A Slow Paced Envy (8/15)
Sunday, July 16th, 2023 18:28![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fumblingmusingsA study of a potential Female England characterisation. Snapshots through the years showing how and where her attempts at parenthood and romance run dissonant to the reality of being the motherland of the world's largest empire. There's a lot of people in her head who don't belong there, and it soon becomes everyone else's problem.
Also available on Ao3.
Chapter Eight: 1863-1865, or Another Civil War
Washington, District of Columbia
“You two, you ain’t from here.”
The woman and the young man turned around. The lady was small with harsh features. She had the look of someone who had been starved very young, and had never fully developed properly as a result. The man was taller, though not particularly broad. Both were beautiful, if in an off putting manner. Unnatural.
The woman did not speak, looking instead to the other man. He swallowed, collar pressing against his adam's apple. When he spoke, it was quietly, but with a noticeable forcefulness.
“No. Does that matter?”
The soldier frowned. What a foolish question.
The woman sighed, pulling out a letter. She gave it to her companion, who opened it, exposing the bottom of the letter, and the signature underneath. He waved the letter at the soldier, but it was the woman who spoke.
“That’s Jones’ signature, is it not?”
The soldier blinked, completely taken aback by the woman’s voice. Scratchy and rough, low and snapping, she frowned deeply, eyebrows drawn tight together. She snatched the letter back before the soldier could get a good look at its contents.
“He is not at some battlefield, he is not in a tent, he is the capital recovering. We are colleagues of his and we were asked to come see him, thus here we are. ”
“You're… one of those then?”
The woman scoffed. “One of them. Yes. Very much so.”
“Can we see him?” the other man asked.
“Christ,” the woman hissed, turning away and moving along the corridor. Both men followed the grouchy woman. “I am not seeking permission from a soldier, I am too old for this. Make sure no-one disturbs us would you, sir. With some luck Alfred will be up and walking around when we leave. I need to lecture him about his choice of friends...”
“We have permission, from the White House,” the young man stumbled over his words, “if you want to confirm but… well.”
Despite the way the little English woman stomped along the corridor, she did so with little noise, the dress creating an effect where she appeared to float down the room, if not for the determined swing of her arms and speed with which she moved.
She stopped abruptly in front of the door, took a breath, then looked at Canada.
“Matthew, you go in first. Make sure he is decent.”
She pressed her lips together, stepping back. She cursed herself then, for not being brave enough to barge in as she would have done for any other nation. Evelyn saw Matthew see her fear, despite her efforts to suppress it on her features, then felt her cheeks flush red with shame. The boy must have had a catalogue of judgements by this point.
But he had been proud of her for coming. One last step across the threshold. And yet she could feel herself losing her nerve at the last possible moment, as petrified as she was to discover Alfred's state of being. His reaction to seeing her, if he were even conscious.
But she had travelled so far, first to Halifax and then down. It was not just a case of wanting to see Alfred, but an acute, pressing, guilt ridden need. It was not something any human would have experienced, she was certain. If it had come to it, she would have ended up trying to swim across the Atlantic in a daze.
There was something deeply wrong with their relationship. The thought of losing him with no reconciliation, with no second chance, had sent her into such a spiral of grief that had confirmed one irrefutable fact to Evelyn. She still loved her eldest.
Matthew opened the door, and Evelyn held her breath.
“Matthew,” she interrupted once again.
He looked at her, face still so young, and yet he had seen and endured so much from when she had first held the tiny thing in her arms. He looked an odd combination of tired and restless. She had learned to recognise that look, not just in herself, but in the children as well. Something would change for him soon. It would just take getting a certain PM out of the way before it could be done. England clenched her jaw, hurriedly whispering her advice.
“This is what it does to a nation. Federalisation. We’ll need to find another way for you my darling. I cannot have you suffer the same.”
Matthew looked at her, then the floor, then entered the room, giving no indication that heard his mother’s words.
*****
America had been dying for days, and yet somehow his heart refused to stop and let him rest. He didn't ever remember being sick when he was a young boy. England had a knack for finding clean water, as much as she had a knack for growing food and making sure it wasn’t going to give him food poisoning.
Her people, not so much of course. The number of times a silly English pilgrim ate something toxic was innumerable. But Evelyn at least knew how to cook most meats and vegetables to prevent sickness. She wasn’t necessarily good at seasoning the said item, but it was always a low risk task to eat her meals.
But beyond that, there had never been any typhoid, nor typhus, nor scarlet fever, nor whooping cough… None of it. This was especially odd to Alfred, as she seemed to be keeling over from those illnesses for half her life.
Watching her be ill was a baffling event. Frequently was the frustrated demand of mama get up yelled for when he just didn't understand.
He understood now. No limb would move without aid, the sweat along his back never seemed to cease. He had lost count how many times the bed linen had been changed. An inability to think pervaded, only emotions and haunting and inescapable sensation of dread and not belonging.
Go home , was what his heart was telling him. He needed to go home.
But where ? He wanted to cry. Virginia had rejected him. He had been dragged from Chancellorsville, fingers clawed and bloody clinging to the dirt. Even half dead, he couldn’t let go of his home, where he had been born. Where Evelyn had first met him by the river.
There was no relief in being in Washington DC either, in fact, there was no relief to be had anywhere. Instead, all America had was an inability to breathe, an inability to think, and an inability to die.
He was vaguely aware the door to his spartan room had been opened, another nurse there to give him a cursed sponge bath he suspected.
“Alfred,” came a voice he was not expecting.
It perhaps showed how far he had fallen, that even the act of opening his eyes seemed to do him harm, but America managed it, seeing his brother approaching the bed. His back spasmed, reflexively trying to get close to Matthew.
“How?!” he gasped, only for Canada to hold up his index finger to his lips, shushing him.
“Got your letter,” he explained.
Alfred frowned, mind hazy and unable to think of what he had written to Matthew that would have made him make the trip. He closed his eyes, then moved under the sheets. Leaving his hand exposed, which he used to weakly wave Matt over.
“She gave permission?” he asked.
Matthew sat on the narrow bed, more akin to a cot, taking Alfred’s hand. A rustling continued despite the brother’s settling into stillness. The slats of the blinds remained such that filtering light kept the room from total darkness, lighting up dust as it floated around. To England, it was too familiar an environment.
