August 6, 1862
Letter from Francis Bonnefoy in Paris to Sir Arthur Kirkland in London
Mon cher,
It has indeed been an age, or perhaps an age and one half, since you and I have written to one another outside the confines of human politics, a truth which makes me feel ancient and remorseful. Your sense of conversation is such fun to tease, shame on me for neglecting my own talents. Your letter was poorly written and short, and under different circumstances you are right in assuming I would harass you for it—I rarely overlook such an invitation, as you well know—but under today's sun, I find myself similarly ill-composed and I will not blame you in the slightest for your abandon.
I was, as it would happen, only just arrived in Paris when I received your telegram. I am not exaggerating when I say the staff were still unloading my luggage when the messenger boy arrived at my door, looking quite confused as to where to put himself. To think, I spent the last six months in Mexico, practically on Alfred's doorstep, and only now that I am thousands of kilometers away in Europe do I hear news of him. Your message seized my heart with fear, and I must reprimand you for taking so long to follow with your letter. In the interim, I have been beset by such palpitations as I've not known since before Napoleon's uncle introduced himself to me.
I assume you are skimming my letter, as you always do—you really must take time to relax, mon cher, and enjoy the finer things in life (my own very fine penmanship included). Therefore, I will interrupt myself before I write any more and assure you that France has no intention of becoming a bedfellow to these southern rebels. The starvation of cotton is of course a painful and frustrating truth, but it cannot be resolved by taking sides. Europe's only way out of this war is an absolute peace between the American north and south, and I doubt you or I could broker such a deal at present.
This being said, I confess that my aristocrats seem all too willing to warm the Confederates' bed, jumping in from Mexico or from across the Atlantic. Much like yours, their interests reside in their coffers: cotton, wine, brandy, and silk. Napoleon has been tight-lipped towards me regarding the issue, but has on more than one occasion asked if I've spoken with John Slidell. I do not know his plans on the matter, but I will be keeping a keen eye on the emperor, and will endeavor to warn you in advance of any declarations.
Your news of Alfred himself is harrowing, to say the least. You and I did not speak often during your civil war, from what I recall—and what I do recall involved you trying to cut off my head—but Alistair has told me stories that haunt me to this day. If Alfred's case is indeed more dire than yours, I should faint to imagine what horrors beset the boy. This 'Andrew' you've spoken to must be causing him considerable turmoil. We all knew a civil war was possible when he set out on this grand experiment last century, but I doubt any of us imagined it would be so violent.
Mattheiu never spoke to me of 'others', even when he was very small, but I am not surprised to hear that there were more. I wonder if any are yet left? You and I had many more brothers and sisters, once, but history is not kind to all of us equally. Alfred has always been the stronger of the twins; let us hope he remains strong enough to throw off whatever unwelcome demon has taken up residence in his mind. Should the South win, would "Andrew" replace him entirely? Would one of these 'others' replace him? Would he be compelled to live a double life? It does not bear comprehension.
I will not conclude this letter without leaving you a measure of hope, Angleterre. However, the hope I have to offer comes in the guise of a story you may find unpleasant. I am loath to dredge up the bad blood of yesteryear, but I pray it may remind you of the strength of notre cher Alfred. In the summer of 1780, when your own Lord Cornwallis was still routing the southern colonies, I was with Alfred and General Washington and mon cher Lafayette in the North, near New York. You may remember the devastation you wrought at the Battle of Camden in S. Carolina. All told, I believe it was the single bloodiest day for Alfred or his men, and even so far away, he was bedridden and miserable for an entire week, causing us no small amount of worry as we awaited news of tragedy. Though in unbelievable pain, Alfred insisted on joining Gen. Washington for his briefings each morning, forsaking crutches or chairs or other assistance. Upon hearing of the rout at Camden, he was on his feet and prepared to leave before anyone could tell him 'no'. You remember how slight of stature he was back then, and yet even as an invilid, he fought with the strength of ten men. It took myself and two of Washington's larger lieutenants to pick him up and haul him bodily back to his sickbed.
My point in all of this, Arthur, is to remind you exactly how strong Alfred is, when he puts his mind to it. The fact that someone so strong has been brought so low by this war is a warning to us all. If you are able, however, I would have you take heart in the strength you witnessed firsthand during his Revolution. If this 'Andrew' or the Confederacy should like to take Alfred's mind and body whole, it will be a challenge for the ages. Alfred will fight tooth and nail. We must trust that it will not be in vain.
Even so, by all indication this war is going to be a long one. We must take solace where we can, and pray that Alfred makes it through to the other side intact. No Americans will write to me, I think because of my business in Mexico. If you hear any other news of Alfred, I beg you to share. I worry for him. My thoughts are with you and your colonies as you seek to forestall whatever rash decisions your aristocratic leaders are dreaming up in their pipe dens. In this struggle, you and I find ourselves on equal footing, mon ami. Despite how I relish tormenting you, perhaps you may take some brief comfort in that.
Yours,
Francis
Historical Notes:
1. You may be wondering why Francis here (and Arthur in the last chapter) are using such short greetings and signatures compared with letters in previous chapters. It is both improper and incredibly rude to address someone so simply in a letter, especially when they are someone of such stature. The answer is quite simply that they are very, very old friends, who, when speaking to each other in a personal sense, see no need to stand on ceremony. It is at once an insult to the other, and a sign of affection. This, I think, sums up their relationship.
2. "Napoleon's uncle" refers to Napoleon Bonaparte, who was the uncle of Napoleon III, who was, at the time of this letter, Emperor of France.
3. Though France and Britain had no actual agreement during this time on the American war, there was an informal understanding that France would not break their own neutrality without cooperation from the British. This was likely not a mutual sentiment, as Britain was the key European lynchpin in the tides of the American war, but Europe as a whole seemed hesitant to venture into the American conflict without outside cooperation.
4. Francis' mention that he does not think that peace can be brokered, as well as his mention that Napoleon III is interested in his thoughts on John Slidell (a confederate representative to Europe, you'll remember, he was the one to reach out to Paris) are both allusions to an attempt by the French to do just that. Though it will not be discussed directly in this story, France actually wanted to broker an armistice between the Union and Confederacy. Napoleon began discussions around this armistice idea with Britain and Russia in the latter months of 1862. In theory, the armistice would allow the Union blockade to stand down, trade to resume, and hopefully, would lead to a peaceful resolution of the war. However, both Britain and Russia disagreed with the plan, mostly because the U.S. made it clear they would never stand for such a thing, and it never came to fruition.
5. The Battle of Camden was a battle fought in August 1780 between the American Patriots and the British Empire in South Carolina. The battle was both a resounding victory for the British and, by all accounts, the single bloodiest day for the American Continental Army. American casualties were 1050 killed or wounded. By comparison, the British casualties were just 314 killed or wounded. This is an interesting event to keep in mind as we head into the bloodier years of the American Civil War. To this point in history, the bloodiest battle in the largest conflict in Alfred's history saw just over one thousand men dead or wounded. The Civil War, as many of you already know, was rather a different beast in this regard. The Civil War saw several battles that, in one or two days, killed more Americans than the entirety of the Revolutionary War.