a number of reasons, a large one being unified defense.
8. Lastly, "Français" is a French form of "Francis". I doubt I need to clarify who this is.
Information Sources:
1. "The American Civil War: Fort Sumter" - History Channel (note #3)
2. The American Revolution: What Really Happened, by Alan Axelrod (#6)
3. "Henry Pelham Clinton, 5th Duke of Newcastle" - Wikipedia (#1)
4. A Little History of Canada, by H.V. Nelles (#2, 7)
5. "The Unknown Contributions of Brits in the American Civil War" - Megan Cambino interviewing historian Amanda Foreman, Smithsonian Magazine (#7)
6. "Why is the White House White?" - the White House Historical Association (#4)
7. "William Shakespeare: a quintessentially American author" - Robert McCrum, the Guardian (#5)
8. 1000 Years of Annoying the French, by Stephen Clarke