July 21, 1863

Washington D.C.

When he'd died, Alfred had been expecting to wake up as he usually did: gasping, terrified, freezing cold and sweating, with a battledrum heart and a thirst so profound he could drink the Great Lakes.

Instead, he woke up with a crick in his neck, a chalky taste in his mouth, and the feeling of sticky drool trailing down one corner of his mouth. Alfred raised his head and groaned when his brain began to throb. He blinked his eyes open and scowled at his surroundings. The cell was as he'd left it: bare save for a chamberpot, a pitcher of water, a wooden mug, and the pile of straw where he now lay sprawled out. He could feel straw sticking to his hair and the drool on his face, and did what he could to pick it off before crawling across the floor. The pitcher was empty. Damn.

"Hello?" he croaked, and winced. Christ, his voice was practically gone, and his throat burned like fire. He moved closer to the door, pitcher in hand. He had no idea what time it was, but there were always guards posted outside. "Hello, guards?" He tried again, closer to the door. "Daniel? Hal?" Still, nothing. Alfred sighed. "Please," he said, to whoever was on the other side, "I need water."

There was noise beyond the door, and Alfred could almost imagine the guards standing around looking at each other. I'm not going to help the madman, their looks must've said. He knew they must've all been sick of him by now. Are you? He closed his eyes and rubbed at his face.

"Please," he said again, "I just woke up, I'm extremely thirsty." He waited. After a moment, he heard the boots of whichever guard had drawn the short straw shuffle towards the door.

"...Alfred?" the man asked, sounding surprised.

"Yes," Alfred said, annoyed that they had to go through these motions. Damn Andrew. "Please, could you get me water?"

"Yes, of course," said the guard. Alfred thought it sounded like William—a young eighteen year-old boy, son of a representative, he remembered.

"And something to eat?" He added. At this, William hesitated.

"Henry sent in your evening meal not half an hour ago," the guard reported regretfully. "If you already ate it…"

Alfred looked down and found the bowl of porridge, now cold, at his feet by the latch in the bottom of the door.

"Ah," he said, annoyed that he'd been asleep while it'd gone cold. "Nevermind then. Water would still be welcome."

"Hal's off to fetch it now, sir."

"Thank you." Alfred sat down on the ground by the door and began to shovel cold porridge into his mouth. It was half congealed, but it quieted his rumbling stomach.

"I have to tell you, Alfred," said William, "it's a relief to hear you speaking again."

"Oh?" Alfred coughed, determined not to taste or feel the horrible food as he swallowed it. He'd surmised that after he'd died, it had been Andrew to do the coming back to life for the both of them, something that Alfred found both unnerving and deeply satisfying. Let him feel it for once, he stabbed the oat sludge with his spoon, "How long was I out?" He asked.

"Over two weeks."

Alfred choked around a spoonful.

"Two weeks?" he echoed. "What happened?"

"We think it's to do with the draft, you see," William began. "In New York they've—"

"You're not meant to be speaking to him, you know that," reprimanded an older guard, sounding apologetic. "Sorry, sir, it's nothing personal,"

"No, no," Alfred said. It never was. "I understand."

"We'll have you that water shortly, sir."

Alfred said nothing more, and continued to eat. The draft. Yes, that did sound right. He always lost the entirety of whatever time Andrew took away from him, but slowly, he was getting better at capturing snippets of memories, flashes and impressions of Andrew's outbursts after they'd happened. He could remember, as if from a dream, hearing Andrew—himself?—screaming and yelling, ranting and raving about 'Northern Oppression' and the disgrace of the new Union draft. There was something happening in New York, something chaotic and important, but that part was less clear. Southern sympathizers in New York had emerged en force to oppose Lincoln's draft, but it had turned into something else, something about Emancipation and rich men getting off scot free.

