Edward Bates, the Attorney General, ever a practical man said, “Mr. President you must declare an emergency in Mississippi — and martial law. Before tempers flare and the killing spreads.”

Lincoln nodded. “Yes, of course we must do that. Have the governor informed at once. Find out what troops we have stationed there and telegraph their commander at once. What a terrible thing to have happen. But you said — that it was a nightrider that was killed?”

Judah Benjamin nodded, and spoke most sadly. “Mr. Davis was with the nightriders. Perhaps he felt that by being part of the protests he could mollify the hotheads, provide rational argument. I don’t know…”

Salmon Chase knew. He had talked often with Jefferson Davis and knew that at heart the man felt that the Negro was inferior and would always be that way. He stayed his voice. Davis now had the dignity of the dead. And had paid the ultimate price for his bigotry. Dissension was not needed now. Old wounds needed to be bound up — not clawed open. “Do they know who did the shooting?” he asked.

Benjamin looked again at the telegram. “It was a young man, a war veteran, by the name L.D. Lewis.” He looked up and sighed deeply. “He is now under arrest, and… he is a Negro.”

“What was his outfit?” asked Edwin M. Stanton, the Secretary of War.

“It does not say.”

“Please make every effort to find out. He is a veteran, a soldier, and of great concern to the War Department.”

They were all in agreement about declaring martial law to prevent the violence spreading. Stanton drew up the order and it was dispatched. There was little fire left in their proposals now and they talked together in low voices, trying to find ways to keep the peace. Only Gideon Welles, the Secretary of the Navy, had other business to attend to. He kept glancing at the ornate clock on the wall, even taking out his watch to determine its accuracy. He finally nodded, put away the watch and stood up.

“Gentlemen — might I have your attention. Some of you here know what I am going to tell you now. To the others I must apologize for keeping you in the dark. But the way to keep a secret is not to tell anyone. But we felt that we had to do as good as the British — do them one better if we could. You will recall how they landed and seized a Mexican seaport when we thought that they were on the way to the West Indies. Most embarrassing for us, as you all know. But that is no longer the case. At this moment I can tell you that our mighty fleet is striking close to the heart of the British Empire. The fleet that the entire world believed was on its way to the Pacific coast of Mexico — did not go there at all. It was a ruse, a hoax, an immense attempt to make the enemy expect us in one place — when in reality we were striking at another. We are not going to fight them any more in Mexico because they will soon be forced to withdraw all the troops that they have there.” He smiled around at the puzzled expressions, the few nods of agreement of those cabinet members who had knowledge of the real invasion.

“The warships and the troop transports that sailed south some days ago — did no such thing. Once out of sight of land they changed course and proceeded to a rendezvous in the North Atlantic. Refueled and united they sailed to what most certainly will be a victory.”

Welles looked around at the puzzled faces and could not stifle a wry grin.

“For even as I speak our forces are invading the island of Ireland. The first landings were made at six this morning, Greenwich Mean Time. It is now five in the afternoon in Ireland. The invasion is well under way and, with God’s help, can but succeed. Can you imagine the expression on Queen Victoria’s face when someone tells her this bit of news!”

“May that moment be long in coming,” Abraham Lincoln said. “All of our efforts up to now have been bent on keeping that royal lady — and her armed forces — in the dark. If everything goes according to plan Ireland will be secured well before news of the conquest reaches England. When they do discover what has happened it will be too late to do anything about it. Short of mounting a counter-invasion, they will have little to choose from.”

“May you be speaking the truth, Mr. President,” Judah P. Benjamin said. “May the plans of our officers be successful, may this effort of arms succeed in every way. May victory be ours.”

He did not add that victory was never assured in war. Quite the opposite in fact. Well what was done was done. He did not speak aloud his reservations or fears, not wanting to destroy this moment of happiness. But he saw Lincoln looking at him — the same dark look of deep concern on his face.

The deed was done. All that they could do now was pray that success would be theirs.

It was a cool and clear night in most of Ireland. But to the west there were rain squalls over Mayo and Galway, down as far south as The Burren. But there is always rain in the west and no one took any particular notice. The country slept. Only the military were awake, the nightwatch on guard at the many British military establishments that marked out the occupation of the land. Soldiers stamped outside the brick barracks in the Curragh, just south of Dublin. Stood guard as well in front of Dublin Castle, walked the battlements of Belvelly Tower, one of the five towers that defended Cork Harbor. Peered down from the gunports of the Martello towers that guarded Galway Bay. Only the military marked the darkness of the midnight hour.

Or did they? To the east of Belfast, where Belfast Lough entered the Irish Sea, was the small fishing village of Groomsport. Little different from any other village on the shores of Ireland, except, perhaps for the signs on the seafront east of the harbor. DO NOT ANCHOR HERE they read in large letters: the two men who appeared out of the darkness knew them very well.

“Further on, Seamus, just a bit.”

“It’s right here I tell you, I was pulling on the nippers right up this bit of shore—”

His words broke off with a pained grunt as he tripped and stretched himself on the sand.

“Right you are, Seamus, and I’ll never doubt you again.”

“Tripped over the bloody thing.” He reached down and with an effort he lifted the six-inch telegraph cable a few inches into the air.

“That’s it! I’ll never forget the day we dragged her ashore. Cut it here?”

“No. Get a sling on it. We’ll cut it in the water, then drag the seaward end out as far as we can.”

They passed a rope around the cable and each took an end. Gasping with the effort they lifted the cable, slid the rope along it as they stumbled into the sea, until the chill water was above their knees.

“Enough — jaysus, I’m knackered already.”

“Can you hold it there? Let the weight rest over your knee.”

“Just — about. Cut it before I’m banjaxed.”

Seamus took the hacksaw from the bag that hung from his belt. Sawed industriously at the outer casing, then the insulation and the copper wires. Cutting the steel cable in the center was something else again and his companion groaned in agony.

“That does it!” he said as the last strand parted and the severed ends of the cable disappeared into the dark water.

“Find it — find the end…”

Soaked through, their teeth chattering with the cold, they finally found the severed end of the cable that went out into the sea. Once more they managed to tie the rope around it. Not lifting now, but dragging it along the shore until they could move it no more, their mouths just above the surface of the waves.

“Leave it before we drown ourselves. They’ll not be patching this too readily.”

They stumbled and splashed their way ashore and vanished in the darkness towards the boat to cross the lough. Fearful all the way that they might be seen, identified. Not until they were in the familiar streets of the Catholic Pound area did they feel any relief. They separated there and Seamus slipped through the unlocked door of his house and bolted it behind him. Nuala was still awake, sitting by the fire in the kitchen.