She remained by the door, transfixed. That pressing - never entirely gone away despite how much she had wished otherwise - need to mother (smother) America overwhelmed her. She should have removed her gloves, taken off her lace shawl, ordered sugar and sodium as well as clean water for drinking and bathing, but she remained still, watching.
Alfred was curled into a ball, eyes squeezed shut, with the hand that remained above the thin sheets clinging to Matthew like a lifeline. The veins in his hand bulged; he was dreadfully dehydrated.
Matthew continued to speak softly, no doubt knowing that his brother would have been suffering from an awful headache.
“She didn’t need to. Alfred, she has never locked me away in the tower, I go where I want. The fact that you had ushered me away for so long in your letters, only to then change your mind so abruptly. It was alarming, to say the least.”
Alfred’s grip tightened around his brother’s fingers. “You always say the funniest things. I can’t remember writing you a letter recently.”
The continuing rustle, soft footsteps that could have not have come from Matthew, made Alfred pause.
“You came here with someone.”
Matthew sighed, “You tell me who was the last nation you had correspondence with?”
Stiffly, America uncurled, head appearing from below the soiled white sheet. He was met by a tiny ghost standing near the doorway, standing so still and looking like she had died from fright herself. There was no hiding the way her lips were pressed tightly together, the way she held her jaw up as if to appear larger and more confident. It did not do her much good. The facade broke, and she grimaced.
“You can go,” Alfred demanded.
He watched, somehow upset that she immediately turned around without a word, without a fight. Matthew’s jaw threatened to drop open, only to smirk when she threw open the door, startling the soldier who had followed them to the room and appeared with little shame to have been eavesdropping. England hissed orders at the man with such anger that her spit would have killed him stone dead if it were venomous. She then threw the door shut so ferociously that the room shook.
Her anger sifted away, reminding them both of when they were small. Of her snapping and smacking and generally being a bit of an irritable bitch depending on who had irked her that day. For all her efforts to never have that anger directed at the children, they still saw it, and pondered how and when that self imposed rule of do not yell at the babies would be broken. Alfred had found out - it simply took attacking another one of her children. Whether or not he had consented to such an action in the first place had never once been considered. It gave off a rather rancid vibe: Do not touch my things. I do not trust you with them and I am not one for sharing.
This wasn’t the case now, and the nervous look on England returned.
“I did not want you here,” America spat, only for his anger to be stolen away by such a pain in his chest he thought his heart was finally giving up. “I didn’t write that for you…” he trailed off, unsure of why he had written her the letter in the first place. Fear, probably. A moment of weakness.
Floating like the ghost she was, suddenly Alfred's bed sheets were thrown off the bed, and he was being lifted up until his head was no longer on the hard mattress. Her left hand settled on his chest, pressing down as if to soothe the erratic muscle in its struggle to pump dark blood around the dying body. She had indeed removed her gloves, then Alfred watched as she tugged off her pearl ring. The one so old even he remembered how she used to wear it.
“Shhh. Shhh. I do not wish to argue. That is not why I came. I want to help, that’s all.”
Despite himself, Alfred felt his heart rate settle. She smelled the same, to his shock that he even remembered such a thing. Sweet, but metallic. Sugar and iron. Despite the years that had passed, it felt too similar to when he was smaller, like when she would take him to the hill, the one with the hollow church tower, to sit and watch the small village and the world go by. He would roll and run up and down, up and down, stealing apples from the nearby orchard, not caring one bit when Evelyn would chide him. She still washed them in the spring waters and sliced them up for him. He would run and shout and play, manic and excitable, before England’s civil war and she was able to keep up with his energy with seemingly no trouble at all. Blowing raspberries and snatching him into squeezing tight cuddles before finally he would collapse on her lap, the two watching the sun set.
Alfred did not like to think about the past. It often felt like there was nothing for him there; he always had to look forward to what things could be, and how to make it so. This war however had made him stuck in the present, unable to see a way out of the dark. For once, sitting in the comforts of something that once was, as weak as he believed it to be, was an action he did not fight to move away from.
Someone knocked on the door, and Matthew’s weight lifted from the bed, returning swiftly with whatever Evelyn had previously asked for.
“He needs water right now, and the sugar and salt. Peel the apples, no skin, and cut them up very small, he won’t be able to chew much. The peanuts might need mashing. America, are you throwing up?”
“No,” he answered, frowning at the thought of eating mush.
“You can eat and drink then. Slowly, obviously.”
Alfred wanted to argue that it was flushing out of his system no matter how slow he consumed anything, nor did he particularly want Evelyn to be around for the consequences, but he held still. He wanted to see what she was up to. Being manipulative, as usual, probably.
She leaned across, taking a glass, then propping him up enough so that he could take a sip of water. Alfred refused on principle, turning his head away, despite how much the movement hurt.
“Alfred,” Matthew began to chide.
“Leave it. It can wait, darling,” Evelyn said, returning the glass to her second son.
“Why did you come?” Alfred complained. “I did not want you here. I didn’t ask you to come. I don’t want you in the city, the last time you came here…”
“I will not apologise for that. You deserved to be humbled. We all have to go through it. Better me than a foreign power.”
“You are a foreign power.”
“Hmph.” She rubbed his chest, warmth running through him from the friction. Just the friction.
“Why did you come here?” he pushed.
He felt her sigh, a great heaving exhale that lifted him up and down, then the room was quiet as she thought through what to say. Matthew watched the scene, forever feeling like a spectator to his family’s own troubles.
“When…” England began, talking so quietly and softly that Alfred felt like he was an infant again, like when she would take the boat with him across the ocean, singing and recalling stories to pass the endless frightening weeks of bad weather and worse food.
He swallowed dryly, focusing on that tone and the way she held him on her lap, a soft cushion of red fabric. Not cotton. Not silk. Was she seriously wearing a woollen dress in such heat? She had removed her gloves though. Those fingers running through his sweaty hair were bare. Cooling and dry.
“When you were so small, when you were first found and brought back… everyone spoke of how strong you were. You were a fat baby ” - Alfred snorted a wheeze of a laugh, eyes still closed - “about the size of a six month old, and so happy all the time. But I think bringing you to England so young, before any settlement had been made permanent, was a mistake. You got sick. Just once. Only once. Before Jamestown. I would stay awake all night, watching you sleep, then hold you during the day, sing and keep you cool. Breathing was difficult for you. I cannot forget the sound - the sound of a dying babe. So I could do nothing, except watch over you, be there for you when you needed comfort. I thought to myself, however long it takes, whatever I have to do, I would stay with you to whatever end. It was my foolish men and ambitious queen that brought you into this world - if you believe that story - so you were mine. My boy, and I would be there for your end, be it permanent or temporary.”
