Hello all, it's been too long again!
(If you care, I've had a seriously difficult time writing this chapter for reasons unknown, and most of my classes had papers due recently and if that didn't just make me want to spend more time writing...)
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On with the chapter, again a bit longer than usual. Perhaps I'll work up to making these around 4,000 words each instead of 3,000.
When Alfred woke, the Wetherby family's main room was still the inky black of the very early morning. He sat, shifting his weight on the pallet that had been provided for him as a bed, trying to calm his erratic breathing.
Clammy palms clenched the sheets. The nightmares hadn't been so bad since 1814, when he'd dreamt of fire whenever he shut his eyes.
Now, he couldn't remember his dreams, but he was sure they were terrible.
Uneasily, he lay back down, but falling asleep again proved to be an exercise in futility. Reaching to the side of his bed, he scrambled in the darkness for the candle he knew would be there. Alfred lit it with still-shaking fingers, then made for his trunk. If he couldn't sleep, he sure wasn't going to waste the hours.
The papers he wanted were right on top: pamphlets, reports, newspaper clippings, even something in German (unreadable to him, he didn't know why he'd been given it), and lists upon lists of numbers and quotes and survey results: all things necessary for Lincoln's campaign.
If Alfred had known that running for President entailed this much work, he would've quit this job after Lincoln lost the Congress election and moved to Vermont. Or maybe Maine. He could hide in Maine and become a lobster fisherman and avoid this whole mess his people were getting themselves into.
But as he set up his pen and ink, he couldn't help but wonder how everyone else was doing, in their places so conveniently far from political turmoil. Oregon had recently become a state, so it wasn't entirely exempt, but surely George and Lucretia, at least, would be paying no attention to the affairs of the country. And Sam had his farm to worry about. Olive, though, she might care.
And Yao, off in China. The last Alfred had heard of that particular country was when the US had signed some Treaty of T-something, ending some war that was pretty much Europe's fault and concern. Hopefully Yao wouldn't get too involved, but Alfred had never pictured his giraffe-obsessed and more than slightly strange friend actually fighting something bigger than a squirrel.
Alfred sighed lightly, putting down his pen again. Concentration was impossible when everything came back to fighting. Ever since that radical abolitionist, Brown, and his raid on Harper's Ferry, abolition had really been all America had been concerned with.
Lincoln will stop it. He'll solve things once he's elected.
Alfred nodded sharply into the darkness. Yes. Lincoln would solve this mess, with his quiet determination and damn good speeches.
But what if he doesn't? The southern states promise secession if he is elected President, and don't you know what comes of that?
_V~-~-~V_
The date was November 6th, 1860, and Alfred was already awake and dressed when the cannons boomed across Springfield. Almost immediately, feet could be heard running down the house's creaky wooden staircase.
"What's all this racket?" Charlie demanded, glaring at Alfred as if he were the cause. "Woke me right up! Can't anyone get a decent rest around here?"
Helen Wetherby appeared behind him, a faded periwinkle-colored robe thrown over her nightgown. "It do hope it isn't those people with torchlights who made all that fuss last night. They need their sleep!"
She then smiled at Alfred. "At least you don't have any more work to do, dear. You've seemed so tired lately, with all those extra lines on your face unbecoming of such a nice young man."
Mrs. Wetherby patted his cheek affectionately before turning towards the kitchen. "Charles, go fetch some eggs and put some water on to boil. Now that everyone in this county is awake, folks will be wanting breakfast."
Charlie let out a long-suffering sigh. "See, Alfred? Even my mother likes you better than me. Life just isn't fair when you're around. You go get the eggs, why dontcha."
Alfred found himself having to force a smile. "Sure thing," he replied, not hesitating to walk out the back door just to breathe some fresh air.
Election days always made him twitchy. Even more so because after all the long months of paperwork and listening to speeches, he was rather emotionally invested in this particular Presidential campaign.
