WARNING: It gets a little gross at a few points, and there's a bit of attempted self-harm. You have been warned.
Special editing thanks go to the two individuals I will only refer to as America and France. You know who you are :D
Dark-Fate17: Er, yes, sorry about that. It's all y'all's fault! I can't help it if I get marvelous reviews! :| That was a monstrously huge chapter all around —5,000 words. And this one's 6,100! O.O
ScatteredSands: I'm so glad you think my chapter...groovy. Are you a time traveler, perchance? Hmm, I'm sorry if I wasn't clear enough in the chapter, but he's in China right now. I think I'll go put in more hints then. Though it would have been fun if he *had* passed out at the sight of RedJumpsuit!England, probably with an amusing tree-falling thump to the ground, this is sadly not that kind of fic. Instead it's a boring old "life-flash-in-front-of-your-eyes" thing.
MikkiHasACookieForYou: Thanks! It's one of my life's dreams to be able to make people say "owefiwlfbvwlig" as much as possible. *nods sagely* And yes, England can be a royal ass at times, and so can America, but they're still such sympathetic characters that I can't help but love them. This chapter also happens to be about the Civil War, so have fun here!
vesana: *hugs* Somehow all of my writing skills disappear when I try to accept praise. At least they're better than my speaking skills on the matter! I'm so pleased you and all the other Brits who read this think I do England and his history justice. If you can think of a better summary for this, please tell me! I'm far too long-winded to be good at summaries.
And I admit, when I first saw him in the jumpsuit, I thought "Whoa, race car driver!" And then the, er, other things...Hey, if one has a love for one's own country, is that narcissism or patriotism? Hm.
How could the Punmaster berate anyone for a pun? More like give you a medal!
America's White House office, 1872
An angry America sits in his office, waiting for England. Over the long centuries of his life he's been angry with England so many times he almost feels like a connoisseur of the many different flavors it can take.
When he was young he knew well the bright sugary shock of indignant youth when England would insist on him taking a bath or eating his vegetables.
He's tasted the aching cold and wistful sweetness of the months spent alone at night on his bed when England was gone, small hands clutching one of the man's old shirts as he miserably rubbed his face into his pillow, hating that England seemed to value his job over his own brother.
He's tasted the hot spiciness of righteous fury often enough, the bright flame roaring over his tongue and through his veins as his people shrieked for justice against the oppressor. He's tasted the sandpaper acid of long arguments with nothing resolved, nothing gained.
He's tasted the sweet, fiery, intoxicatingly annoying liqueur whenever the man insults him with that infamous smirk. This kind he loves to hate, hates to love, knows how bad it is for him but insults England back anyway just to feel the savory flares on his tongue again.
But this time, it tastes cold and flat and bitter, feels like a thick wad of cotton caught at the back of his mouth, and it slips heavily down to curl and twist tightly in his stomach.
It tastes like betrayal.
~o0O0o~
War is madness, the poets say. Madness lies in letting yourself care about the enemy, care about anything and anybody, really. At least in most wars a soldier has the luxury of hating his foes if he wishes, of loathing strong enough to drive a bayonet into the skull of another human being. But when you are the enemy and the enemy is you? Hatred then is an unaffordable luxury, and caring is worse. So America sat in his prison as he warred with himself, made peace with himself, hated himself and loved himself. As the South strained to leave and the North strained to keep, America would feel the stitches in his side stretch and snap under the tension, and he'd wonder distantly when he'd do the same. His mind already went long ago; it was only a matter of time when his body did too.
Throughout the Civil War President Lincoln took it upon himself to visit America every day or so in his chambers below the White House. America might be twitching in fitful, nightmare-filled sleep on his cot or staring blankly into the bare stone wall as if he could see through it to the fields where he died again and again. He might be halfway coherent or absolutely raving or, in one memorable incident, delicately carving with a fingernail the uniforms on the toy soldiers he had fashioned out of handfuls of stone pulled directly out of the sheer wall. Even after every button was perfect, he never added faces; instead he just lay on his stomach on the floor and played with them, cooing in what sounded like the languages of the natives.
The only blessing in all this was that he never showed signs of harming any of his people, his brutal strength never lashing out in violence. If he did there was no way they could have stopped him, not when he drew with one finger thrust into the stone floor pictures of lightning-clad birds and seal-women and horned, bearded serpents.