Alfred only realized he'd eaten all his dinner when his spoon came up to his mouth empty. However, when he set the utensil back into the bowl, it did not give its usual pewter clang, but a soft and muffled thud. Frowning, Alfred looked down at the bowl, where the sticky dregs of the porridge clung in webs. Using his spoon, he scraped at the bottom of the bowl and froze when he realized that there had been something hidden beneath the cereal. It looked like paper. He dug with his spoon to find the edge, and one corner popped up. It looked like a letter.

A knock on the door jolted him so he almost dropped the bowl and spoon altogether.

"I've got your water," said Hal from the other side. "Back of the cell, if you please."

"Of course," Alfred muttered, and went to the back as he was told. The pitcher was too large to fit through the bowl-sized latch they used to at mealtimes, so someone always had to open the door to refill it. Given past experience, they didn't like Alfred being anywhere near the door when it opened.

The door groaned open and Hal entered hesitantly, eyeing Alfred with respect and fear. As he filled the pitcher, he glanced at Alfred, who still held his bowl.

"You finished with that?" he asked. Alfred held the bowl close to his chest and tilted so Hal wouldn't see its contents.

"Still eating," Alfred told him. "I'll leave it by the door when I'm done."

Hal grunted and finished with his task. When the door shut and the lock fell into place, Alfred retreated back to the alcove where he slept and pried the letter from the bowl. Using a fistful of straw, he brushed away the glue-like porridge to reveal the name written on the back of the envelope:

Andrew Jones

His eyes widened. He knew that Andrew had managed to smuggle information in and out of this cell thanks to southern-sympathizing guards, but he'd never personally seen it happening. Moreover, he recognized the handwriting.

"Shit," he breathed, and tore into the envelope. Hands shaking, trying to mask the tell-tale rustle of paper, he unfolded the letter, which was mercifully unblemished by his dinner. It was short, and written in a familiar, perfect cursive:

Dear Andrew Jones,

Britain will not intervene on your behalf. Do not ask again. Francis Bonnefoy sends his regards, and has asked me to echo my own sentiments on his behalf and also request that you cease writing letters to him. Your French is, apparently, terrible.

Far be it from a neutral nation to offer wartime advice, but should you opt to hoist the white flag, do know that you would be neither the first nor the mightiest nation to surrender to the United States. He is far stronger than you give him credit for. Take it from someone who knows.

Please send Alfred my best wishes.

Regards,

Sir Arthur Kirkland, GBE

Something like fire or sunlight burned in Alfred's chest, a sensation he hadn't felt in years. It felt like vindication, and revenge, and something like hope. He flattened the letter on the wall of the alcove where it would be waiting to greet Andrew next time he awoke. Using the leftover bits of his porridge, he pasted it in place so it would stay. Then, he found the stiffest piece of straw he could find, tore off the tip with his teeth until it was sharp, and jabbed his palm with the needle-sharp tip. He used it to write below Arthur's signature in crimson red:

Fuck you, greyback bastard.

He sucked at his inkwell wound and waited for the bleeding to stop. It didn't take long. Then, he went to the door, chugged several massive gulps of water straight from the pitcher, wiped his mouth, and spoke to the door,

"Hal, are you still there?"

The gruff older guard cleared his throat.

"Aye, sir."

"Young William, he's told me that Henry was the guard to give me my dinner, before I woke up, is that right?"

There was a pause.

"I believe so, yes."

"Is Henry still here?"

"Gone home for the night," Hal gruffed. Another suspicious pause. "Why?" Alfred picked up the discarded envelope and examined the wax seal. It'd been ages since he'd last seen Arthur's coat of arms.

"Because I think his superiors may want to have a word with him—and with whomever cooks for me, too." Alfred told him. "He seems to be trying to smuggle Andrew information."

"Christ, again?" Hal burst. He'd been by Alfred's cell long enough to see several attempts already.

