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On with the chapter!
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The White House was quiet at night, even quieter than Alfred remembered it. His boots made little noise in the carpeted halls as he made his way to Lincoln's office. The building itself was different too, but then again, it had been burning to the ground when last he was there.

Alfred rapped smartly at the office doors before letting himself in anyway. He found the President pacing back and forth before his desk, hands white-knuckled behind his back.

"Sir? Your wife and sons are all asleep now, don't you think it's time to call it a night?"

Lincoln paused in his pacing to look pointedly at Alfred and the dark circles under his eyes. "I'd advise you to take better care of yourself before lecturing me, Mr. Jones."

Alfred sighed exasperatedly, and sat with a thump in one of the armchairs toward the front of the room. "Look, I am just as stressed as you about this whole war, but you're no good to anyone dead on your feet from lack of sleep, sir."

"And what of it, Mr. Jones? What good am I to my country if I can't even organize a winning army to defeat the ones who want to break it apart? Why should I sleep, when there are men out there laying down their lives for this nation?!"

Alfred held up his hands in a placating gesture. "No need to get angry, but what brought this on? This isn't like you."

Lincoln sighed, scratching his beard absentmindedly. "Do you remember Robert E Lee? The man I asked to command the Union forces?"

"Definitely. The man graduated West Point without a single demerit! What of him?"

"He's joined the Confederates as the leader of the Army of Northern Virginia."

Oh. "That's… a problem."

"Exactly. I need a man who can combat Lee, and arguably, there isn't anyone."

"McClellan's not that bad…"

"But he's not good enough."

"Fine, then. What are you proposing?"

"At this point?" Lincoln ran a hand through his hair. "Many Republicans are calling for a formal end to slavery, hoping it will end the fighting in the territories if a definitive answer comes to light, so frankly, there are more important things to worry about. Not to mention, if the Confederates continue gaining the upper hand, naval blockade or not they will be advancing North."

"But we don't know that," Alfred offered hesitantly.

"… No. Our knowledge of our opponent is frighteningly minimal, yet they seem to know a great many things about us." Lincoln's mouth set in a grim line, and as Alfred watched, he rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"That's it, it's too late as it is. You can't think without sleep any better than I can without good food, so get to bed before I start feeling it," Alfred joked as he wrenched the great office doors open for the President. "Shoo. I'll see you bright and early anyway, and it's not like the Confederates are going to attack Washington at one in the morning."

The President stood stiffly by his desk for a moment before acquiescing. He strode past Alfred it a manner that managed to look confident despite his obvious exhaustion. Alfred followed the man out, putting some distance between them as he took time to close the doors, before turning in the opposite direction.

He didn't feel good, he really didn't. In fact, he felt rather nauseous. He'd met Lee, only once, and even then the man had been a force to be reckoned with. And ever since the Union's men had begun dying at sea as well as on land, the nausea had stuck. But no one seemed to notice, because Alfred hid it well; if Lincoln were to find out that the Union was losing this war, things could go all new kinds of sideways.

_V~-~-~V_

"I can't just go waltzing into the American capital!"

"And who says otherwise?" Matthew asked quietly, barely glancing up from his book. The pair sat in a library in Springfield, the Canadian poring through local registers while Arthur steadfastly disagreed with their latest plan to find their missing personification.

"Well, my superiors for one. You know full well that they've been leaning toward backing this Confederacy as of late. Walking into the Union command center would just be asking to be… I don't know, ransomed, or something of the sort!"

"When was the last time you were in Washington? I know for a fact I haven't been since 1814, so the chances of my being recognized are slim to none."

"1850, for the Clayton-Bulwer treaty, when we were trying to build the Nicaragua Canal."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "I take it that fell through?"

"We had some… disagreements about the phrasing of the agreement. But you're pushing us off topic! I can't go to Washington, and that's that!"

"But Arthur, don't you want to figure out as much as I do—okay, perhaps not quite as much as I do—what happened to America?"

"Of course I do. It reflects rather poorly on me that I never found the Nation, and just wait until that frog hears about this whole… mess. I'll never hear the end of it."

"Well, Francis or no Francis, you have a duty as a Nation, here," Matthew replied, "and that's to figure out who and where America is, and seeing as I already have a reasonable lead, I say the work is half over."