“Did I die? Then?”
Evelyn shook her head. “No, after four days your smiles returned and the fever broke. You reached up for me once again, and I knew that you would live.”
“So you do the same now?”
“Yes. It does not matter what year it is, I still hold myself to that oath. But I have no doubts this time. I know that you will live.”
“Your… government doesn't seem to agree.”
Evelyn screwed up her mouth, swallowing the urge to spit on the ground. She managed to ground out, “Palmerston is a cruel bully. He believes his own lies and punishes us all for them… You remember Richard Cobden? He spoke of meeting you.”
Alfred frowned, trying to remember. Evelyn nudged him. “He was in between elections as an MP. He would have spoken about corn laws and the unjustness of the opium wars.”
“Oh.” America scoffed. “Yes, I remember. A radical. For you.”
“Mm. And John Bright? But I suppose you would expect that, coming from a Quaker. They do not want you to fail, nor does Lyons. He is a good ambassador, I wish you would trust him more.”
“He’s a cold fish, your man.”
“Only because Seward runs so hot. It does no good to have a hot-headed ambassador reporting to a hot headed foreign secretary, no?”
“...What’s your point?”
“That Palmerston is Palmerston and he is very good at creating a ‘with us or against us’ mentality. Everything British is good. Everything not British is bad. But I do not agree with him and I never will. And I know you do not want to hear it, but Prince Albert did all he could to keep peace as he was dying, and it had nothing to do with my whining. My Queen will only do what he would have wanted now, so deep is her grief. She loathes Palmerston. I swear, Victoria will not let Palmerston do anything stupid, anymore than Lyons will.”
Alfred opened his eyes, disputing a specific part of her claim. “You do not care enough to complain.”
“Is that what you really believe?”
Alfred no longer knew the answer, but there was one sticking point.
“You cannot. You’re making money off my pain. If you cared…”
“Yes.”
She did not lie to Alfred. He may never have believed it so, for her half truths could be just as deceptive, but here there was no point in playing pretend. Her boy was suffering, and it broke her heart to see.
America grunted, a spasm running through his spine. England hushed him, Canada still clinging to his ankle.
“That’s all this is,” he gasped. “Boats and guns and… You need my grain more than cotton. So you just sit and wait and watch. As usual.”
Ah. That old argument.
“If that were true, why would I waste time coming to see you?”
Alfred looked up at her, and Evelyn sighed. For all his pointed words, he had not tried to move away. That was something.
“I wanted to thank you, in person, for the food your president sent.”
Alfred’s frown lessened. “You got it?”
She nodded. “You send aid to a country which profits off your suffering? Alfred you must be a martyr. I'm so proud.”
The unabashed sincerity threw America, who did not expect such praise to be sung.
He frowned. “I saw their petition. It’s brave. And I neither want nor need your pride.”
“My people are brave,” she confirmed, ignoring his rejection of praise. “They are rarely given the chance to be so. I wish they did not have to starve for the right thing to be done. I wish it did not come at the cost of you and your people’s suffering.”
“...But that is the way of things.”
She frowned, not liking to hear those words from his lips. It was her - the so-called land of hope and glory - that was the fatalistic and melancholic one, not Alfred.
“Not for you. It… It does not have to be that way for you Alfred.”
It was the first time she had called him by his name in what felt like an eternity. At least a lifetime surely?
“I wanted to come, even if you did not want me. Alfred, your letter broke my heart. I wept for days before Matthew could get me passage to the States. I only wanted to be here for you, Evelyn to Alfred. If it is not enough, then I will go, but I do not want to. I only ask that you allow Matthew to stay in my place.”
“You cried?” he asked, voice small.
“Of course I did,” she replied emphatically. “Oh, Alfred. I never wanted this for you, and for you to have to do it alone -”
Her voice broke, and she stopped.
“I have to do it alone, you did it alone, as did Francis.”
Evelyn swallowed the urge to dispute this, to argue that her Civil War and France’s Revolution were over ideas, not secession. They had become lost in their own minds, not literally being torn in two. Alfred's right hand came up to grip Evelyn's wrist. She stopped stroking his hair, but intertwined their hands when he grappled for her fingers.
Alfred whispered, “And don't cry. I hated it when you cried. Especially over me.”
England did not appreciate the attempt at levity in America's weak voice. “I will cry if I bloody well want to.”
Alfred snorted. “Thanks England.”
“May I stay? I can make things more comfortable for you.”
Covered in sweat, looking pallid and still suffering so badly, Alfred nodded.
“Only if it will stop you crying. And if you sing me something not about dying.”
Her laugh was a broken and weak thing, then, taking a dreadful risk, Evelyn leaned down, putting one kiss to his forehead.
“Thank you, my love.”
“You're welcome, Evie.”
“Uh… Hmm. Fine,” she grumbled.
Matthew squeezed his ankle, whilst Evelyn racked her brain for a song. Matthew watched the two, eyes wet, unable to discern exactly what emotions he was enduring. Relief, mostly, though still frightened, anxious. Jealous.
“That May song,” Alfred said, “From that village with the weird horse.”
“Padstow?” she laughed once more, stronger this time, a small gentle giggle. “Fine, fine. But where did you hear about that? I never took you to Cornwall.”
He did not answer, but Evelyn snuffed to herself, humming the jaunty tune before beginning to sing,
Unite and unite, oh let us all unite
For summer is a'coming today
And whither we are going, we all will unite
In the merry month of May…
*****
16 Oct 1865
Dear Alfred,
I hope dearly that you will permit me to write to you moving forwards. I was relieved and pleased to hear all things seem to be settled for now. I hope only recovery and unity follow. I was sorry about Lincoln. Truly.Would it… would it makes things better if…
I yelled at Palmerston today. Over many things. I may have gotten into a few disagreements with men in suits when I returned to Southampton upon leaving your side. They had been watching me like vultures over a starving deer since then. I admit that after several weeks of this, I lost my temper. There was talk of admittance to a hospital you see, which has cropped up as a threat every now and then when I do not behave. My brothers’ - and yours - are legally responsible for my well being, so if these honourable gentlemen were to throw me away, it would surely not be for long. One hopes. Regardless, some comments were made, amongst other topics, and I snapped a little too harshly.