Though truthfully, Lincoln hadn't made any speeches or formal public appearances at all in a long while, choosing instead to keep a low profile and communicate his goals through papers, pamphlets, and friends of friends. In his eyes, the fewer things he said that could be misconstrued as promises, the better.
Alfred returned with the eggs to the kitchen and watched Mrs. Wetherby make breakfast. Josiah helped, giving Alfred's seat at the table a wide berth as he did so, and perpetually shooting looks at his older brother, who made no secret of how "unmanly" he thought helping one's mother in the kitchen was.
"At least it's better than sitting on your behind all day," Josiah retorted. "Even the freeloader," he jerked a thumb at Alfred, "has a job worth doing."
Seeing Charlie about to reply in a likely explosive fashion, Helen interrupted loudly, "Yes, speaking of which—don't you have to go see Mr. Lincoln today, Alfred? I heard he was going to be at the Statehouse all day, greeting people, or something of the sort."
"He is," Alfred answered, nodding gratefully as Helen dumped a pile of eggs and potatoes on his plate. "No campaigning, of course, but I'm sure he'll shake his fair share of hands. And I'll be off after breakfast."
"Of course, of course, campaigning on election day would be unseemly," Mrs. Wetherby agreed. "And dress warmly when you go, I felt a bit of a chill yesterday."
Alfred nodded again, finishing his food faster than normal. He felt tempted to ask for more, as hungry as he still was. Josiah was staring again with his special you-are-such-a-hopelessly-ignorant-freeloader accusatory expression, but Alfred barged ahead anyway, filling his plate, pretending he didn't notice the glare sharpening exponentially.
"That was great, Mrs. Wetherby," he declared at last, pushing his chair back, "but I really gotta go. Make sure that good-for-nothing Peter of yours goes to vote, okay?"
"He wouldn't miss it for the world!" Helen called after him
"What are we saying about me, now?" a familiar voice asked. Alfred smiled in the direction of the source.
"You've got to vote, Peter."
"Of course I do," the man replied, straightening up and smoothing his graying hair. "As one once in the employ of President Thomas Jefferson, I take great pride in doing my patriotic duty."
"I'll meet you there, then, shall I?"
Peter shook his head. "Of course not, I'm going with you this instant."
"But breakfast—"
Peter grabbed a potato from his wife, biting it with an air of almost-defiance that was entirely out of place, and marched out the door, Alfred trailing behind.
"… And I thought you were going for that refined old gentleman look," Alfred muttered, loud enough that only Peter could hear, rather than the many others out and about on the Springfield streets.
"Not if you aren't," Peter retorted, taking another bite of his potato. "You're not even wearing a proper suit; just how are you going to get people to believe you actually belong in that office with Mr. Lincoln?"
Alfred waved his hand flippantly. "No matter, everyone recognizes me anyway. And you know how much I hate suits." Tugging his favorite woolen jacket tighter, he smirked at Peter. "You, on the other hand, were always such a stuck-up kind of guy, wearing those waistcoats like you were born in one."
They continued the rest of the way to the Statehouse in relative silence, the crowd around them thickening the closer they got. Music played from wagons that roamed the streets, giving the whole thing an oddly celebratory atmosphere.
Even Alfred had to elbow his way up the steps of the Statehouse to where Lincoln was standing, surrounded by fellow party members and supporters, shaking hands with every other person and still managing to smile good-naturedly.
Alfred snuck up beside him as Peter continued to struggle against the crowd. "So, how's the day gone so far, sir?"
"Just fine, Mr. Jones. I might have strained a muscle earlier, though."
"Alfred, call me Alfred, I've told you ten thousand times. And what were you doing earlier?"
"They asked for a demonstration of my rail-splitting skills."
"Still playing up that backcountry-boy angle?"
"Everyone likes an underdog who they can root for as he makes his way to the top."
Alfred grinned a bit at that. "Guess so. That's the honest-to-goodness American dream, right there."
