The Incomparable Adventures of the Confederate Diplomatic Corps

The Impossibly Impish Imbroglio: Part One
C.S.S. Albacore
The skies over London, June 1862. Noon.

Hisses of steam from the ship’s engine compartment stirred the ambassador from his sleep. After the initial rush of anger at being awakened so rudely, his first thought was how he wished to be back home with his house, food, and dogs. Consular Jason MacPherson was in his early thirties, a man of the world from South Carolina. He was six-foot-one, athletic, and eschewed the facial hair and lengthy locks so common of grown American men in his time.

“Those damn Britains,” he once explained in his smooth, erudite Southern drawl—a drawl whose “i’s” all came out as “ah’s”, a drawl which turned “u” into “uh” or “you,” a drawl which made Victorian women swoon— “they prefer a clean-cut gentleman. I ain’t one to bow the knee to folly, but I’ll be damned if I become a laughingstock to them red-coats.”

He recalled this conversation with President Davis as he shaved, and then recalled his orders: deliver the terms of the cease-fire agreement to the Union ambassador, with the British Minister of Foreign Affairs as witness. The Confederacy had forced a stalemate with the Union. The cease-fire agreement was certain to be signed, given the recent weapon devised by a fellow Carolinian. He found his thoughts interrupted by a knock on his cabin door.

“Mr. Ambassador, we’re preparing to disembark, we’ve arrived in London!” The young yeoman called.

“My regards, yeoman,” Jason called back as he washed his face. These contraptions, these flying machines, he didn’t much care for them and made it a point to miss the landing itself. He dressed in his finest suit, gathered his effects and arranged them neatly for delivery to his room in the Consulate, checked the wax-sealed envelope containing the agreement, and left the cabin for the gangplank.

Union Embassy, London:

Ambassador Theodore Whitehead, whose name reflected his mane, grumbled something of the “importunity of those accursed graycoats” when he learned of the impending arrival of the Confederate diplomatic corps. He demanded a cup of Ceylon tea and English muffins to satiate his appetite and anger. The ambassador was a towering behemoth of a man. Late at night when the moon is dim and from the right distance and angle, he could easily be mistaken for three large men huddled together.

“I cannot abide this folly. When President Lincoln assigned me to this post, I assumed our adversaries would at least send competent, educated diplomats with whom we could deal reasonably. Instead they send this young, this young turk to deal with affairs suited only for men twice his age and thrice his experience!”

“Ambassador, sir,” Mr. Orion Dayton, a lanky man in his early forties with dashing looks and a sinister grin, began in a conciliatory tone, “merely give the word, and I can arrange for this scion of Perdition to be sent home. Accidents do happen, of course.”

The Ambassador continued his rant without missing a beat.

“The Rebels flout some ‘secret weapon,’ and land a rather large cannon-shot containing a ‘billy-goat’ in the front lawn of the White House, and now we are signing a ceasefire agreement on their terms. We have God and Destiny on our side, why this? Damn them to the hells that spawned them. And to think I must condescend myself to the level of a mere consular to accomplish this foolishness.”
“It is an unfortunate event, sir.”
“Unfortunate? Unfortunate, you say! I have never been so humiliated in all my years. I have dined with kings, queens, emperors, and now my country is signing an agreement delivered by a consular?”
“What was it the Romans said, Ambassador, carpe diem? All is not lost. Merely give the word, and I and my men will see to it that Consular MacPherson never leaves London alive.”

The rotund Ambassador, with nothing resembling grace or dignity, heaved himself from his leather chair and growled over his continued lack of tea and muffins. He stroked his large, bushy moustache and said, “I wash my hands of your affairs, Mr. Dayton.”

“Thank you sir, you will not be disappointed. I will take my leave.”
“Yes, yes. And check on my tea, Mr. Dayton.”
“Right away.”

The Ambassador glanced up at a portrait of President Lincoln, and said, “No Union is worth this disgrace.”

The Consular Office of the Confederate States of America, London

“Consular MacPherson, it is such a tremendous blessing to see you in such wonderful health. You bring any news?” The Secretary, a Myron Henkel from Atlanta.”

“Welllll,” MacPherson began with a long drawl. “I do believe the Yankees are tremblin’ in their moccasins. Farmer Griswold thought of a contraption which brought us all tremendous amusement, an empty artillery piece with a billy-goat inside. I swear by my dear departed mother, that billy-goat looked just like Mr. Lincoln,”

MacPherson produced his Meerschaum pipe, allegedly shaped like Mjolnir and struck a match and lit the tobacco he had left-over from his previous smoke.