It was rather gratifying, to see the old man taken aback for once. I have not had the courage to fight my ministers for some time. It had nothing to do with your influence of course, do not be so foolish to think of such a thing, it was simply a case of much being on my mind.
I think I gave him rather a fright. I hope you take some gratification in the act. I will try for reparations about the ships. I swear. I do not know if frightening an old man will get the job done but…
You need not take my advice, as it is freely given and may be freely disregarded. I only ask that you consider it in the same way you would consider the advice of France, Prussia, Mexico, Russia, or any other sovereign state. Speaking of, I do not approve of what Francis has done to Maria. I hope you know that. I do not want to violate that doctrine of yours - Falklands aside the other decade - it protects Canada, and you may not believe it to be a priority of mine, but it is so.
As such, I wish you to take my advice. Firstly, listen to your brother. Matthew needs you, there is no denying that, but I entreat you to recognise how much you need him. There must be no raids silently permitted, no more border disputes of inflammatory words. Your compunctions must remain with myself, your anger must remain pointed at myself. Arbitration works for us, let us pursue that course, until there is no cause for harsh words. I am tired of forcing him to choose sides when there need only be one.
Secondly, and again I entreat you that you consider this seriously, and not scoff and dismiss it out of hand as you did the other month. Do not trust Ivan. I understand that you are thankful for his unwavering support. I only ask that you consider why he had offered it thus far. Secessionist states and a strong central government? Please remember what Ivan would think of such things. Do not mistake hate for me as love for you. Do not allow yourself to be used. And do not call me self centred for saying these things, I know what Ivan thinks of me. Russian ships waited in Australia to harm Jack the moment I gave an inkling of support for your rebellious states. He is cleverer and far less honest than you give him credit. I do not pretend to be above schemes or manipulations or reproach, but you know here what my intentions are. I will not see my colonies harmed by foreign powers. What does sending ships to Sydney do, other than remind me of my limits and frighten and use a child to make me bend? As with Matthew, I have to find ways around this to protect Jack. Can I trust you to help me in this?
There is hope, for me, that a renewed friendship with France and Prussia may be on the horizon. Maybe even… no. None of your business.
You should know him better. Jack, I mean. He is a sweet boy, but prone to fits of moodiness I cannot pull him from. I fear he takes too much after his aunt. I think you would enjoy knowing him. He loves animals, reptiles especially, and whilst he is not as easy to teach as you were, he is not ignorant. Would you consider writing to him? I know asking you to call him - and Maia - your sibling may be too difficult an ask. Would a friend be sufficient? Someone outside our system, a neutral third party, may be what he needs.
Again, I ask that you take none of this as a lecture. I do not wish to control you Alfred, I seek only to light the way for you.
I remain yours, in whatever way you wish to take me,
Eva
P.S. Apparently Matthew said you have picked up a cursed habit of referring to me as Evie. I let it slide the first time as you were delirious with fever. I am not a child, and would ask that you call me by a name I approve of. God knows how much you would hate it if I called you Alfie.
*****
Oct 31 1865
Dear Evie,
Thank you for your condolences regarding my president. I believe you.
You may write, and you may advise, but I return no promises of when you will receive responses, nor of if I will take your letters into consideration. That is what it is to be equal.
I will write to Jack, though. Please forward me an address.
I also thank you for coming to see me. I have since visited Matthew, and have given my thanks in person. I believe I know your intentions for that trip; you succeeded.
I think I understand you a little better now.
Please burn the letter I sent prior to you sailing across the Atlantic. I do not wish for it to exist anymore.
Yours sincerely,
Alfred.
P.S. I would offer my own condolences about your PM; was rather surprised to hear he’d died the other week, the old man always seemed as strong as an old bison in the news, yet somehow I doubt you feel any sadness about the fact. I can’t say I feel too sorry for you though, having to sit through that funeral. Thinking more on it now however… Evie, you didn’t frighten an old man to death did you?Brilliant little witch.
*****
History Notes:
- The song England sings doesn’t really have a name, though it is sometimes simply called Padstow after the town and the May Day festival it originates from. Steeleye Span did some great versions of it, but my favourite is from the Nova Scotian folk group the Rankin Family which fuck me if it's available online. The Obby Oss is one of my favourite customs and looks so much fun.
- Civil War and Britain. The political elite were largely pro-Confederacy; middle and working class pro-Union. However, for the most part the feeling of the UK public was apathy. MPs like John Bright and Richard Cobden kept Parliament from doing anything too stupid.
- The earlier repeal of Britain’s protectionist Corn Laws, led indirectly to Britain being reliant on (Northern) American wheat, a source of food they could not afford to lose by recognising the Confederacy and pissing off the Union.
- The loss of cotton caused the collapse of Lancashire's industries and threw thousands into absolute poverty. Despite this, Manchester sent a letter of solidarity to Lincoln, praising him for the Emancipation Declaration. In response Lincoln sent a letter of thanks, along with aid to Lancashire. Lincoln has a statue in Manchester for it, and he was the first non-Brit to get a statue at Parliament Square in London.
- On the other hand, Britain was building the Confederates ships, and incidents like the Trent Affair happened. Prince Albert helped a bit here. The man's first public role after marrying Victoria was to become Society President for the Abolition of Slavery and by God was he determined to see that through. He and Queen Vic also thought Palmerston sucked, so Albert - whilst popping his clogs - did literally everything he could to inconvenience Lord Pam.
- The British Ambassador to the US, Richard Lyons, was very good at his job and would just blatantly ignore instructions from London, as if he knew better. He often did.
- No European state would recognise the Confederacy until Britain did, France explicitly stating as much. They were busy fucking with Mexico at the time, so had other priorities. Confederate diplomacy to Britain is the funniest whiplash of overt seduction to blatant negging. It didn't work.
- Russia had an... interesting fixation with Australia throughout most of the 19th century until Japan supplanted Russian influence over the Pacific. It was all part of the Great Game the UK and Russia played in the 19th Century, and the trend of poor Australia being dropped like a hot potato when stacked up against the USA.
- I may have implied England frightened Palmerston to death, as he would pop his clogs a couple of days later after her letter above. The real reason was he was old and caught a cold whilst riding in a carriage and it turned to a fever. Just a smidge interesting, that the American and British leaders would die in the same year whilst in office. I haven't read anything that explicitly stated Palmerston was against Canadian Confederation but... well. It's my fanfic and I do what I want to~
- UK and US relations were not warm at this time and would not be so for a few more decades; but what did start was the habit of taking disputes to a sort of international arbitration. Both sides liked this, until they were mature enough to settle disputes one on one like adults...