He moved aside to make room for another staff member to speak with Lincoln, determined to observe the crowd in the thick of it, even if his glasses came very close to being knocked off on several occasions. He caught sight of Mrs. Wetherby and Charlie, with Marcy on his arm, later in the day, but Josiah never materialized. Alfred shrugged off his non-appearance and greeted the family before he was summoned by another staff member to hand out ballots to the crowd.
The small knot of Republican higher-ups surrounded Lincoln as he crossed the street to the Sangamon County Courthouse, keeping the crowds at bay. Alfred waited outside as Lincoln cast his vote (not for himself, because that too was unseemly; he would simply abstain from voting in the Presidential election), encouraging others all the while to do their patriotic duty.
"Is Josiah not voting?" Alfred asked Mrs. Wetherby after Charlie and Peter had gone inside. "It was his birthday a few weeks ago, he legally could."
Mrs. Wetherby sighed and smoothed her skirts. "I don't know what's gotten into that boy," she remarked. "He's not been the same for months, I wish he would sort himself out soon. But missing his first election…? He's usually so keen on politics, and what with family friends like Mr. Lincoln you can't hardly help it…"
Alfred patted her shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be fine."
It was nine o'clock that evening when returns came in full force to the telegraph office, increasingly favorable for Lincoln. Mrs. Wetherby helped host a dinner party at Watson's ice cream and candy store.
As it became clear that Lincoln had won, the crowd of Republicans cheered, Lincoln looking inordinately pleased.
"Excellent work, Mr. President," Alfred said with a grin.
"With all thanks to the staff where it's due, Mr. Jones," the man replied.
Alfred shook his head resignedly at the president-elect's continued use of his surname, but as the crowd grew in exuberance when it was announced that Lincoln had won Springfield itself, he felt oddly detached. It was almost like he wasn't actually participating in the party, continuing to shake hands and greet nameless faces as the world rose and fell around him and the distinct pit of unease in his stomach grew deeper.
_V~-~-~V_
By late winter of the following year, the line across Alfred's stomach was gnarled and enflamed, a bright white slash across red skin. No matter how Helen Wetherby treated it, it wouldn't improve in the slightest, and he took to wearing a bandage around his middle.
But on February first his glasses cracked. It was the left lens, straight down the middle, and though Alfred had barely begun wearing them ten years ago, it felt like he'd lost something intrinsically part of himself.
He no longer worked for Lincoln. He had, after all, only been an assistant to the man as a lawyer, and the President-elect was under some impression that Alfred wanted to stay in Springfield. While the man wasn't wrong, Alfred knew that it was probably time to return to the capital, with or without Lincoln.
Alfred had sat at the kitchen table that following morning, across from Peter. He had watched his face drain of color as he read the morning paper.
"Florida, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas," he breathed. "They're all gone now. What on earthdo they think they're doing?!"
"They have legal rights to do whatever they want," Josiah spoke up from one end of the table.
"They did, until secession was ruled illegal," Charlie replied, shooting a look at his younger brother.
"Please, no politics at breakfast," Mrs. Wetherby said tiredly, in an attempt to diffuse the argument before it began as it always did. Very much like the rest of the states near the border, Illinois was somewhat divided, even if most were on the side of Lincoln.
"They have their own country now," Peter continued, not heeding his wife's warning. "The Confederate States of America, they're calling it."
"Are they serious?" Charlie gaped. Peter nodded, grimly folding his newspaper. Charlie leaned back. "As long as our government's smart enough not to recognize them, we'll be fine."
"And why shouldn't they be recognized?" Josiah interjected again. "Wouldn't that be the best way to avoid fighting?"
"The British didn't recognize us when we rebelled," Alfred reminded, "why would we do likewise for anyone?"
"If this is about preserving the Union, that's a ridiculous notion. The country's too separate already, interests are too different; it's not possible to stay together!"