Arthur threw his hands up in exasperation. "But we don't even know if this Jones fellow is really who we're looking for! You only knew him for how long, a year? And you claim you promised to return again—"

"I was a bit busy at the moment—"

"—but never did, yes, and the only information we've been able to find is that another bloke with the same name happens to be on the campaign team of their new President Lincoln. And correct me if I'm wrong, but Alfred Jones is a fairly common name."

"Mr. Davis's description fit him to a T, Arthur."

"There," Arthur declared, standing, "is another thing. Who in their right mind names their child David Davis? I wouldn't trust anyone with parents like that. They're probably psychotic."

Matthew closed the ledger, having found nothing, and departed the library with Arthur following. "Then we'll just have to find someone else who knew Alfred Jones. There must be someone in this town," he stated decisively.

As luck would have it, they'd barely gone a block when Arthur suddenly paused at the sound of an older couple's conversation.

"I just don't know, Charles," the woman was saying. "I don't want you to fight, not if Josiah is on the other side, and I don't want either of my sons involved in this foolish war."

"Yes, but Alfred's last few letters have been optimistic… maybe it won't last much longer," the man who was presumably her son replied.

"Dear, Alfred is always optimistic. Even when those glasses of his broke, he said he'd find a way to fix them rather than get a new pair. Always looking for miracles, that one." She smiled gently at the sky, but looked down when Arthur addressed her.

"Excuse me, madam, but I couldn't help overhear—you wouldn't happen to be talking about an Alfred Jones, would you?"

The woman looked surprised, and her son downright shocked. "We were," he said, "but I wasn't aware Alfred was acquainted with any Englishmen."

Matthew, who had noticed Arthur's stop, intervened. "No, he's actually a relative of mine. Arthur here is an old friend, but he hasn't seen Alfred in years, and we heard he was in town."

If anything, the pair looked even more disbelieving. "I'm sorry, you must be mistaken," the man said. "You see, Alfred is our family, so believe me, we would know you if you were related."

Matthew was instantly apologetic. Smiling brightly, he grabbed Arthur's arm to pull him away. "No, I'm sorry, it seems we have the wrong Alfred. We'll just be going now—"

"Wait!" The woman held out her hand, grasping at air as if to slow them down. "If you don't mind my saying, you're the spitting image of our Alfred… save for the length of your hair and your eye color, the two of you could pass for twins."

"Mother!"

"Just look at the boy, Charles, and tell me it's impossible that they're related."

Charles was silent, his brown eyes scanning Matthew's face, but his expression was increasingly less hostile.

Arthur and Matthew exchanged glances. "Would it be possible to meet your Alfred—you know, just to be certain?"

"Oh, no, I'm afraid he's not here at the moment," Helen replied. "You see, he works for Mr—excuse me, President Lincoln, and he left for Washington the better part of a year ago."

Arthur nodded sharply. "Thank you for your time …?"

"Wetherby," the woman said, holding out her hand. "I'm Helen Wetherby, and this is my son, Charles."

"Charmed," Arthur replied, shaking Charles's hand and kissing the back of Helen's. "I'm Arthur Kirkland, and this is Matthew Will—Jones, Matthew Jones."

"See, you might really be related!" Helen exclaimed cheerfully. "Well, if our Alfred turns out to be a long-lost relative of yours, we welcome you to the family," she continued, smiling at Matthew.

"Thank you," Matthew said agreeably. "Now, you wouldn't happen to know where we could catch a train to Washington…?"

Helen offered directions that would guide them to a train station not far from where they stood. "And you might meet my husband, Peter, when you get there. He left just this morning to visit Alfred too."

"We just might," Arthur agreed. "It was lovely chatting, but we really ought to be going. Have a lovely day, Mrs. Wetherby, Charles."

They were a block away when this time, Matthew stopped. "You think they're the same person?"

"Undoubtedly," Arthur declared, "they have convinced me. If not the 'spitting image' bit, but the way they responded when I claimed your surname was Jones? I don't know how they're possibly 'related' if this is the same Alfred you remember, but it's certainly worth a go."

"Then you'll go to Washington after all?"

Arthur's enthused expression derailed. "Well—I suppose if there's no other option I'll have to—"

"Great. Now come on, we have a train to catch."

_V~-~-~V_

When Alfred was told someone wanted to see him, he expected a politician of some sort, not someone who would usually send a letter before showing up on his proverbial doorstep.

"Peter."

"Alfred. Good to see you again." He glanced around. "This city hasn't really changed much, even with the fire and all."