Link to Chapter Nine.
Also available on Ao3.
Chapter Eight: 1863-1865, or Another Civil War
Washington, District of Columbia
“You two, you ain’t from here.”
The woman and the young man turned around. The lady was small with harsh features. She had the look of someone who had been starved very young, and had never fully developed properly as a result. The man was taller, though not particularly broad. Both were beautiful, if in an off putting manner. Unnatural.
The woman did not speak, looking instead to the other man. He swallowed, collar pressing against his adam's apple. When he spoke, it was quietly, but with a noticeable forcefulness.
“No. Does that matter?”
The soldier frowned. What a foolish question.
The woman sighed, pulling out a letter. She gave it to her companion, who opened it, exposing the bottom of the letter, and the signature underneath. He waved the letter at the soldier, but it was the woman who spoke.
“That’s Jones’ signature, is it not?”
The soldier blinked, completely taken aback by the woman’s voice. Scratchy and rough, low and snapping, she frowned deeply, eyebrows drawn tight together. She snatched the letter back before the soldier could get a good look at its contents.
“He is not at some battlefield, he is not in a tent, he is the capital recovering. We are colleagues of his and we were asked to come see him, thus here we are. ”
“You're… one of those then?”
The woman scoffed. “One of them. Yes. Very much so.”
“Can we see him?” the other man asked.
“Christ,” the woman hissed, turning away and moving along the corridor. Both men followed the grouchy woman. “I am not seeking permission from a soldier, I am too old for this. Make sure no-one disturbs us would you, sir. With some luck Alfred will be up and walking around when we leave. I need to lecture him about his choice of friends...”
“We have permission, from the White House,” the young man stumbled over his words, “if you want to confirm but… well.”
Despite the way the little English woman stomped along the corridor, she did so with little noise, the dress creating an effect where she appeared to float down the room, if not for the determined swing of her arms and speed with which she moved.
She stopped abruptly in front of the door, took a breath, then looked at Canada.
“Matthew, you go in first. Make sure he is decent.”
She pressed her lips together, stepping back. She cursed herself then, for not being brave enough to barge in as she would have done for any other nation. Evelyn saw Matthew see her fear, despite her efforts to suppress it on her features, then felt her cheeks flush red with shame. The boy must have had a catalogue of judgements by this point.
But he had been proud of her for coming. One last step across the threshold. And yet she could feel herself losing her nerve at the last possible moment, as petrified as she was to discover Alfred's state of being. His reaction to seeing her, if he were even conscious.
But she had travelled so far, first to Halifax and then down. It was not just a case of wanting to see Alfred, but an acute, pressing, guilt ridden need. It was not something any human would have experienced, she was certain. If it had come to it, she would have ended up trying to swim across the Atlantic in a daze.
There was something deeply wrong with their relationship. The thought of losing him with no reconciliation, with no second chance, had sent her into such a spiral of grief that had confirmed one irrefutable fact to Evelyn. She still loved her eldest.
Matthew opened the door, and Evelyn held her breath.
“Matthew,” she interrupted once again.
He looked at her, face still so young, and yet he had seen and endured so much from when she had first held the tiny thing in her arms. He looked an odd combination of tired and restless. She had learned to recognise that look, not just in herself, but in the children as well. Something would change for him soon. It would just take getting a certain PM out of the way before it could be done. England clenched her jaw, hurriedly whispering her advice.
“This is what it does to a nation. Federalisation. We’ll need to find another way for you my darling. I cannot have you suffer the same.”
Matthew looked at her, then the floor, then entered the room, giving no indication that heard his mother’s words.
*****
America had been dying for days, and yet somehow his heart refused to stop and let him rest. He didn't ever remember being sick when he was a young boy. England had a knack for finding clean water, as much as she had a knack for growing food and making sure it wasn’t going to give him food poisoning.
Her people, not so much of course. The number of times a silly English pilgrim ate something toxic was innumerable. But Evelyn at least knew how to cook most meats and vegetables to prevent sickness. She wasn’t necessarily good at seasoning the said item, but it was always a low risk task to eat her meals.
But beyond that, there had never been any typhoid, nor typhus, nor scarlet fever, nor whooping cough… None of it. This was especially odd to Alfred, as she seemed to be keeling over from those illnesses for half her life.
Watching her be ill was a baffling event. Frequently was the frustrated demand of mama get up yelled for when he just didn't understand.
He understood now. No limb would move without aid, the sweat along his back never seemed to cease. He had lost count how many times the bed linen had been changed. An inability to think pervaded, only emotions and haunting and inescapable sensation of dread and not belonging.
Go home , was what his heart was telling him. He needed to go home.
But where ? He wanted to cry. Virginia had rejected him. He had been dragged from Chancellorsville, fingers clawed and bloody clinging to the dirt. Even half dead, he couldn’t let go of his home, where he had been born. Where Evelyn had first met him by the river.
There was no relief in being in Washington DC either, in fact, there was no relief to be had anywhere. Instead, all America had was an inability to breathe, an inability to think, and an inability to die.
He was vaguely aware the door to his spartan room had been opened, another nurse there to give him a cursed sponge bath he suspected.
“Alfred,” came a voice he was not expecting.
It perhaps showed how far he had fallen, that even the act of opening his eyes seemed to do him harm, but America managed it, seeing his brother approaching the bed. His back spasmed, reflexively trying to get close to Matthew.
“How?!” he gasped, only for Canada to hold up his index finger to his lips, shushing him.
“Got your letter,” he explained.
Alfred frowned, mind hazy and unable to think of what he had written to Matthew that would have made him make the trip. He closed his eyes, then moved under the sheets. Leaving his hand exposed, which he used to weakly wave Matt over.
“She gave permission?” he asked.
Matthew sat on the narrow bed, more akin to a cot, taking Alfred’s hand. A rustling continued despite the brother’s settling into stillness. The slats of the blinds remained such that filtering light kept the room from total darkness, lighting up dust as it floated around. To England, it was too familiar an environment.
She remained by the door, transfixed. That pressing - never entirely gone away despite how much she had wished otherwise - need to mother (smother) America overwhelmed her. She should have removed her gloves, taken off her lace shawl, ordered sugar and sodium as well as clean water for drinking and bathing, but she remained still, watching.
