England paced in front of the Prime Minister.

"What do you mean there is still no word? Nine months and still nothing?! I cannot sit idle and watch as America crumbles beneath itself!" England shouted.

"Now, Arthur, we still have our trade with both sides of it, keeping our neutrality. The north sends us grain and we send them weapons and other munitions. The south seems to only spare what they can, and we continue to equal that."

"Is that not favouritism?" England questioned.

"Not when they don't have anything to trade in return. The grain is more important right now anyways," The Prime Minister said.

England knew that France was having trouble with their crops recently.

"Is it all about trading? Can we please do more?"

England was frustrated. He didn't want to wait, but he also knew that he couldn't rush into such a situation.

"Well it's all we can do until we hear something. The Confederacy seems to want to export more cotton to us, but I don't believe they know we don't need it here in Britain."

England felt odd, but he chuckled at that. "King Cotton policy, is what they were calling it," The Prime Minister laughed.

England looked out the window. He knew he had to wait. He began to write more letters. He hoped someone would respond.

"You should try writing to Arthur Fremantle. I hear he has interest in travelling through the states as an observer. Perhaps you may persuade him to not go, and instead you take his place."

"You think he would let me?" England asked rather eagerly.

"It's worth a try."

One Month Later.

It was a beautiful morning, it really was.

America took another sip of his stale coffee and he remembered that it had been a long time since he had time to enjoy nature. Most of the men were still sleeping and the silence was welcomed. He was now part of the newly formed Army of The Tennessee which was commanded by a man named Grant who he had never met before and he still didn't have a good read on the man.

He was now First Lieutenant Alfred Jones of the 8th Illinois. It was awkward for him at first. It was a bit strange for an officer to be placed into a regiment out of the blue, especially one that had yet to see battle. His cover was that his enlistment papers had been lost and he couldn't join them until they were found. A weak excuse and the men were worry of him at first and they treated him like an outsider, but when he perfectly told them what an Illinois winter was like, they lighted up and accepted him. He was placed in command of Company C which consisted of eighty-eight men.

So now he found himself on this early April morning in the wilderness of Tennessee, and they were looking for a fight.

"Mornin' Sir, ya taking a liking to the coffee today?" Jacobs, a portly Corporal who also doubled as the regiment's cook, asked happily. Jacobs was a man that America could only describe as being constantly jolly. He had never seen the man, who looked thirty years his senior, not smiling.

"Decent I suppose. I've had a lot worse." America answered and didn't take his eyes away from the pot boiling on the fire in front of him. The smell of breakfast was starting to fill the air.

"Oh thank you Sir. I've heard so much worse about it before, but what do the boys expect? These beans are some of the cheapest I've ever seen. I can't make gold outta bullshit." Jacobs explained, all the time a smile on his face.

After finishing his cup he returned it to Jacobs and went a walk around the camp. The men were starting to rise and he passed a few other officers and gave them salutes. He reached the end of where his regiment was camped and stopped. He was about to turn and walk back when he heard a sound in the distance. It wasn't distinguishable yet, just a distance roar, but he quickly turned on his heal and all but started to run back. As he got closer the sounds became easier to hear. Men yelling, the cracking of rifles, and the rumble of canon fire. Before he knew it he was back at Jacob's cooking fire and the other man were starting to take notice.

"Jacobs! Wake any man of our company who isn't on his feet and have them gather here!" he ordered. Jacobs quickly saluted and ran with the speed and grace of a man half his age and size. America had a moment of hesitation as he wasn't sure what to do next, but ultimately he decided to go find his commanding officer, Colonel Rhoades. It was his regiment; he should decide what they did. He turned and went in search of his tent. On the way there he swiftly and effortless loaded his revolver and returned it to its holder. Just as he got there he heard a musket ball fly over his head and then the yelling started. That high pitched yell he hated with all his being. Colonel Rhoades emerged from his tent and stared directly at him, the look of concern on his face would be comical in any other situation.

"Jones, what's going on here?!" he shouted.

"I fear it's an attack Sir. I have my company forming off to the right where we were encamped. What do you want me to do Sir?" he answered calmly while in his salute stance. Rhoades, who had become the Colonel of the regiment just six days ago, had a mix of shock and uneasiness on his mature face. After a few seconds America lost his patience. He took a few steps closer so that he was within ear shot of only Rhoades before saying in a polite but firm tone.

"Sir, should we not form line and prepare a defensive position?"

"Y-yes, return to your company and tell all company commanders to form line and wait for my orders." He said.

America saluted and turned once again. By now the camp had become a swirling vortex of semi-organized chaos, but he had no time, he had to return to his company. He knew that their regiment was the right flank of their brigade and it could spell disaster for them if he couldn't organize a proper defense. When he returned to his men the battle was in full swing. He drew his sword and immediately began to organize his men into a strong line and have them release a hot amount of fire into the oncoming enemy.

The screams of pain, the yelling of orders, the pop of muskets, all these things flooded his ears. He heard it all before, but it was different now. He could feel it was different. Those men on the other side were once American's. They were once apart of him, and he hated them now. Did they not have enough? Was he not good enough for them? He knew he shouldn't think of these questions now but they were ever present in his mind.

He lost track on time but after a while the rebels in front of them pulled back and the men in blue let of a shower of hoorahs.

"They runnin' Sir!" a young boy, no more than eighteen turned and shouted at him. America nodded and sighed, but before he realized the men started to advance.

"Wait boys you-"he tried to say but his voice couldn't reach anyone over the sound of their cheering. He looked to where his company heading and through the smoke and trees he could plainly see the grey uniforms and red flags coming towards them. He watched as they slowly raised their muskets to fire a volley into them and instinctively he reached for the boy who had spoken to him a second earlier and pulled him down.

Then the cracking sound ripped through the air he felt the familiar wet smack of his bone shattering as a ball slashed through him. The boy tried to help him stand and he shouted franticly at him but no sound reached his ears. The taste of his own blood on reached his mouth and re tried to speak.

"Hold the…line…wait for Colonel Rhoades…" he said in a faint whisper. Then came the sinking feeling with all things growing dark before letting one last thought run through his mind.

"Please, don't let this be the last day…"