Alfred's chair crashed to the ground, his palms slammed into the table, and he leveled Josiah with a glare through cracked spectacles icy enough to make the younger man recoil in his seat. "It is possible," he hissed.
"How?" the other snapped, his voice managing to sound courageous even as his knuckles turned white from gripping the sides of his chair.
"Because there's no damn way it won't."
Conviction in his heart and certainty in his veins, Alfred straightened. He picked his chair up, setting it back next to the table, and turned to march out the door.
"Where are you going?" That was Peter's voice, confused and concerned. Familiar.
"Washington." Familiar as well, but in a different way.
There was a moment of silence. "Well," Peter spoke again, his voice resigned, "best of luck to you, Alfred." Alfred gave a tiny grin in reply as he opened his trunk and threw his remaining things in, a haphazard mess already.
"You hurry back, yeah?" Charlie added. "You're not allowed to miss my wedding."
"I'll definitely come back."
Though his trunk was full and heavy enough on its own, Alfred hoisted it onto one shoulder in one quick motion. The Wetherby cat hissed from his position in the corner, but let out a tiny whimper as the front door slammed shut.
_V~-~-~V_
"Ah, Mr. Jones! I hadn't expected to see you back quite so soon… to what do I owe the pleasure, as busy as you find me?"
"You're going to Washington soon, right?"
Lincoln frowned, bushy brows furrowing in confusion. "Yes, I am. The inauguration is in a little over a month, after all."
"I'm coming with you."
The President-elect's eyes widened, and his hand reached up to stroke the beard he'd recently started growing at the request of a little girl from New York. She'd said it would make his face look less gaunt (he did have very hollow cheeks), so he'd replied and agreed that yes, it just might. Just two months in, and the beard was already one of his more recognizable attributes.
"I was under the impression that you wanted to stay in Springfield with your relatives. Are you in need of money? I wasn't aware that the family was in any trouble—"
"They aren't, but frankly, this country is in a heap of it and I want to help."
"That's a noble goal, but you're young and intelligent. Surely you don't want to be stuck in some political office, doing paperwork all day?"
"Well, it's not ideal, but I need to get to Washington. Just trust me, please sir."
"I do not really need any more assistants, and I believe the best place for you is here, so I'm going to have to refuse your request."
Alfred nearly growled in frustration, but contented himself with throwing up his hands instead. "You honestly aren't going to let me come?"
"You would be better-suited to staying here," Lincoln said, his voice still infuriatingly calm.
There's no help for it, then.
"Mr. Lincoln," Alfred began, speaking quietly, hands resting on the other man's desk, "there's more to it. But promise you'll hear me out before you interrupt and tell me I'm insane."
Lincoln's brows furrowed again as the confusion returned to his face. "I do not believe you are insane, Alfred."
"That's… good, then." Alfred ran his hand through his hair. Lincoln made a little go on motion.
"Er… right. So, I can, er, tell what's happening. Anywhere in the country. Not really in depth, you understand, just bad feelings, and sometimes I'll get sick…" Alfred gave a little nervous laugh at Lincoln's skeptical expression.
"So these… feelings… let you know what's happening elsewhere? Are you sure you don't simply get coincidental illnesses and read the newspaper? Sometimes these things come from stress, you know—"
Alfred shook his head vehemently. "No, nothing like that! I've also been around for... a lot longer than I should be. Since the start of everything here."
"Everything?"
"This country! I've lived here since it was just wilderness! And these feelings, they tend to mean something's going to happen, like when I went to Boston back in 1773, or Independence in the '30s—Peter, you know, Peter Wetherby? He got his job at the White House with Jefferson as my replacement when Jefferson sent me west with Lewis and Clark, and we worked together after that."
Lincoln was looking rather pale through his beard, so Alfred paused. "Are you okay, sir?"
"These feelings, what are they telling you now?" Lincoln asked, his voice level.
Alfred swallowed. "That I need to be in Washington, you need to be in Washington—you were meant to win this election, sir. I think you're the only one who can preserve the Union."
