This day the various military officers and government officials who were present talked quietly among themselves until, at precisely nine in the morning, President Lincoln came in. When the door was locked behind him he sat down, steepled his fingers on the long table before him, and nodded most gravely.

“Gentlemen, I do believe that the country is in a most parlous state. Some of you may have not seen the latest reports, so I will ask the Secretary of War to sum them up for you.”

Stanton nodded, took a sip of water from the glass at his elbow, and tapped the thick sheaf of papers before him.

“There is both success and failure in Mexico. As we are all too well aware of, the Mexican regular army there has been defeated by the French and their allies. President Diáz has been forced to flee to this country for his protection. With the Mexican army defeated and scattered we have had to rely on the various resistance groups throughout the country to carry on with hostilities. We have been supplying these irregulars in the country with small arms and ammunition. And, wherever possible, with cannon. On the success side of the ledger is the fact that Monterrey, San Luis Potosi and Guadalajara have all fallen to these Mexican forces from the north and west. Puebla has been taken in the south. An iron ring has now been drawn about Mexico City. The French are growing desperate. Through Maximilian they have asked for a parley. Diáz is not keen to do that because he would rather wipe them from the face of the earth. Since we are supplying his new armies with most of their weapons — and all of their ammunition — he has been obliged to listen to us. Therefore talks will take place soon with the French.

“On the negative side of the ledger there is that invasion road that is being constructed across the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. The British have dug in defensive positions all along its entire length, and are putting up a very fierce resistance. Mexican morale on this front is very low. This is because General Juarez and his men feel that they are fighting for our cause, not their own, and they wish to break off their contacts with the British and join the march on the capital. This is understandable — and something must be done about it quite soon. General Sherman will tell you later of a proposal to land our troops in Vera Cruz and attack the road, in the hopes of cutting it. Now, Admiral Porter has the latest reports on the naval aspects of the Mexican theatre of war.”

Rear Admiral David Dixon Porter shifted uneasily in his chair. He was much more at home on the bridge of a ship than he was facing the politicians and officers around the table.

“Simple enough,” he said. “The British have succeeded in seriously misleading us. We had many of what appeared to be accurate and authentic reports that a large convoy of warships, troops and heavy guns had left England bound for the West Indies. It now appears that this was nothing more than a ruse to trick us. In that, I am forced to say, they succeeded very well. They have put an invading force ashore in Mexico, at what we now know is the Atlantic terminus of their road. A village called Coatzacoalcos, though I have no idea how it is pronounced. They landed guns and troops in astounding numbers and have established a veritable fortress on the shore there. First reports indicate that it appears to be impregnable from the sea. A more detailed survey has been ordered and will be presented here as soon as it is complete. In addition, British ships are still stopping our vessels at sea and taking cargo that they claim to be contraband.”

“It is 1812 all over again,” Gideon Welles said. As Secretary of the Navy he took this as a personal affront. “They ignore our protests and appear indifferent to a state of peace or war with us.”

“They prefer war,” Sherman said. Robert E. Lee, sitting at his side, nodded solemn agreement. “The moment they landed in Mexico they were in a state of war against Mexico, with the obvious aim to widen the conflict to include this country. There is nothing they need in the tropical jungles of the isthmus — other than to build a road to attack us. They knew that, sooner or later, we would have to face that fact. It would only be a matter of time before we would discover the true purpose of those landings. The invasion of our country. By not declaring war they misled us, and made the reinforcing and arming of the eastern terminus of their road possible. I strongly suggest that, with or without a declaration of war, we send an army to sever that road. I have telegraphed General Grant to come to Washington at once. I propose that he leads an army to attack and cut that road before the troops can march its length to the Atlantic.”

“I concur,” Lee said. “There are many ways to fight wars, and General Grant’s way is the right one for this coming battle. He is a bulldog who chews his way to victory against whatever odds or defenses.”

“It will be a long, hard war of attrition and Grant is surely the man for that,” Sherman added. He looked around at the men at the table, his face emotionless, his pale eyes as cold as those of a bird of prey. “Grant will hold their troops, perhaps defeat them, but hold he certainly will. The British will pay a high price for their decision to cross Mexico.”

“You say that Grant will perhaps defeat the enemy,” Lincoln said. “I cannot believe that you would idly indulge in defeatist talk because I know that is not your way.”

“In that you are correct, Mr. President. We must treat the Mexican invasion and the harassment of our ships as diversions from our main objective.”

“Which is?” Stanton asked.

“Winning the war against the enemy. War is all hell and the British must be taught to believe that. We must take the war to them and impress our will upon them. They must lose — and lose so badly that they will no longer consider these kinds of military adventures against our sovereign nation. By force of arms they must be compelled to abandon all thoughts of future conquests.”

There was more than one indrawn breath as the men around the table considered the impact of Sherman’s statement. Lincoln spoke for all of them.

“General Sherman — are you suggesting that we take the war to the enemy — that we invade Britain?”

“I am not suggesting that, sir, although that may very well be one of our options. What I am saying is that we must no longer dance to their tune. They invaded this sovereign nation once before and we repelled them. Now they resume this war and threaten invasion a second time. They must be stopped now.”

“But how?”

“That is what you must decide here in this War Room. The best military minds that our country possesses are now assembled here. They must find a way out of this impasse. And while you are deciding I want you to confer with General Robert E. Lee. He is here today at my personal invitation. A fact, that we all recognize, is that he knows how to win battles against superior forces. He knows how to outwit other generals, to attack where he is least expected, to out-think and out-fight his opponents. He might very well be the man who will find a way to take the battle to the enemy.”

“Will you do this, General?” Lincoln asked.

Lee had fought — and won — so many battles that he had lost count. And he was still recovering from severe illness; the lines in his face and the pallor of his skin bore witness of that. Despite this he did not hesitate a single second. He answered the President the instant the question had been put to him.

“I feel obligated to, Mr. President.”

“Good. You did a mighty fine job of winning battles for the Confederacy. We will be most obliged if you use those same skills to confuse and defeat our common enemy now.”

For Thomas Meagher this was a moment of very mixed emotions. It had been over twenty years since he had last looked on the green hills of Ireland. But there they were now, the Dublin Mountains rising into the bright blue sky ahead. It was twenty years since he had left Dublin in a military transport, shackled and chained like a wild animal. Sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered for his activities as an Irish revolutionary. A sentence that had been reduced to transportation for life, in a prison camp in Tasmania on the other side of the world. He had never thought he would see Ireland again, even when he had escaped the prison, and Tasmania itself, and made his way to America. Now he was a soldier, the general in command of the Irish Brigade in the American army. Quite a rise for a convicted revolutionary. America had been good to him — but his Irish blood, and the country of his forefathers, still tugged at him. It was somehow very apt that now he was returning to the land of his ancestors. Ireland. Looking across the ocean, seeing the land of his birth, he became aware of a strange satisfaction, a lessening of a yearning he had scarcely been aware of. He was back. He was home.