"Hell of good it did either of them," Alfred shrugged, glancing at the letter on the wall, "but I would hate for him to think he's done the right thing. Send word to the President, when you get the chance. Tell him he ought to meet with Ambassador Adams as soon as he can. And while you're at it, get a hold of Secretary Welles and tell him to tighten up on the blockade. Starve them out of the gulf, route out their supply chains. If they can smuggle a letter to me, they can smuggle a ship or two across the Atlantic. Oh, and ask if General Grant has had any success keeping the rebels from contacting French forces in Mexico—actually, you know what, just tell Lincoln to meet with Adams and Dayton, will you? Then ask about Grant."

Alfred, who'd for the better part of a century had had men following his orders at face value, did not appreciate the silence that followed.

"Sir, you just woke up, and Andrew… are you feeling alright, Alfred?"

Alfred took stock of the question, and realized that actually, yes, he was feeling alright. Better than he had in months, actually. His entire body was bruised and aching, his brain hurt, he had open wounds from Gettysburg and dozens of battles before, his hair was greasy and long, cheeks unshaven, eyes sunken, fingernails cracked, lips bleeding, but yes, he did feel better. For the first time in months—no, years—he could think clearly enough to see what had to be done. This war had gone on for too long. It was not over, he knew that, but if the British and the French really were determined to stay neutral, the war would have an end. He didn't know when, he didn't know how, but it would have an end. That fact alone gave him something dangerously close to hope, which he tried to keep in check. He glanced at Arthur's letter again, and wondered what the Englishman had really meant when he'd sent Alfred his 'best wishes'.

"Yes," He told Hal, feeling the persistent wound in his left side open slightly and begin to bleed, "In fact, I feel great."

Historical Notes:

1. The New York Draft riots, known at the time as 'Draft Week', was a period of unrest (generally placed on the week of July 13-16, 1863) in Manhattan in NYC that followed the enactment of the compulsory draft, the first in U.S. history (though to be fair the CSA began drafting before the Union did). Driven almost entirely by working-class white men, these riots began out of anger about the draft. Specifically, these poorer-class white men were angry about the fact that they would be compelled into service whereas much richer men would be able to pay the commutation fee of $300 (now worth somewhere in the ballpark of $6,000) and thus be exempted from service. However, the unrest quickly escalated into race riots, in which these same working-class white men protested the arrival of newly-freed black men who they perceived to be competition for work. The week/weeks were a very violent time, and over a hundred people died as a direct result, including several lynchings of black men. President Lincoln dispatched volunteer groups to the city in order to quell the rioting.

2. 'Greyback' was a union derogatory term for a Confederate soldier, referring to their typical grey uniform. However, this term was also used sometimes to refer to lice, so the insult here is twofold.

3. You really can use water + grains as makeshift glue. Oats is probably not the best choice, but seriously, flour paste (literally just flour+water) was a very common water-soluble adhesive used for centuries. Anyone who's let their sourdough starter dry out can attest that it becomes like concrete.

4. Charles Francis Adams was the U.S. ambassador to Britain during the war, and a huge part of his job was to make sure Britain stayed neutral in the war.

5. Gideon Welles was the U.S. Secretary of the Navy during the war.

6. William Lewis Dayton was the U.S. Ambassador to France during the war. Like Adams, he spent a great deal of his time trying to make sure France stayed neutral.

7. Grant here obviously refers to Ulysses S. Grant, the famed Union General who was also at this time engaged in the Western theatre of war and thus the closest to the French.

8. If you're wondering why Alfred has suddenly started feeling better and why Arthur has chosen now of all times to respond to Andrew, it is because of Gettysburg. Gettysburg was not only the turning point in the war from the American perspective, when it became clear that the Confederacy would likely not be strong enough to defeat the Union, it was also the moment when foreign powers began to lose interest in the Confederacy. Gettysburg was a resounding loss for the Confederacy when it happened, but the full ramifications of just how bad a loss it was would unfold slowly over the next year or so, until it became clear that a Union victory was virtually inevitable.