Lincoln leaned back in his seat, his hands fidgeting again. "That is an awful lot to take in, Mr. Jones… and if I did not know you, I would dismiss you on the spot and have you committed."
"You're not going to, are you?" Alfred asked warily, taking a quick step back. "Because that'd be really bad for me."
"… You know, I do not think I will." Lincoln paused. "You just seem to be honest, and I've always rather liked that about you; it seems out of character that you would be lying now."
Alfred grinned. "In that case, you're taking this awful well. Most people would usually… go a bit crazy by this point."
"I might imagine so."
"So… can I come to Washington?"
Mr. Lincoln gave a small sigh. "It would seem, Mr. Jones, if your fate is one so inextricably tied to this nation, that even if I went without you, you would find a way to join me."
"Great! When are we leaving? I'm already packed and everything!"
_V~-~-~V_
April, 1861
"Josiah—!"
Mrs. Wetherby, dishtowel forgotten by the washboard, grasped at air as her son stepped away.
"No, mother—you are not—you are not convincing me!"
Eyes wilder than she'd ever seen, mousy curls in disarray, Josiah stepped backwards towards the door, his satchel clutched in a white-knuckled grasp.
"But Josiah, think of us! Whatever you feel is wrong, we can sort it out—!"
Even as Mrs. Wetherby cried out, Charlie stood back, face set, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth.
"No, we can't! You're too loyal, you're all too loyal, to that Abraham Lincoln! Don't you see, any of you?! He's destroying this country!"
Peter had one hand on his wife's shoulder, holding her back as he moved forward.
"Josiah, please. You're upsetting your mother. Can we think this through more carefully?"
"Oh believe me, I've thought this through long and hard, and I'm leaving. I'm going somewhere where—where I can make a difference for this country! You let Charlie go, why not me?"
"You're barely an adult, Josiah. And Charlie had a plan—"
"Yeah, one that he abandoned at the drop of a hat to go gallivanting off to Asia!"
"Now see here—"
"Enough!"
Josiah stood in the center of the room, breathing hard. "As you said, Father, I am an adult, which means I can leave of my own free will. And while this family is still loyal to the wrong side of this war we're getting dragged into, I am going to stay gone."
"You're the one who's wrong here, little brother," Charlie said, voice quiet. "Those Confederate states aren't going to last long, mark my words."
"Oh really? Who did you hear that from?"
"Alfred, of course."
"Because that man you've known for nine years is more trustworthy than your brother."
"At this point? Yes!"
Josiah glared, and spat, "You all are crazy. America will never survive without the South, hell, Europe won't survive. Even if you do win, you'll come begging in the end."
The front door slammed, and Mrs. Wetherby finally broke down.
Alfred, Peter wrote that evening, our family is falling apart, no matter how strong you always said we were. I hope things are better on your end.
Miles away in Washington, DC, a city at the center of the chaos, Alfred crumpled the letter in his shaking hands. He swore he could hear the gunshots echoing in his ears, but he had to look composed; there was an emergency meeting to attend.
I wish I could say so.
_V~-~-~V_
"Matthew!"
Violet eyes jumped up from the book to meet frantic emerald. "Arthur?"
The panic faded, slowly dissolving into worried confusion mirrored on the British man's face. "… Matthew? You're all right."
Perfectly fine, and that's the problem. Matthew set his book aside. Of all the places he'd expected to have this conversation, his living room in Ottawa was not one of them. "Yes. Did you expect differently?"
"Well," Arthur said, composing himself quickly and straightening his suit, hiding the evidence that he'd run to be there, "America is in the beginning stages of a civil war, and I… I was worried for you." Green eyes peered closer, as if trying to peel back the set expression on Matthew's face to find the proof they needed. "You… are truly all right?"
"Yes."
"That's… unexpected."