There was one small rabbit with wings in the very corner that Lincoln once asked about, since he did not remember any of those in his readings on mythology. America just grinned mischievously, babbled something about belief, and carefully drew an equally tiny winged pig next to it.
Due to his seeming docility they at one point made the mistake of giving America silverware with his meals. He had picked up his spoon, pupils dark and too-large, his smile like the ugly gashes in his body, and reached down toward one of the many suppurating growths visible under his skin as if to carve it from his own flesh. A horrified Lincoln tore the utensil from his grasp and threw it from the room, and America pouted like he had been told he would get no dessert and had to go to bed early.
Every afternoon an empty bucket was brought in by a silent manservant and placed in the corner. Every afternoon a bucket was taken away, sloshing with blood-streaked vomit and pus and every other bodily fluid known to mankind. Every afternoon a thick pile of bandages was left by the manservant, and every afternoon he took away the blood-soaked cloth applied only yesterday. Every afternoon America would chortle for reasons only he knew as he peeled off the red-soaked bandages. Under America's thin skin dark bruises appeared and vanished, arteries bursting and healing, and as he became thinner his cancers became easier and easier to see, twitching and roiling under the skin as they fought against each other to consume his body the better.
He permitted no doctor near him despite it all; he had been quite firm, though incoherent, about that, and though often his cognizance was reduced to a near-animalistic state, he usually retained enough presence of mind to see to his own wounds, to reach for the bucket when he attempted to rid himself of the corruption churning poisonously inside him.
Even in the heights of his mania he was adamant England not be sent for or allowed to see him when he was in the capital on business, but he allowed Canada to approach him, even gently see to the injuries on his back he couldn't reach. He always knew when either set foot on his soil, and there would be times when Lincoln would be peacefully reading near his sleeping nation when America would suddenly jolt upright, say something about red scone fairies or purple maple bears, and flop back into unconsciousness.
Whatever his country's state, Lincoln would tell him the news of the war and the world and spend an hour or two with him. He'd bounce ideas off the insensate or insensible nation, outline his speeches, one-sidedly discuss tactics, and just provide a soothing voice as America once again counted the number of threads in his sheets in Finnish or Chinese or Navajo or Old Scots.
One day Lincoln had hesitated before speaking his news. America seemed at least partially aware today; there was a chance he might be understood. Finally he wet his lips and spoke. "America. Something has happened. The Confederates ordered a ship—the CSS Alabama—to be built by John Laird and Sons Company in Birkenhead, and it was just recently put to sea."
No response.
"Birkenhead's in Britain, America. In England."
No response.
"The Alabama was sold to the Confederates with the permission of the British Government. They're violating their neutrality, America."
America had looked at him blankly, blinked, and then began running around the room with his arms held stiffly horizontal, outstretched at his sides, making a droning noise in the back of his throat. Lincoln just sighed, rubbed his forehead wearily, and went back to trying to make able-bodied soldiers somehow appear out of the woodwork.
The war didn't last forever. By 1866 America was a good deal saner, and began to remember with varying levels of embarrassment, disgust, and horror what had happened over the past five years. Now that America had regained enough sentience to understand the news about the Alabama and other Confederate ships and not just feel the words echo deafly through his skull…it had hurt. It had hurt more than he expected it to, and he hated that realization.
~o0O0o~
Their meeting today is supposed to resolve the tensions over the Alabama Claims, as they are called, and as far as diplomacy and international relations go it's a good move to settle things down.
It's a very politically savvy move by England, he admits, bitterly. The United States is beginning to recover from the destruction of the war, beginning to grow in power and size again. In a few decades he'll be a force to be reckoned with, an ally the British Empire would be glad to have.
But America's not feeling particularly amenable to alliances or forgiveness at the moment. The anger has been sitting on his fuzzy tongue for a few years now, its acid eating away thickly at his thoughts.
He should be grateful he's getting anything at all, really. The previous Prime Minister had been completely been against paying even a penny for what those ships did, after all. At least now he'll get some sort of literal payback for what the ships had done. Can he really expect more from someone like England? He seemed almost sympathetic in China, promised to stay out of America's war, and then he turned around and ordered those ships built, gave the Confederacy his tacit permission and support.
America's brooding is interrupted as England finally paces in, each step hitting the ground with a definitive snap from his booted feet. He's barely at their table when he begins to speak, an envelope in his outstretched, gloved hand. "Here are your reparations, America. Let's get this sham over with so I can get out of this filthy country."