"What are you doing here?"

Peter huffed, looking mildly put off by the bluntness of the question. "I'm here to see you, of course. I can't visit a longtime friend?"

"Not without writing, during wartime, in the capital of the nation you can't."

Peter studied Alfred for a moment. "You haven't been sleeping again, have you?"

Alfred glanced sideways, doing his best to avoid eye contact as Peter pressed on. "And you've lost some weight. That's definitely unusual, especially for you." A pause.

"You were lying about it getting better, weren't you." Not even a question, a statement of fact.

Alfred sighed. "What do you want, Peter? You didn't come all this way to harp on my health problems."

Peter winced, and his expression turned even graver. "Charlie… he's volunteered."

Alfred's heart sank. "For what? The local orphanage? Neighborhood watch?" he snapped, even though he already knew the answer.

"The Army, idiot."

He sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned back. "What do you want me to do about it? Charlie's a grown man, and he can take care of himself just fine."

"Yes, he can. But he didn't want to join for the longest time because of Josiah, and Helen is worrying herself to death over the both of them."

Alfred opened his eyes. "What's Josiah got to do with any of this?" Peter just shook his head and dug a letter out of his inside coat pocket.

Alfred grabbed it, scanning the single page briefly. It didn't take long to read, a mere four lines of shaky penmanship:

Dear Mother and Father, Everyone's being drafted, so I'm going to join the Confederate Army. You probably won't see me again. Yours, Josiah

Alfred resisted the temptation to crumple the letter, a certain pleased feeling at war with his anger, his emotions split down the middle as they had been for the past several months. He stared fixedly at his white knuckles as they gripped the edge of his desk.

"I… I didn't know who else to go to," came Peter's voice, and the loss in it forced Alfred to look up. "I've always thought of you as… I don't know, a sort of hero, after you came back from the Lewis and Clark expedition. You probably can't do anything… I don't really know why I came at all, but if you can…"

Alfred stared at Peter, stared straight at those eyes the same color as his own, trying reconcile his confused state of mind with the fact that this man, his nephew, was relying on him. Asking for help.

There is no one else.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just… save him. Please."

Alfred stood, circling his desk to stand before his friend, his family. "You know… I couldn't save Zach, hell, I can't save anyone." Peter opened his mouth to interrupt, but Alfred plunged on, "Still, Peter… you can be damn sure I'll try my best to save Josiah."

Peter smiled, and that sudden warmth made Alfred feel as if finally, he was able to do something more.

_V~-~-~V_

"I have an idea."

Lincoln glanced sideways at Alfred. Both sat on sofas in one of the many White House sitting rooms, Lincoln attempting to relax while Alfred perched tensely on the edge of the cushions.

"An idea for what?"

"You claim that we don't know anything about the opposition, right?"

"Well," Lincoln shifted in his seat, "I wouldn't say that, but we certainly are at a bit of a disadvantage."

If only you knew how big a disadvantage.

"Well, what if I could fix that?"

Lincoln's eyes narrowed. "And how do you propose to do that?"

"I'll be a spy."

"Out of the question."

"But sir!"

"Absolutely not, Mr. Jones! I can't believe you would even suggest such a thing! You have a job here—"

"And what exactly do I do? The occasional paperwork, and honestly, I've always hated paperwork! I can pull of a Southern drawl better than anyone I know, I'll join up, and send you Southern plans of attack, because believe me, they will attack. The North is just waiting for an assault, and it'll be that much easier to stop if you have an idea of what we're up against!"

Lincoln's face was still set. "May I ask what brought this on? Call me unobservant, but you don't strike me as the unobtrusive type cut out for espionage, Mr. Jones. Honestly, you are too honest."

Alfred gave the president a wry glance. "I can lie with the best of 'em, sir. You can't get jobs with no credentials if you can't provide a few false truths."

"Too boisterous, then."

"Wouldn't that be even better cover? No one expects the loud guys to be spies."

Lincoln spread his hands, palms up. "That's it? No other motivation? You just, out of the blue, decide that you want to sneak over Southern borders and join the Confederate Army?"

"It's for the good of the country, sir. And my family."

"The Wetherbys?" he exclaimed, alarmed.

"Josiah, to be exact."

Lincoln leaned back. "The youngest son… he always did have differing opinions. Is it safe to then assume that your recent guest was either Peter or young Charles?"