Matthew's hands searched for his pet polar bear out of want for something to hold as his world listed increasingly sideways. He'd told Arthur his suspicions before, that he didn't represent a continent, couldn't represent a continent, because such a thing had never, ever happened and there was no way that he, ordinary, and most definitely Canadian Matthew Williams was such a person.
Though he was usually a calm man, Matthew seethed inwardly, gripping Kumajirou's fur tighter. "You've lived through civil war, Arthur. Tell me, why is it that I feel no pain, absolutely nothing at all?"
Arthur floundered. "I—I don't know, Matthew. I haven't the faintest idea."
"You have no idea, no inkling?"
Arthur's expression shifted into something more neutral, his eyes wary. He knew what would come next. "None whatsoever. Would you care to enlighten me, seeing as you clearly do?"
"Stop denying it, Arthur," Matthew hissed. "I've known for years, years, and you keep denying it. All of you! You refuse to believe you've made a mistake, refuse to admit that you and all of your friends across an ocean have not one ounce of control over what could very well be the most powerful nation in the world!"
Arthur's face was stony. "Stop this nonsense, Matthew. You're North America, pull yourself together and I'm sure we can be logical—"
"I am being logical! And I'm telling you right now, I'm not North America! I'm Canada, just Canada, not 'Canada and America, former British colonial empire'!"
Arthur glanced about, before pulling up a chair and sitting with a loud thump. "Well then… if you're absolutely sure—"
"I have never been surer about anything, Arthur."
"In that case," Arthur continued, his already-pale face whitening even further, "we have a country to find." Matthew was about to agree, but Arthur kept going. "And we have absolutely no idea where to begin… they must be older, around your age by now, don't you think? But America's population is bloody huge, not to mention divided in half—how the hell are we supposed to find anyone there?!"
Arthur heaved a shaky sigh and stared upwards, as if Matthew's wooden ceiling held all the answers. "I need a good, strong cup of tea. Or whiskey."
"Oh, no, no alcohol for you," Matthew said quickly. "And it might not be as difficult as all that."
"Why the bloody hell not?" Arthur retorted, eyes snapping back down to glare at Matthew.
The Canadian gave a small smile as he stood, shifting Kumajirou's weight in his arms as he grabbed his coat and scarf from the rack by the door. "Because I have a pretty good idea of where to start."
V/~-~-~\V
And now, as promised, we see the evidence of the elusive second plot as it materializes on the horizon.
Historical facts first:
The Treaty of T-something is actually the Treaty of Tientsin, which ended the first part of the Second Opium War in China. Europe and France were the main parties involved, but the US ran its typical interference.
Harper's Ferry is a town in Virginia best known for John Brown's raid in 1859, where he led 21 men to capture the armory and several buildings in hopes of collecting weapons and distributing them to slaves to incite a slave rebellion in the south. It's credited for boosting abolitionist feeling around the country.
November 6, 1860 was Abraham Lincoln's election day, which began with the firing of a canon at the crack of dawn. The events transpired pretty much as I've written here, and everything mentioned is real. Lincoln did demonstrate his favorite rail-splitting method for the reasons described, and there used to be no set ballot- each political party would hand out their own to any white male who wanted to vote.
By February 1st of 1861, Florida, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas all followed the example South Carolina set in December immediately after Lincoln's election and seceded from the Union (which was deemed illegal by the Supreme Court, hence why the US never recognized the Confederacy as a real country). The South also firmly believed that Europe would come to its aid if and when real war began because they relied so much on Southern cotton, but that turned out to not be the case.
Many of the border states had conflicted populations, and the Civil War was literally supposed to have torn families apart and pitted brother against brother. Dum-dum-duuuum.
Anyway, we also now have Canada and England involved, who will be making more appearances now. Yay for them!
I think that's all for now... I also have the next two chapters planned out in advance this time, so feel free to send angry messages if I don't update in two weeks. I won't hate you.
As always, any thoughts or questions are welcome, and if you have the time, please feel free to drop a review! See you all soon!