"Wait a moment." America doesn't take the offering practically thrust into his face, doesn't even unfold his arms from their crossed, confrontational arrangement. He's wanted to try something for a long while, and he's finally in a position to make Red England obey. "Take off that cloak of yours first. There's a hook by the door and everything."
"That's absolutely preposterous, why on Earth would I—"
America smiles with false innocence. "It's the polite thing to do. Humor me for once, old man. It'll help this go faster."
"Ha! I'm the one who taught you manners in the first place, boy. You have no place to lecture me on politeness." Nevertheless he strides back to the door and hangs up the cloak, all the while muttering about pathetic little countries too weak to look the British Empire in the face. He walks back, all the while muttering about how he hates how often he finds himself humoring America.
America can't help but be a little amused at the change. He knows England far too well, both of him.
The older nation gazes at the envelope in silence for a moment. "Consider it an…apology of sorts."
"Are you admitting your guilt?"
"No, of course not, the British Empire is not guilty of anything. This is expressing regret for what the ships did, not any imaginary culpability of ours."
"England, you aided the Confederacy, indirectly was the source of countless deaths and ship sinkings…and you think a stack of cash years after the fact will somehow make it all better? Maybe to my government, but not to me," America barks. He decided before this meeting to hold back his temper as long as possible, but this attitude of England's isn't helping in the least.
"No, I just…" his hand waves futilely as he searches for the right words. More like excuses, America knows, and his jaw clenches tighter.
Finally his voice gains traction on a different path. "America, is there an absolute ruler of your country?"
"No king, remember?" he snarks back.
"So no person in your country has the power to command or deny anything and everything?"
"The President had power, sure, but he can't do whatever he wants. What the hell are you going on about?"
"Even you, the nation itself?"
"What're you talking about, of course I can't. Out with it, already, England."
"…sometimes I forget how dense you can be," he mumbles.
"What?"
"Well, it's the same with me, America. I cannot wave my wand and get anything I want, I cannot force whatever I want in my country. The ships were built by a company of mine, but not by me; hell, I didn't even know about it until the news hit the papers. Releasing the Alabama even went against public opinion, but my Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary did it anyway. 'Commerce is commerce,' they told me, the bastards." Though his voice remains as controlled and arrogant as ever, his hands are stretched towards America, palms up, mutely pleading.
America claps, slow and sarcastic. "Impressive, England, very persuasive. How long did it take you to think up such nice lies?"
"They're not! The humans may think otherwise, but we don't control their actions any more than they control the divisions of their own cells. You know well how stupid one's citizens can be; didn't one of your senators at the reparation negotiations ask for two billion dollars or Canada or some such rot? I'm my people as a whole, not my government, and you bloody well know this so why the hell am I defending myself over it?"
America rolls his eyes, a bitter twist to his smile. "You sure there wasn't anything in your twisted old heart that wanted to help the Confederacy? Revenge for the Revolution, maybe? Any 'I'll show America what if feels like, the wanker. He'll rue the day he left me!' in that head of yours?"
England utterly shocked for the briefest second, then slams his hands down on the table with a crash, face flushed and nostrils flared. "What? That's—No there isn't, wasn't, and hasn't been—since at least 1814!"
"Y'know, England, I'd really like to believe you, but you and your people's actions aren't exactly backing you up on this." It's the truth; beneath the raspy fibers of anger still clogging his throat he desperately wants to believe England himself had no hand in it all.
"Don't you remember the Manchester letter? There's some proof for you right there, and those men were even in the midst of the blockade-caused Lancashire Cotton Famine when they pledged their support to the anti-slavery cause! Despite the fact that the cotton shortage put them from the most prosperous workers to the poorest, they still supported Lincoln and the Union."
"It was cute, but a single letter doesn't change—"
But England's shouting now, for once the one barreling over America's voice, words flying out of him with a desperate haste America's never heard from him before. "And the Proclamation—good God, America, especially after that Emancipation Proclamation of yours. My people abolished slavery decades ago, know how morally repugnant it is; how could we have possibly decided to help the South after it became a war about that?"
He stands there for a long moment, bright red and panting, fists clenched tightly at his sides, before slowly sinking into a chair. He slumps, head in his hands, as he waits for America to speak or shout or attack him or throw him out.