Alfred was curled into a ball, eyes squeezed shut, with the hand that remained above the thin sheets clinging to Matthew like a lifeline. The veins in his hand bulged; he was dreadfully dehydrated.
Matthew continued to speak softly, no doubt knowing that his brother would have been suffering from an awful headache.
“She didn’t need to. Alfred, she has never locked me away in the tower, I go where I want. The fact that you had ushered me away for so long in your letters, only to then change your mind so abruptly. It was alarming, to say the least.”
Alfred’s grip tightened around his brother’s fingers. “You always say the funniest things. I can’t remember writing you a letter recently.”
The continuing rustle, soft footsteps that could have not have come from Matthew, made Alfred pause.
“You came here with someone.”
Matthew sighed, “You tell me who was the last nation you had correspondence with?”
Stiffly, America uncurled, head appearing from below the soiled white sheet. He was met by a tiny ghost standing near the doorway, standing so still and looking like she had died from fright herself. There was no hiding the way her lips were pressed tightly together, the way she held her jaw up as if to appear larger and more confident. It did not do her much good. The facade broke, and she grimaced.
“You can go,” Alfred demanded.
He watched, somehow upset that she immediately turned around without a word, without a fight. Matthew’s jaw threatened to drop open, only to smirk when she threw open the door, startling the soldier who had followed them to the room and appeared with little shame to have been eavesdropping. England hissed orders at the man with such anger that her spit would have killed him stone dead if it were venomous. She then threw the door shut so ferociously that the room shook.
Her anger sifted away, reminding them both of when they were small. Of her snapping and smacking and generally being a bit of an irritable bitch depending on who had irked her that day. For all her efforts to never have that anger directed at the children, they still saw it, and pondered how and when that self imposed rule of do not yell at the babies would be broken. Alfred had found out - it simply took attacking another one of her children. Whether or not he had consented to such an action in the first place had never once been considered. It gave off a rather rancid vibe: Do not touch my things. I do not trust you with them and I am not one for sharing.
This wasn’t the case now, and the nervous look on England returned.
“I did not want you here,” America spat, only for his anger to be stolen away by such a pain in his chest he thought his heart was finally giving up. “I didn’t write that for you…” he trailed off, unsure of why he had written her the letter in the first place. Fear, probably. A moment of weakness.
Floating like the ghost she was, suddenly Alfred's bed sheets were thrown off the bed, and he was being lifted up until his head was no longer on the hard mattress. Her left hand settled on his chest, pressing down as if to soothe the erratic muscle in its struggle to pump dark blood around the dying body. She had indeed removed her gloves, then Alfred watched as she tugged off her pearl ring. The one so old even he remembered how she used to wear it.
“Shhh. Shhh. I do not wish to argue. That is not why I came. I want to help, that’s all.”
Despite himself, Alfred felt his heart rate settle. She smelled the same, to his shock that he even remembered such a thing. Sweet, but metallic. Sugar and iron. Despite the years that had passed, it felt too similar to when he was smaller, like when she would take him to the hill, the one with the hollow church tower, to sit and watch the small village and the world go by. He would roll and run up and down, up and down, stealing apples from the nearby orchard, not caring one bit when Evelyn would chide him. She still washed them in the spring waters and sliced them up for him. He would run and shout and play, manic and excitable, before England’s civil war and she was able to keep up with his energy with seemingly no trouble at all. Blowing raspberries and snatching him into squeezing tight cuddles before finally he would collapse on her lap, the two watching the sun set.
Alfred did not like to think about the past. It often felt like there was nothing for him there; he always had to look forward to what things could be, and how to make it so. This war however had made him stuck in the present, unable to see a way out of the dark. For once, sitting in the comforts of something that once was, as weak as he believed it to be, was an action he did not fight to move away from.
Someone knocked on the door, and Matthew’s weight lifted from the bed, returning swiftly with whatever Evelyn had previously asked for.
“He needs water right now, and the sugar and salt. Peel the apples, no skin, and cut them up very small, he won’t be able to chew much. The peanuts might need mashing. America, are you throwing up?”
“No,” he answered, frowning at the thought of eating mush.
“You can eat and drink then. Slowly, obviously.”
Alfred wanted to argue that it was flushing out of his system no matter how slow he consumed anything, nor did he particularly want Evelyn to be around for the consequences, but he held still. He wanted to see what she was up to. Being manipulative, as usual, probably.
She leaned across, taking a glass, then propping him up enough so that he could take a sip of water. Alfred refused on principle, turning his head away, despite how much the movement hurt.
“Alfred,” Matthew began to chide.
“Leave it. It can wait, darling,” Evelyn said, returning the glass to her second son.
“Why did you come?” Alfred complained. “I did not want you here. I didn’t ask you to come. I don’t want you in the city, the last time you came here…”
“I will not apologise for that. You deserved to be humbled. We all have to go through it. Better me than a foreign power.”
“You are a foreign power.”
“Hmph.” She rubbed his chest, warmth running through him from the friction. Just the friction.
“Why did you come here?” he pushed.
He felt her sigh, a great heaving exhale that lifted him up and down, then the room was quiet as she thought through what to say. Matthew watched the scene, forever feeling like a spectator to his family’s own troubles.
“When…” England began, talking so quietly and softly that Alfred felt like he was an infant again, like when she would take the boat with him across the ocean, singing and recalling stories to pass the endless frightening weeks of bad weather and worse food.
He swallowed dryly, focusing on that tone and the way she held him on her lap, a soft cushion of red fabric. Not cotton. Not silk. Was she seriously wearing a woollen dress in such heat? She had removed her gloves though. Those fingers running through his sweaty hair were bare. Cooling and dry.
“When you were so small, when you were first found and brought back… everyone spoke of how strong you were. You were a fat baby ” - Alfred snorted a wheeze of a laugh, eyes still closed - “about the size of a six month old, and so happy all the time. But I think bringing you to England so young, before any settlement had been made permanent, was a mistake. You got sick. Just once. Only once. Before Jamestown. I would stay awake all night, watching you sleep, then hold you during the day, sing and keep you cool. Breathing was difficult for you. I cannot forget the sound - the sound of a dying babe. So I could do nothing, except watch over you, be there for you when you needed comfort. I thought to myself, however long it takes, whatever I have to do, I would stay with you to whatever end. It was my foolish men and ambitious queen that brought you into this world - if you believe that story - so you were mine. My boy, and I would be there for your end, be it permanent or temporary.”
