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“These are our orders,” Gaffney said, holding up a single sheet of paper. “They are from the Secretary to the Lords’ Commissioners of the Admiralty. Succinct and to the point and I am sure that they will be followed with a great deal of pleasure. You may read them.”

“Understood, sir. And to be obeyed with the greatest of pleasure, sir!”

Wedge’s hair was grizzled, his face red from drink or rage — or both. He had been passed over for command too often and would never rise to a higher rank. His men hated him, but they fought well for him, since he hated the enemy even more. He was a formidable fighter and this was his kind of battle.

“Do you have a site in mind, Captain?”

“I do. Here.” They bent their heads over the map. “On the coast of South Carolina, a small town called Myrtle Beach. I called in there once for water. There are some fishing vessels, and a railroad station at the end of this line that goes inland. The buildings, as I recall, were mostly wooden.”

“They’ll burn well. When do we attack?”

“We are making six knots now which should bring us within sight of land at dawn. We will go in as soon as the target is identified.”

The postmaster of Myrtle Beach was just raising the flag when the unmistakable sound of cannon fire boomed from the direction of the harbor. By the time he had hurried to the corner, to look down the road to the shore, dark clouds of smoke were roiling up above the roofs. There were screams now and people running. The fishing boats tied up in the little harbor were all burning. Boatloads of soldiers in red uniforms were coming ashore. Beyond them the dark hull of a warship brightened suddenly with the flames from its guns and an instant later the front of the First Bank of South Carolina exploded outward.

The postmaster ran. Through the crunch of broken glass to the train terminal, throwing open the door to the telegraph office.

“Get this out on the wire! The British are here, burning and blowing up everything. Firing cannon, landing soldiers. The war has come here…”

The burst of musket fire hurled the postmaster back onto the telegraph operator, threw them both dead to the floor.

Lieutenant Wedge and his marines stamped across the floor in their heavy boots and on into the empty station beyond. A black, diamond-stack locomotive w

aited on the tracks there: the crew had fled. A trickle of smoke rose from the stack; steam hissed lightly from a valve. “Just what I had hoped to find. Bring up Mr. McCloud.” The captain had agreed at once when the marine lieutenant had suggested that the ship’s engineering officer accompany them ashore. Wedge pointed at the locomotive when the engineer appeared.

“Can you take care of that thing? Blow it up. Will you need black powder?”

“Not at all, sir. A steam engine is a steam engine, none much different from the other, at sea or on land. I’ll just stoke her red hot, close all the outlet valves — and tie down the safety valve. After that the boiler will take care of itself.”

The town was in flames, the fishing boats burnt down to their waterlines, the townsfolk who had not escaped were dead in the streets. A satisfactory morning’s work, Lieutenant Wedge thought as he climbed back to the deck of the Speedfast. He turned to look at the burning buildings when there was a great explosion and a white cloud of steam shot up out of the black clouds of smoke.

“What was that?” Captain Gaffney asked. “A powder store?”

“No, sir. A steam engine blowing itself to kingdom come.”

“Well done. Be sure to mention that in your report.”

“Another town burnt, Mr. President,” Nicolay said. “Myrtle Beach, little place on the South Carolina coast. And at least seven American merchant ships have been attacked and seized at sea. Even worse, there have been two more armed incursions across the Canadian border. A most serious one in Vermont. People are in panic up there, leaving their homes and fleeing south.”

“These are terrible things to hear, John. Terrible. Soldiers fighting soldiers is one thing, but the British have declared war against our entire population. Go to the Congress at once, report what is happening to the clerk there. They should be voting on the proposals today and perhaps these cruel events can add a little fire to their resolution.”

Nicolay ran most of the way to the Capitol, arrived gasping for breath. Gave the reports to the head clerk and dropped into a chair. Congressman Wade, the fire-breathing abolitionist, was on his feet and in fine oratorical form.

“Never, and I repeat never, will I put my name to this proposal that will so weaken our resolution to do away with the evil institution of slavery as soon and as rapidly as possible. Men have died, battles have been fought on this principle. Simply freeing the slaves is not enough. That their masters should be paid for freeing them is an insult. God has called for the punishment of these evil men. They must be hurled down from their high station and made to suffer just as their helpless Negroes suffered at their hands. It would be treason if we allowed them to escape God’s justice…”

“You dare speak of treason!” Congressman Trumbull shouted, on his feet and waving his fist, apoplectic with anger. “You betray your country and betray all the young men, both of the North and the South, who gave their lives to rid this country of the foreign invaders. Now we hope to bind up the wounds of war and unite against this common enemy and you want to prevent that. I say that any man who speaks as you do is the real traitor to this country. If it were within my power I would see you hanged for your treasonous cant.”

This session of Congress was loud and vituperative and ran far into the night. Only exhaustion finally ground the discussion to a halt. With the acknowledgment that it would continue the following day. They would stay in session until agreement of one kind or another was reached.

Far from Washington, in the most northern part of the State of New York, an armed column of soldiers was moving briskly through the night. This was the smallest command that General Joseph E. Johnston had had in many years. And the strangest. The infantry regiments, the 2nd and 13th Louisiana, had served under him in the past. They were mostly from New Orleans and the surrounding parishes. Lean and hard; tough fighting men. The four artillery batteries had joined up with them in Pennsylvania. They were good and well trained soldiers. But he was still not used to having Yankees under his command.

And then there were the supply wagons. Not only the military ones, but the five others driven by Missouri mule skinners. Silent men who chewed tobacco constantly and spat with deadly accuracy.

If General Robert E. Lee himself had not met with Johnston to tell him in detail what needed to be done, he might have begun to doubt the sanity of the operation. But once General Lee had explained the overall concept of the strategy he had agreed at once to take command. Within twenty-four hours of their meeting his troops, guns, wagons and horses had come together in the marshaling yards. It was after midnight and raining hard, the rain hissing on the metal covers of the kerosene lamps, when they had boarded the waiting trains. The wagons had been pushed aboard the flatcars, the horses coaxed and pulled into the boxcars, the weary troops more than willing to fill the passenger cars. After that the only stops had been for coal and water as they rolled north. To Woods Mills, New York, a rail junction where two lines crossed. And perilously close to enemy-occupied Plattsburgh.

“I want scouts out on all sides,” General Johnston ordered. “Cavalry down the roads that we will be taking.”

“We’ve got us a volunteer here,” a cavalryman said. “Came riding up when he saw who we were.” A burly man on a large horse came forward out of the darkness into the light of the lantern.