“Now,” the duke said passing the bottle to the Queen. She took it in both her tiny, gloved hands, raised it as her thin voice cut through the sudden silence.

“I christen thee Conqueror. God bless this ship and all who sail on her.”

“Do it!” the duke whispered urgently. The Queen was his cousin so he did not bother to mince words. The last restraints clattered free and the great iron ship shuddered and began, ever so slowly, to move.

Victoria pushed the bottle out. It swung in a slow arc and hit the bow.

And bounced back without breaking. There was gasp from the watching crowd.

This had happened more than once before and provision had been made; a thin line had been attached to the launching rope to pull it back. One of the firm’s directors pulled on it hurriedly as Conqueror started down the greased ways. There was a grumbling roar as the great mass of piled chain secured to the ship’s bow to slow the launch moved ponderously after her.

Cursing under his breath the Duke of Cambridge seized the bottle himself and threw it in a mighty overhand swing — just as it was torn from his hands. This time it crashed into smithereens and the wine ran down the riveted iron. The crowd burst into a spontaneous roar of approval as Conqueror slid foaming into the still waters of the Victoria Channel. Rocked ponderously in the roiled waters.

Queen Victoria turned away well before the ship was clear of the slipway.

“We are chilled,” she said as the officials backed quickly aside to make way for her. The Duke of Cambridge walked at her side, then joined her when she climbed into the waiting carriage.

“A day’s work well done,” he said when the door was closed. He did not mention the near-fiasco of the bottle, not seeing any point in prompting one of her tantrums. “And the first of many to come. Six more iron ships under construction, though none to match this one. In Liverpool and Glasgow even now they are fitting out these ships of the new navy. We go from strength to strength…”

“Pull up that rug. We are cold.” Her tiny, bejeweled hands tugged at the edge of the rug, drew it up to her chin. “And what of this invasion you keep telling us about? What of this strike to the Yankee heartland that will bring them to heel?” Her voice was high-pitched and querulous.

“ Rome was not built in a day, dear cuz. We are assembling an army and that takes time. Our landings on the Pacific coast of Mexico were unopposed and successful. Troops have been landed, an army assembled. Even as we speak a road is being cut through the trackless jungle there. We must be patient. It takes time to prepare all that is necessary for a war, you know. This will take even more time for the land is savage and wild. But you must realize that this only the beginning. A fighting fleet must be assembled as well, transports assembled, the stuff of war manufactured. And we must be most cautious and balance our troop movements carefully. At the same time that we strip India and the Orient of native troops, we must replace them with English yeomanry. A matter of necessity you will surely concede. It was agreed by the Cabinet, for all the most obvious reasons, that since the Indian Mutiny a certain number of British troops must always serve there. With Indian troops in Mexico we can lower our guard a bit, station fewer of our own troops there perhaps, but we must be ever vigilant. So, all things considered, I can truthfully say that everything has been done that can be done.”

“We don’t like waiting,” she said. Pouting, querulous. “You said that no country can make a mockery of the British Empire — nor could one stand against its might. We want to see this happen — do you understand? We have the ghastly feeling that my darling Albert will never sleep at peace until this is done.” She twisted her black kerchief in her hands, unaware that she was rolling and unrolling it. She stared unseeingly into the distance, her wrinkled frown deepened. “I dream of him, almost nightly. Looking as he did — so many years ago. How handsome he was! But he does not appear to see me in my dreams. It is so awful. I try to talk to him — but I cannot find the words. He looks so unhappy with downcast eyes and a most somber mien. It is these Americans, I know it! They killed him and now they laugh at us.” Her voice shrill and angry. “They laugh — thinking that they can defeat the might of the British Empire. Something must be done to bring them to heel!”

There was no answer to that. The Duke muttered some pleasantries, then turned on the seat to look out of the window. When he did he felt something rustle in his breast pocket. That’s right — he remembered now — an aide had given him a message just before the ceremony. He dug the paper out and read it quickly.

“Damn and blast,” he muttered.

“What is it?” Victoria asked, frowning. She had an aversion to strong language. He waved the paper.

“That Home Office clerk they arrested, the one who seemed to come into money so suddenly. Weeks was his name.”

“What about him?”

“He talked. Confessed. I imagine they had to use a bit of persuasion, which I am sure that he richly deserved. Turns out that he really was a traitor, a damn spy, selling Britain’s most vital secrets to the Yankees. Goodness knows what he told them. Traitor. And he wasn’t even Irish. That I would have believed. Indeed.”

“An Englishman. We find that hard to give credence to. What will they do with him? Is there to be a trial?”

“No need to wash our dirty linen in public. In fact it has already been done. A self-confessed spy made for a speedy trial. Found guilty. Hung him next to the traitor’s gate. Buried him in the tower. Should have been drawn and quartered first.” He crumpled the paper and threw it onto the floor.

There were crowds in the street outside to see the Queen go by, since she rarely came to Ireland. Urchins ran beside the carriage and cheered wildly, as did the onlookers.

The carriage, and its squadron of mounted guards, turned a corner and passed now through a meaner neighborhood of narrow streets. Rubbish littered the broken pavements here, spilled over into the gutters. There were no cheers to be heard here, even a few backs were turned as shawled women walked away from the carriage and the soldiers. The Queen was too filled with sorrow for her departed Albert to notice. Not so the Duke who, like many of his class, rather detested Ireland and her peoples.

“Filthy Catholics,” he muttered to himself. Pulled his hat low on his forehead and stared angrily ahead.

Across the width of the Atlantic Ocean lay Washington City, once again the capital of a land at peace. For the moment. Dark clouds were forming on the horizon and the future was not clear, not clear at all.

“You are of a much sorrowful aspect,” Abraham Lincoln said when Judah P. Benjamin was ushered into his office. The portly Southerner nodded silent agreement, his jowls wobbling. He dropped heavily into a chair but did not speak until John Nicolay, Lincoln’s secretary, had left, closing the door behind him.

“I am beset by troubles, sir, burdened by sorrows. It seems that when I lay down one encumbrance I pick two more up. Changing an entire society and how it thinks and works is no easy thing. This process of change — what shall we call it?”

“Reconstruction?” Lincoln suggested.

“Not quite — because nothing has been torn down to rebuild. I think ‘reformation’ is more accurate. We are reforming a whole society and no one seems to like it. The Freedman’s Bureau is still a shell, filled with volunteers who wish to do good for the former slaves. The freed slaves are unhappy because freedom does not seem to have changed their situation. But for everyone that wishes them well, there are a dozen who wish to impede all progress. Mississippi planters are still seeking larger payments for freeing their slaves. And when those slaves who are freed seek work in the plantations, why, they are offered financial remuneration at a starvation level. The only ray of hope in the entire process is the working classes. Soldiers who return from the war are finding jobs rebuilding the railroads, as well as in the new industries that we are founding. They are paid hard cash for their labors and that helps the economy at large. But even there we find dissension. When freed Negroes seek work in these factories the white employees often refuse to work beside them. The planters are displeased at anything and everything we do and they fight us at every turn. Even the small farmers grow angry when they discover that land has been purchased for freed slaves… I hesitate to go on.”