“Did I die? Then?”
Evelyn shook her head. “No, after four days your smiles returned and the fever broke. You reached up for me once again, and I knew that you would live.”
“So you do the same now?”
“Yes. It does not matter what year it is, I still hold myself to that oath. But I have no doubts this time. I know that you will live.”
“Your… government doesn't seem to agree.”
Evelyn screwed up her mouth, swallowing the urge to spit on the ground. She managed to ground out, “Palmerston is a cruel bully. He believes his own lies and punishes us all for them… You remember Richard Cobden? He spoke of meeting you.”
Alfred frowned, trying to remember. Evelyn nudged him. “He was in between elections as an MP. He would have spoken about corn laws and the unjustness of the opium wars.”
“Oh.” America scoffed. “Yes, I remember. A radical. For you.”
“Mm. And John Bright? But I suppose you would expect that, coming from a Quaker. They do not want you to fail, nor does Lyons. He is a good ambassador, I wish you would trust him more.”
“He’s a cold fish, your man.”
“Only because Seward runs so hot. It does no good to have a hot-headed ambassador reporting to a hot headed foreign secretary, no?”
“...What’s your point?”
“That Palmerston is Palmerston and he is very good at creating a ‘with us or against us’ mentality. Everything British is good. Everything not British is bad. But I do not agree with him and I never will. And I know you do not want to hear it, but Prince Albert did all he could to keep peace as he was dying, and it had nothing to do with my whining. My Queen will only do what he would have wanted now, so deep is her grief. She loathes Palmerston. I swear, Victoria will not let Palmerston do anything stupid, anymore than Lyons will.”
Alfred opened his eyes, disputing a specific part of her claim. “You do not care enough to complain.”
“Is that what you really believe?”
Alfred no longer knew the answer, but there was one sticking point.
“You cannot. You’re making money off my pain. If you cared…”
“Yes.”
She did not lie to Alfred. He may never have believed it so, for her half truths could be just as deceptive, but here there was no point in playing pretend. Her boy was suffering, and it broke her heart to see.
America grunted, a spasm running through his spine. England hushed him, Canada still clinging to his ankle.
“That’s all this is,” he gasped. “Boats and guns and… You need my grain more than cotton. So you just sit and wait and watch. As usual.”
Ah. That old argument.
“If that were true, why would I waste time coming to see you?”
Alfred looked up at her, and Evelyn sighed. For all his pointed words, he had not tried to move away. That was something.
“I wanted to thank you, in person, for the food your president sent.”
Alfred’s frown lessened. “You got it?”
She nodded. “You send aid to a country which profits off your suffering? Alfred you must be a martyr. I'm so proud.”
The unabashed sincerity threw America, who did not expect such praise to be sung.
He frowned. “I saw their petition. It’s brave. And I neither want nor need your pride.”
“My people are brave,” she confirmed, ignoring his rejection of praise. “They are rarely given the chance to be so. I wish they did not have to starve for the right thing to be done. I wish it did not come at the cost of you and your people’s suffering.”
“...But that is the way of things.”
She frowned, not liking to hear those words from his lips. It was her - the so-called land of hope and glory - that was the fatalistic and melancholic one, not Alfred.
“Not for you. It… It does not have to be that way for you Alfred.”
It was the first time she had called him by his name in what felt like an eternity. At least a lifetime surely?
“I wanted to come, even if you did not want me. Alfred, your letter broke my heart. I wept for days before Matthew could get me passage to the States. I only wanted to be here for you, Evelyn to Alfred. If it is not enough, then I will go, but I do not want to. I only ask that you allow Matthew to stay in my place.”
“You cried?” he asked, voice small.
“Of course I did,” she replied emphatically. “Oh, Alfred. I never wanted this for you, and for you to have to do it alone -”
Her voice broke, and she stopped.
“I have to do it alone, you did it alone, as did Francis.”
Evelyn swallowed the urge to dispute this, to argue that her Civil War and France’s Revolution were over ideas, not secession. They had become lost in their own minds, not literally being torn in two. Alfred's right hand came up to grip Evelyn's wrist. She stopped stroking his hair, but intertwined their hands when he grappled for her fingers.
Alfred whispered, “And don't cry. I hated it when you cried. Especially over me.”
England did not appreciate the attempt at levity in America's weak voice. “I will cry if I bloody well want to.”
Alfred snorted. “Thanks England.”
“May I stay? I can make things more comfortable for you.”
Covered in sweat, looking pallid and still suffering so badly, Alfred nodded.
“Only if it will stop you crying. And if you sing me something not about dying.”
Her laugh was a broken and weak thing, then, taking a dreadful risk, Evelyn leaned down, putting one kiss to his forehead.
“Thank you, my love.”
“You're welcome, Evie.”
“Uh… Hmm. Fine,” she grumbled.
Matthew squeezed his ankle, whilst Evelyn racked her brain for a song. Matthew watched the two, eyes wet, unable to discern exactly what emotions he was enduring. Relief, mostly, though still frightened, anxious. Jealous.
“That May song,” Alfred said, “From that village with the weird horse.”
“Padstow?” she laughed once more, stronger this time, a small gentle giggle. “Fine, fine. But where did you hear about that? I never took you to Cornwall.”
He did not answer, but Evelyn snuffed to herself, humming the jaunty tune before beginning to sing,
Unite and unite, oh let us all unite
For summer is a'coming today
And whither we are going, we all will unite
In the merry month of May…
*****
16 Oct 1865
Dear Alfred,
I hope dearly that you will permit me to write to you moving forwards. I was relieved and pleased to hear all things seem to be settled for now. I hope only recovery and unity follow. I was sorry about Lincoln. Truly.
I yelled at Palmerston today. Over many things. I may have gotten into a few disagreements with men in suits when I returned to Southampton upon leaving your side. They had been watching me like vultures over a starving deer since then. I admit that after several weeks of this, I lost my temper. There was talk of admittance to a hospital you see, which has cropped up as a threat every now and then when I do not behave. My brothers’ - and yours - are legally responsible for my well being, so if these honourable gentlemen were to throw me away, it would surely not be for long. One hopes. Regardless, some comments were made, amongst other topics, and I snapped a little too harshly.
It was rather gratifying, to see the old man taken aback for once. I have not had the courage to fight my ministers for some time. It had nothing to do with your influence of course, do not be so foolish to think of such a thing, it was simply a case of much being on my mind.