"Peter. Charlie joined the Union Army."

A breath escaped the President. "Brother against brother indeed. It has been barely a year, and I am already tired of this war. But Alfred… you must understand."

"Understand what?"

"We can't lose you. If the Confederate officers discern that you are a mirror for our country's condition, who knows what they might do."

"Well, like it or not Mr. Lincoln, I'm one of the best options you have, because frankly, I can't die. If there's anybody who you can send, guilt-free, behind enemy lines, it would be me."

Lincoln's expression was still stony, but Alfred could see he was wavering. "Really, sir, it would be best. I can get what I want, you can give your country a leg up, and you don't have to worry about me dying. It's foolproof, honestly."

_V~-~-~V_

"Are you positive that this is the right building?"

"Yes, Arthur, I'm sure."

"Truly? Because we did burn it to the ground last time… maybe they moved it."

"No, this is the Library. And keep quiet, you being British is awful suspicious, especially because we're not here on any official business."

Arthur grumbled under his breath, something along the lines of sneaking about like bloody bank robbers and wouldn't have to do this back home. Matthew rolled his eyes behind his glasses.

"Come on, I left Kumotaro back at the hotel, and you know how he gets if he's alone for too long."

"Your bear's name is Kumajirou, Matthew, honestly."

"I know that. Please be quiet."

Matthew led the still-grumbling Englishman over to the side desk that sat in front of the record room. "Excuse me?"

The man behind the counter, who had been watching them with hawklike eyes since they'd entered, gave a superficial little smile. "Yes, how may the Library be of service?"

"We are looking for some employee records, government employees. You wouldn't happen to have anything from before 1814?"

The man's face soured. Looking like he'd swallowed a tack, he replied, "I'm afraid the small matter of the Library burning to the ground reduced all of those to cinders, sorry. Anything else?"

Arthur shot Matthew an I told you so sort of look, but Matthew continued. "More current then, for a specific person. You wouldn't happen to have anything on an Alfred Jones?"

The man's eyebrows slowly rose, achieving a rather comical effect on his thin face. "Alfred Jones, you say? I'm afraid that's a rather common name, and we don't keep a record of every backwater Alfred Jones born in the nation, so perhaps a little specificity…?"

"I know who he's talkin' about!"

If it was possible, the man's face soured further as he turned. "Branigan, I thought I told you not to interrupt me when I am speaking with visitors!"

"Sorry, Mr. Stephenson, sir, but I know who it is they're talkin' about! I was lookin' at his file meself just a few days ago, that I was!" The speaker was a small man with a thick head of red hair and a strong Irish accent, with tiny reading spectacles perched on a broad nose. He was obviously quite excited by the way he kept glancing between his severe boss and the pair of them.

"If it's no trouble, could we see whatever it is you have?" Matthew asked, addressing Branigan.

"Ack, no trouble at all! Come on, come on!" The smaller man waved for them to follow, while the stern one cast his eyes heavenward.

"An Irishman, really," Arthur whispered as they started after him.

"Yes, please be civil."

"As if I would act otherwise!"

"You do have a history with the Irish in general."

Arthur huffed, but seemed to reluctantly agree with Matthew's assessment.

"You say you're lookin' for the file of an Alfred F Jones, right?"

"Yes, we are," Matthew replied.

"Funny thing, the President himself was here just few days or so ago, lookin' for it too. I dunno what's so interestin' about a bloke who worked here fifty-odd years ago."

Arthur glanced at Matthew. "I thought your boss said that the records that old were destroyed?" Matthew offered hesitantly.

"Aw, not all of them! They weren't all here at the time, you know, didn't really matter where the average workin' Joe's files were, but when everythin' went to blazes they tried to, you know, replenish stock, and brought some stuff in."

They arrived in a room that went wall-to-wall with shelves, files stacked high on them with seemingly no rhyme or reason to their arrangement. But Branigan seemed to know what he was doing, immediately rifling through the stacks until he produced a cracked, yellowing sheaf of papers.

"Are you positive that there's nothing newer?" Matthew asked, gingerly taking the file.

"I can swear to it. It's a pretty common name, but like the boss says, we don't keep track of everyone. That's a mighty hard thing to do. 'Twould make me job even worse."

Arthur snatched the file, skimming its pages quickly. Matthew peered over his shoulder, but there wasn't much to look at: just a brief job description and length of service of one employee of Thomas Jefferson.