America can feel his hackles gradually relax, tension trickling out of his shoulders and jaw as the last of his anger untangles itself and dissolves. England's made an offering, in his way; it's time for him to do the same.
"I was…hurt." America carefully looks away from his companion as he reveals his weakness, his cowardice. "I felt like you betrayed my—our—trust."
"…I can see how you might come to believe that. But please, America, understand. I did- do not mean to- to hurt you. With what the ships did to your people or…in any other way." The last part is barely audible, a mere murmur, but it holds more power than all of their shouts from just a minute before.
It reverberates through them both for a moment.
America studies the grain of the wood in the table intently. "I wouldn't, either. Hurt you, I mean."
They let the silence fall gently between them, the words spoken floating softly down in pale flakes to pile in comfortable heaps around the two. When England speaks again, it's subdued, quiet. It does not break the silence so much as trickles through it.
"Did you become the Union, America? During the war? Whenever I visited the White House they said you were 'out'." His thick eyebrows furrow darkly at the last word.
America slides quickly past the implied question. He swore to himself hundreds of times over the years that England will never know exactly what happened to him during the war., and if Canada keeps his mouth shut he never will. "No, I stayed America, all of America—a really crazy America, but still America. They wanted to leave, but I wouldn't let them, you see. They only way they could leave was if I let them or enough of the world recognized them as a country, and you guys didn't do it and I didn't let go. I know I sound like a giant hypocrite right now, but…I need to thank you for that, England."
"For not recognizing them? I told you, after the Proclamation I wouldn't touch them with a red-hot poker. To my people their cause was like France on one of his Naked Days." He rubs his chin, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. "Actually, France and a hot poker on Naked Day, hmm…"
"No, not that. For…letting me go in 1783."
England looks away, clears his throat. "Ah. Well. At the time I was convinced you would come crawling back to grovel at my feet soon enough, so it didn't bother me much." England's only a good liar when he's red, and America's words come from out of the blue.
He grins. "You just keep saying that, England. We both would have been hurt even worse if you hadn't." Hurt too much, America knows all too well now, too much for a colony just out of adolescence, but not too much for an enormous, ancient empire. He doesn't say this, though, because he still had some pride left and because England knows it all already. It's why he let go when he could have used the full might of Empire on his wayward colony, crushed him and burned him and rebuilt him however he wanted.
"Plonker. I was just cutting my losses and turning to more lucrative opportunities." England huffs out a contemptuous breath, but the spots of color high on his cheeks tell a different story.
"Sure, sure." It's his most obnoxious, England-infuriating grin. America reaches down, picks up the long-forgotten envelope. Neglecting it probably isn't the best way to handle a check for $15.5 million dollars, even if it is more symbolic than anything else.
"Belt up, git."
"You realize I still have no idea what "git" means, right?"
"It means you, git."
"Well, then a git must be the most amazing, awesome, and American person in the whole world!"
England rolls his eyes, and it's his turn to say "Sure, sure" through the curve of the slightest of smiles.
America beams back. "You're just jealous you're not as- as gittish as me. My gitosity is overpowering. Bow before my sheer gititude."
He raises his eyes to the ceiling as if to ask for patience, but America can see his shoulders shaking as he attempts to hold back a laugh. "I'll be sure to, ah, 'git' to it as soon as possible."
"You better. Don't make me come 'git' you."
England's mouth twitches helplessly into a smile, but with his admittedly impressive self-control manages to keep from laughing. "Oh, and before I for'git', America, what day of the week is it?"
"Wednesday, why?"
"Hmm. Then I still have a few days to find an appropriate poker. Care to join me?"
America laughs and waves the envelope. "Sorry, man, I've got to go bring home the British bacon. I'll join you next time you go Frenchie-hunting for sure though. Don't kill him too badly, and have fun."
England smirks and rubs his hands together with joyful malice. "I most certainly will. I haven't been on a good frog hunt in ages."
"It's been good to see you, England. Stop by again sometime, all right?" Past the necessary, traditional saying of the phrases, he actually means it.
"Likewise, America. Feel free to nip over and have tea and a biscuit or two." And America can tell he means it too.
America grins playfully. "Aw, no way, man. Tea's gross! The harbor water couldn't even make it nastier, and there were dead dogs floating in it in those days!"