I think I gave him rather a fright. I hope you take some gratification in the act. I will try for reparations about the ships. I swear. I do not know if frightening an old man will get the job done but…
You need not take my advice, as it is freely given and may be freely disregarded. I only ask that you consider it in the same way you would consider the advice of France, Prussia, Mexico, Russia, or any other sovereign state. Speaking of, I do not approve of what Francis has done to Maria. I hope you know that. I do not want to violate that doctrine of yours - Falklands aside the other decade - it protects Canada, and you may not believe it to be a priority of mine, but it is so.
As such, I wish you to take my advice. Firstly, listen to your brother. Matthew needs you, there is no denying that, but I entreat you to recognise how much you need him. There must be no raids silently permitted, no more border disputes of inflammatory words. Your compunctions must remain with myself, your anger must remain pointed at myself. Arbitration works for us, let us pursue that course, until there is no cause for harsh words. I am tired of forcing him to choose sides when there need only be one.
Secondly, and again I entreat you that you consider this seriously, and not scoff and dismiss it out of hand as you did the other month. Do not trust Ivan. I understand that you are thankful for his unwavering support. I only ask that you consider why he had offered it thus far. Secessionist states and a strong central government? Please remember what Ivan would think of such things. Do not mistake hate for me as love for you. Do not allow yourself to be used. And do not call me self centred for saying these things, I know what Ivan thinks of me. Russian ships waited in Australia to harm Jack the moment I gave an inkling of support for your rebellious states. He is cleverer and far less honest than you give him credit. I do not pretend to be above schemes or manipulations or reproach, but you know here what my intentions are. I will not see my colonies harmed by foreign powers. What does sending ships to Sydney do, other than remind me of my limits and frighten and use a child to make me bend? As with Matthew, I have to find ways around this to protect Jack. Can I trust you to help me in this?
There is hope, for me, that a renewed friendship with France and Prussia may be on the horizon. Maybe even… no. None of your business.
You should know him better. Jack, I mean. He is a sweet boy, but prone to fits of moodiness I cannot pull him from. I fear he takes too much after his aunt. I think you would enjoy knowing him. He loves animals, reptiles especially, and whilst he is not as easy to teach as you were, he is not ignorant. Would you consider writing to him? I know asking you to call him - and Maia - your sibling may be too difficult an ask. Would a friend be sufficient? Someone outside our system, a neutral third party, may be what he needs.
Again, I ask that you take none of this as a lecture. I do not wish to control you Alfred, I seek only to light the way for you.
I remain yours, in whatever way you wish to take me,
Eva
P.S. Apparently Matthew said you have picked up a cursed habit of referring to me as Evie. I let it slide the first time as you were delirious with fever. I am not a child, and would ask that you call me by a name I approve of. God knows how much you would hate it if I called you Alfie.
*****
Oct 31 1865
Dear Evie,
Thank you for your condolences regarding my president. I believe you.
You may write, and you may advise, but I return no promises of when you will receive responses, nor of if I will take your letters into consideration. That is what it is to be equal.
I will write to Jack, though. Please forward me an address.
I also thank you for coming to see me. I have since visited Matthew, and have given my thanks in person. I believe I know your intentions for that trip; you succeeded.
I think I understand you a little better now.
Please burn the letter I sent prior to you sailing across the Atlantic. I do not wish for it to exist anymore.
Yours sincerely,
Alfred.
P.S. I would offer my own condolences about your PM; was rather surprised to hear he’d died the other week, the old man always seemed as strong as an old bison in the news, yet somehow I doubt you feel any sadness about the fact. I can’t say I feel too sorry for you though, having to sit through that funeral. Thinking more on it now however… Evie, you didn’t frighten an old man to death did you?
*****
History Notes:
- The song England sings doesn’t really have a name, though it is sometimes simply called Padstow after the town and the May Day festival it originates from. Steeleye Span did some great versions of it, but my favourite is from the Nova Scotian folk group the Rankin Family which fuck me if it's available online. The Obby Oss is one of my favourite customs and looks so much fun.
- Civil War and Britain. The political elite were largely pro-Confederacy; middle and working class pro-Union. However, for the most part the feeling of the UK public was apathy. MPs like John Bright and Richard Cobden kept Parliament from doing anything too stupid.
- The earlier repeal of Britain’s protectionist Corn Laws, led indirectly to Britain being reliant on (Northern) American wheat, a source of food they could not afford to lose by recognising the Confederacy and pissing off the Union.
- The loss of cotton caused the collapse of Lancashire's industries and threw thousands into absolute poverty. Despite this, Manchester sent a letter of solidarity to Lincoln, praising him for the Emancipation Declaration. In response Lincoln sent a letter of thanks, along with aid to Lancashire. Lincoln has a statue in Manchester for it, and he was the first non-Brit to get a statue at Parliament Square in London.
- On the other hand, Britain was building the Confederates ships, and incidents like the Trent Affair happened. Prince Albert helped a bit here. The man's first public role after marrying Victoria was to become Society President for the Abolition of Slavery and by God was he determined to see that through. He and Queen Vic also thought Palmerston sucked, so Albert - whilst popping his clogs - did literally everything he could to inconvenience Lord Pam.
- The British Ambassador to the US, Richard Lyons, was very good at his job and would just blatantly ignore instructions from London, as if he knew better. He often did.
- No European state would recognise the Confederacy until Britain did, France explicitly stating as much. They were busy fucking with Mexico at the time, so had other priorities. Confederate diplomacy to Britain is the funniest whiplash of overt seduction to blatant negging. It didn't work.
- Russia had an... interesting fixation with Australia throughout most of the 19th century until Japan supplanted Russian influence over the Pacific. It was all part of the Great Game the UK and Russia played in the 19th Century, and the trend of poor Australia being dropped like a hot potato when stacked up against the USA.
- I may have implied England frightened Palmerston to death, as he would pop his clogs a couple of days later after her letter above. The real reason was he was old and caught a cold whilst riding in a carriage and it turned to a fever. Just a smidge interesting, that the American and British leaders would die in the same year whilst in office. I haven't read anything that explicitly stated Palmerston was against Canadian Confederation but... well. It's my fanfic and I do what I want to~
- UK and US relations were not warm at this time and would not be so for a few more decades; but what did start was the habit of taking disputes to a sort of international arbitration. Both sides liked this, until they were mature enough to settle disputes one on one like adults...
Link to Chapter Nine.