"Not all that unusual," Arthur whispered. "I say you've sent us on a bit of a wild goose chase with this one, Matthew."

"And you're sure this is the file President Lincoln was looking at, Mr. Branigan?"

The Irishman shuffled awkwardly. "Well… not exactly. He did look at it, though."

"What's not exact about that?"

"It's kinda supposed to be a secret, I think, very hush-hush."

Matthew put on his best honest face. "Can you tell us what he was looking at, Mr. Branigan? Show us exactly?"

"Well… no."

"And why not?" Arthur finally piped up.

Branigan looked alarmed. "Because he took 'em, that's why! Said it was some official presidential funny business and whisked 'em right away! Now, me boss would kill me if he found that bit out, because nobody's supposed to take anythin', not even President Lincoln himself, so you got to keep quiet!"

"But they were newer?" Matthew pressed. "Newer files for an Alfred Jones?"

"Yeah, only a year or so old, tops. I didn't know he was goin' to take 'em!"

"It's okay, Mr. Branigan, we aren't going to tell anyone," Matthew soothed. "Thank you very much for your time, you've been quite helpful."

_V~-~-~V_

"You ready, Jones?"

Alfred looked up from his boots and stuffed his cleaning rag in his back pocket. He gave a little sideways grin to the man poking his head through his tent flap. He was from a farm in southern Virginia and always smelled like tobacco, but he had proved a decent enough fellow in the weeks since Alfred had joined the Confederate Army.

"Don't look so nervous," he continued, "we've got Stonewall Jackson today, there's no way we're losing."

"I think you're the nervous one here, Boyd," Alfred retorted, adjusting his grey uniform. It clung uncomfortably to his skin in the humid August air, but there was little he could do about it. He supposed he should count his blessings that he actually had a full uniform. "Got all your ammo?"

"Yeah, but they really need to send us more supplies," he replied. "I ain't about to run around without any bullets in my gun. That's just asking to get shot."

Alfred just shrugged, and tried to ignore the part of him that was hoping the information he'd sent to Lincoln had been intercepted en route. "Let's go do this, then."

Boyd clapped him on the back. "C'mon, buck up Jones! It's only a matter of life and death!"

V/~-~-~\V

Whew. Again, longer than your average chapter. I clap myself on the back.

Historical information coming:
Robert E. Lee was made the commander of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia in June of 1862. He did indeed graduate West Point military academy without a single demerit, and was second in his class.
The Republicans (Lincoln's party) were increasingly pushing for slavery to be a key issue in the war. Lincoln will soon acquiesce.
The North's naval blockade of Southern ports kept supplies from Europe from reaching them, and kept the South's exports and communication lines to a minimum. The American Civil War was known as the first "industrial war" in which telegraph lines, railways, ironclad steamships, and other new technologies were used for wartime purposes.
The British never fully committed to supporting the Confederacy (more on that next chapter), but they were leaning that way and doing some shady sideline deals at the time.
The Clayton-Bulwer Treaty was between Britain and America in an attempt to create a neutral zone in Nicaragua so they could build a canal between oceans in the British-occupied area. Territorial disputes were never solved, and in short, the US felt that the British would have too much control that they shouldn't, so the deal fell through.
David Davis was the real campaign manager for Lincoln's presidential campaign (and really, what kind of a name is that?).
At this time, there was no draft in the North, all of the armies were state-organized and voluntary. The South did conscript people, and from a broader age range as well (exempting plantation runners, government officials, and clergymen).
There were plenty of spies on both sides, male and female. The Union's lack of knowledge is a bit exaggerated here, but hey, fiction.
Mr. Stephenson (the first man Arthur and Matthew encounter at the Library) was actually John G. Stephenson, the fifth Librarian of Congress, a thin man with a bushy mustache. He was Librarian from 1861 to 1864 (a fairly short run, considering his successor, Ainsworth Spofford, was there for forty years).
The battle that's about to begin is the Second Battle of Bull Run, which took place in August of 1862. Research it if you want an bit of an idea of where next chapter is going!

Alfred is a spy because I want some Confederate perspective on this story, and he needs to bring Josiah back (dual motivation). Boyd isn't an OC, he's a proper (but very, very minor) historical character who will matter!

That's about it. Thank you all for reading, and if you have any questions or thoughts in general, please don't hesitate to leave a comment in a review!

Until next time!