England just gives him another of those barely-there smiles and walks to the door. He throws the broad folds of the long scarlet cloak over his shoulders, and America watches as the lines of his face tighten, shift to form Red England's features. He flicks a gloved hand to the check in America's hands. "I'm afraid that pocket change is all you'll be getting out of me. And now, if you'll excuse me," though his tone says quite clearly that yes, America will excuse him or things will happen, "I have far more important business to attend to."
Boots clicking on the floor once again, he strides back out of the room as if nothing happened, nothing started, nothing mended, gained, changed. But that's just Red England being Red England.
America is left to his empty office, smiling inanely to himself and wondering how the man always manages to sweep away so dramatically at the ends of their conversations.
~o0O0o~
Relations improved, and they became allies of a sort, strange, quarrelsome allies that never quite broke apart.
America with good relations, even an alliance, with England? Not so long ago he would have laughed in the thought's face. But now? He didn't mind it as much as he thought he might.
It was like the early 1700s all over again…except that it wasn't, in every possible way. He'd find himself having awkward tea with Queen Victoria, England shooting him beetle-browed Looks whenever he used the wrong spoon or piled in what England considered too much sugar. America would give him Looks back, and they'd sit glaring at each other until the Queen gave a polite little cough into her handkerchief. They'd both immediately turn back to the terrifying old lady with sheepish, slightly desperate grins, and the endless small talk about the weather and naval bombardment would start up again. Red England, being unfit for polite company, was never present for those meetings, or for the equally awkward dinners at the White House with new Presidents still trying to comprehend that gentleman across from them was the British Empire in flesh and the bouncy young man needling him at every opportunity was their own nation.
Heck, they still do all that today. Looking back, it's strange how quickly their relationship eased into a sort of comfortable antagonism, an easy, amicable antipathy, and never really left. If anything, they've gotten closer, what with the whole "Special Relationship" that even today he can't keep from blushing at. And the first step towards that, well, that was when America realized that Red England was not for forever, and he was not quite as invincible as he seemed.
It's so nice to see the boys actually work out some of their problems for once! That's right, use your words, not your swords. What did y'all think of the toy soldiers? They were my favorite part—especially the significance of them having no faces. And what do you think the bit with the flying mint bunny meant? Not to mention the mint bunny with a flying pig. After all, when pigs fly... I have a good many interesting ideas in these directions, but I'm not going to limit the possibilities by actually picking one yet. And why do you think America chortled when peeling off the bandages?
A note about America's madness: I've read a lot of different fics about how America (the person) went through the Civil War, everything from split personalities to Alien-esque chest-bursting. Here's why I did it this way: it follows the logic my earlier idea that a mother country feels its colony's pain and such until it agrees to give it independence, that or until enough other nations of the world recognize the existence of the new sovereign nation. So if a rebellion is sparked but dies out then no new nation-people are created, only if they are victorious. So America doesn't split into two or develop other personalities. Instead his body tries to consume itself (freaky moving cancer/creature/things visibly moving under the skin is a gross-out for me), and his mind twists and breaks under the strain of fighting himself. So he goes insane. Was that clear enough in the story? Is this idea convincing?
A note about gits: Yes, America knows what a git is; he's just having fun. You don't grow up under England's care without figuring some things out.
A note about France and England: If you're put off by how malicious England is acting towards France, I have reasons for why he's like he is. During this era France and England are starting to be found on the same side of the battlefield as allies instead of facing against each other on opposite sides, and it's beginning to change their relationship. Where before they were sworn enemies (especially for England with a lingering grudge for the Norman Invasion) who genuinely took great pleasure in hurting the other, now they're starting to switch into the amiable loathing of the World Wars and later years. At this point in history, though, they're in the transitioning between these two relationships of very different hatred.
HISTORICAL NOTES
The American Civil War: North against South, Union against Confederate. The North was industrial, with small farms and an overall distaste for slavery. The South was agricultural, with large plantations worked by slaves and poor whites, with a large, landed aristocracy in all but name. The war was particularly nasty due of the viciousness only fighting against family seems to cause - it was called the Brother's War for a reason. The lines of who supported what were not clear and sharp but rather jagged and torn, and sometimes people in the same family would end up on opposite sides of the battlefield. It was "brother against brother, father against son, kith against kin of every degree." I can only imagine what the state-people went through during all of it.
