England was leaving his house. He knew the first person he had to visit before attempting to see America. He had to see the Queen and the Prime Minister. England had to know where they stood on the situation.
His horse and carriage took but a few hours to reach Buckingham Palace. The Prime Minister was already in attendance. England could tell by the way journalists snooped around the palace gates. He did his best to keep to the other diplomats that entered, to avoid any questions.
The palace sounded as if was hosting a party. Voices carried over every room, everyone trying to scream at each other. England knew why. They were trying to decide who to side with in this dispute.
"You, there boy!" A voice shouted from across the entrance.
It was Prime Minister Viscount Palmerston. He beckoned England over. "We need you inside the Queen's throne room."
England wasn't sure how to feel about this. He knew that the Crown was becoming an icon, rather than have any real influence. But he also knew that Victoria was always trying to keep her opinion, in these matters, much alive.
The throne room was beautiful. The throne sat at the far end, like some old medieval tale. Victoria sat upon the throne, majestic and graceful. As England reached her, he bowed.
"Your Majesty." He spoke to the ground.
"Glad to see you have kept up with the news."
England felt shy in her presence for some reason. So much has changed since King William IV and King George IV, but he still felt he had made a mockery of his country.
"As I was telling Her Grace, I believe we should keep out of this situation." The Prime Minister spoke.
England frowned. He adjusted his suit jacket. "If Your Majesty would pay my opinion any heed, we can't just let America tear itself apart," England said.
"What would affect us if we would just remain neutral, as Palmerston has spoken?"
"Exactly. Nothing would happen to us," Palmerston said. The Queen gave him a look of annoyance. "Your Majesty," He quickly added.
"But, Your Grace, we still have much trade with America. Surely we can't lose that," England retorted.
The Queen pondered this. Even the Prime Minister thought about it. "You do have a point…" He muttered.
"Is there a way we can keep from waging war with America, and stay neutral? We must keep the trade going," The Queen spoke.
"We may have to wait and see when either side sends word. Rumours are already sprawling up that the South may want us to join them, along with the help of France," The Prime Minister spoke to the two of them.
"Already?" England questioned as he dreaded the thought of actually joining the war. "But must we wait?"
"It may be our best option. Continue trade, only if they can trade back." The Queen told the Prime Minister. He nodded and took his leave. She turned towards England. "Now, it may not be as soon as you want, but I would like an up close opinion on this. I'll send word when we are ready to send you as our ambassador. If these rumours our true, we need to see how this war is going, and if our helping would cause the North to wage upon us."
That's exactly what England wanted. He wanted to see it for himself. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
Nine Months Later
"He is a damn fool." America practically hissed to himself. He was speaking of George McClellan, Major General George McClellan to be exacted. As he walked through camp with his sword clanking away at his side he had the unmistakable air of a man enraged. He along with roughly one hundred thousand men were in camped outside of Yorktown Virginia and in America's on words "they weren't doing a damn thing". McClellan had promised much when he was appointed to his position but had done little. America had actually met him once, not "as" America of course but simply as Alfred Jones First Lieutenant of the 22nd Massachusetts. He could admit that at first he was impressed with the short statured man but he came to quickly realize that much like a politician the man said one thing but wanted to achieve another. Thus all of these troops were now camped outside a city that was defended by a force of fraction of their size. He needed to do something and he couldn't do that here.
It had taken a while but he had finally managed to convince the President to allow him to transfer out West where he heard and felt that real fighting was taking place. He had finished telling his regiment of his departure and had gone to the hospital to tell some of his sick men that he would be leaving them. When he had arrived he was told that another of them had passed away in the night, which resulted in his foul mood at the moment. They were dying for nothing in his mind, being taken slowly by diseases instead of their enemies' musket and canon fire.
Finally he came to his modest tent and began packing. Before he was done he heard the approach of footsteps and looked up. It was a young private, a messenger by the looks of him. He saluted before handing him a white envelope.
"Message for you sir." He said in an uneasy voice.
America saluted back and took it from him. It must have been the strangeness of the situation that was puzzling the young boy America thought. It was pretty strange to deliver a message like this to someone as low ranking as he was. If it was an official message of war business it would have gone to their Colonel. If it was a personal message it would have come in the mail like it did for all the other men.
"You're dismissed." America said swiftly to end the boy's curiosity. He had little time to worry about one such a thing. The messenger saluted again and left.
Upon inspection it was an unimpressive envelop with a red sting making a cross at its middle. The seal, however, was important indeed. He recognized it instantly. It had never been oppressed from his memory because it brought back several bitter memories. Some were joyful most were not.
It was the British Royal Seal.
Through simple deduction it was easy to tell who it was from. If it was from a more official governmental source it would have travelled the proper channels to reach him. But he didn't want to open it. Not now, maybe not ever. All he could see coming from it were a string of "I told you so" or other longwinded speeches that he had heard to many times before. He did not want to hear from him right now.
America placed the letter on his black trunk and continued to take down his tent. After everything was in its proper place and taken down his slug his plain sack of belongs over his should and dragged his truck with his free hand. As he walked through the camp he bid his final goodbyes and gave salutes where they were deserved, he spotted a campfire that was almost dying. After giving one last wave to his men he turned and walked away, as he passed the fire he placed the white envelope on the fire and let it slip from his thoughts as it turned to ash.