"lightning-clad birds and seal-women and serpents with horns and beards." Thunderbirds, selkies, and Asian dragons, of course! What do you think I mean with the whole winged-pig business? I haven't quite decided myself, though I've certainly a few interesting ideas…
America acting like an airplane: The Wright Brothers don't fly for another forty years, I know. But in my head!canon, you see, America is such a technology-based, imaginative, and above all forward-looking nation and person (sometimes looking so far off into the distant future that he trips over what's right in front of him) that he occasionally gets brief, strange glimpses into the future along with his usual crazy ideas. It's not anything magical or useful - he just sometimes has, sorta, reverse deja vu, I guess you could call it. You'll see another amusing example in eighty years or so.
Manchester Letter and Lancashire Cotton Famine: The Cotton Famine was caused by the blockade put on the South's ports by the Union. And since the Empire's large textiles industry depended heavily on cotton from the South, well…The textiles workers went very quickly from being some of the most prosperous of the working class to some of the poorest. Some, because of the blockade, were therefore supportive of the Confederate cause if it would get their cotton back, but most of them, almost all of the British working class in fact, were adorably noble-minded despite it. A resolution of support for the Union and the abolitionist cause was drafted by the inhabitants of Manchester and sent to Lincoln, who responded in a rather famous letter that he thought they were all "like, totally awesome for not being lame and all like those southern losers." Well, not quite in those words. ;) And that, my friends, is why there is a statue of an American Civil War President in Manchester, U.K.
The Emancipation Proclamation: Before this the War was not specifically, blatantly, about slavery, and the South could still claim it was mostly about state's rights and vastly different ways of life and ways of thinking. After the Proclamation, it was suddenly also a moral war to free the slaves, and the European nations, who had mostly gotten rid of their slavery decades earlier, suddenly started pretending they all had to go to their grandmothers' funerals whenever the South wanted to visit to talk about supporting or recognizing them. So no country ever recognized the Confederacy as a country, and the Forever Alone South went back to whipping slaves and playing by itself in fluffy mountains of cotton.
The Alabama Claims: The CSS Alabama, a screw sloop-of-war and commerce raider, was built in 1862 for the Confederate States Navy by a British company in the U.K.
There were several other ships built or somehow aided in their path to join the Confederacy by some British captains and Southern sympathizers. What particularly ticked off the Union was that the British PM and Foreign Secretary both allowed the Alabama to be built and sold despite the weight of public opinion against it and the protestations of the American legation in London.
Funny story: The Alabama's new captain, Semmes, gave a recruitment speech to some British sailors about the gloriousness of the Southern cause and how they should definitely sign up for a voyage of unknown length and destiny. The figurative sound of crickets filled his ears. He then offered money upon signing up, double wages, paid in gold, and promised more prizes for sinking Union ships, at which point he was every crewman's favoritest person ever. This is all rather amusing because, you see, the ship's own motto was "God helps those who help themselves."
Northerners were, unsurprisingly, not pleased about British-built, British-armed, and often British-crewed ships sinking their boats as their country of origin continued to declare its neutrality. After the war, the U.S. demanded reparations for the damage caused by the ships which Lord Palmerston, the same jerk of a PM who allowed their sale in the first place, flatly refused to pay. The debate raged on for years and eventually went to arbitration at Geneva, where the new PM, William Gladstone, who wanted a bit of peace about the whole thing and wanted an ally in the U.S., agreed to pay (but argued the numbers down a bit first).
You'll never guess the name of the man who represented Britain during the international Alabama tribunal: Sir Alexander Cockburn! I near about fell out of my chair when I saw this. Sadly, I am reasonably certain the two were not related, despite the name, since one was Scottish and the other English. BUT STILL. How many Cockburns are there, anyway?
One of the American senators did indeed ask for $2 billion or Canada in recompense, at which point everyone else looked at him and said "Hahaha no." Do you want to know how much that is in current money? $3.98 trillion. TRILLION. Instead they ended up with the relatively mild $15.5 million, or $30.8 billion in today's dollars, and some re-negotiations of some nice Canadian fishing, all part of the Treaty of Washington in 1871. In this, the British apologized for the destruction caused by the ships while simultaneously admitting no guilt, which is such an England reaction I just had to laugh.
Queen Victoria: Yes, I know she's a bit OOC with the whole naval bombardment thing, but it was just too funny to resist!
Care to take a guess at what comes next?