“Farmer Griswold fired this shell and it landed smack-dab in the middle of the White House lawn. That poor billy-goat joined his ancestry, but the blue-coats got the message, much to the delight of President Davis and General Lee.” MacPherson puffed a couple times and sat down. “Beware of Scots bearing cease-fire agreements.”

Myron laughed with inordinate jollity, eliciting a look from MacPherson. He backed down rapidly with a cough, “that’s all wonderful news, sir, thank you.”

“And if you would be so kind as to inform me, how is the situation here in illustrious Avalon?”
“It is fairly quiet The French and Spanish embassies sent packages for your eyes only, they are in your private office. Sir Benjamin Disraeli of Her Majesty’s Secret Service called on you yesterday, but he said it was only a minor matter and could wait.”

Jason puffed away at his pipe, hearing but not listening. He stood and said, “Well, it seems that the consulate has not yet been burned to the ground, so carry on as you are. I will be in my quarters, preparing for the meeting this afternoon.”

Myron nodded, but his face lit up.

“One more thing, a Miss Ambrosia Wendtworth called upon you this morning. She left a visa form for your consideration.”

“Oh,” Jason said, then mouthed the words “visa form” as if he’d forgotten something important. He shook his head. “Myron, I would prefer not to have to deal with such menial matters. As ranking diplomat, I hereby delegate all visa matters to your expert faculties.”
“It would be an honor, thank you for your trust! I assure you, I will not-“
“It is quite fine, my friend, quite fine. Now if you’ll pardon me,” Jason turned.

Once he was out of the office, his lips curled up into an accomplished smile. He enjoyed his job, but had never once bothered to learn the ins-and-outs of the paperwork he was expected to produce. It simply was not his ideal situation; he was at his best at diplomatic affairs, balls, and meetings, not behind a desk with quill-and-ink.

The drab, rusty fixtures and cracked walls in the Consulate were more befitting an alms-house than the diplomatic presence of the Confederacy. In fact, and Jason did not know this, the Consulate was once an alms-house run by Anglicans as recently as twenty years prior. Since then, it had been a house of ill-repute, and only in 1859 became available for lease by a foreign power. The 40 year lease-agreement between President Davis and Prime Minister Blackstone was, by all accounts, almost usurious on the part of the British, but it was a location convenient to all the foreign offices.

Jason unlocked his musty quarters and saw his luggage all neatly lined up at the foot of the meager cot the Diplomatic Corps provided. The sun was coming in much too bright for his taste, so he carefully hanged his coat up to block the cracked and dirty panes. He then grabbed his hat off the rack, collapsed into bed, and covered his face. It was, in Jason’s mind, “as much preparation as the damn Yankees deserve.”

As he drifted off, he heard a loud knock on the door.

“Come in,” He groaned and sat up.
“Sir, Miss. Wendtworth would like to see you.” Myron peeked through the door.
“I thought I told you to handle it,” Jason began to lie back down.
“Sir, she said she absolutely has to speak with the Consular. I’m afraid she’s quite upset.”

Jason stood up, grabbed his coat, and trudged out into the hall. He made his way towards the public office as he pulled his gray jacket over his dress-shirt.

“Miss Wendtworth I presume?” He said as he stepped through the door. “My–”

He saw Ambrosia, her hair raven and wavy, her eyes large and bright, her lips perfectly full and her long, white, flowing Artistic dress concealing what he imagined was quite a perfect figure.

“My, Miss Wendtworth, I must apologize. I just returned from the Confederacy and am behind on my work.” He took her gloved hand and kissed it as was his custom. She smiled prettily with a faint blush. She herself seemed taken aback by Jason’s charm.

“It’s no trouble, Consular. If you would indulge me with a few moments of you time, in private?”She glanced to Myron.
“Why certainly, ma’am. Mr. Henkel, kindly brew a cup of coffee for me. Would you like anything?” He asked, his eyes never leaving hers.
“No thank you,” she said and curtsied slightly towards Myron.

Myron left without a word. Jason sensed some small annoyance on Myron’s part, but he wasn’t too concerned.

“Ma’am, what can the Confederate States of America do for you today?” He said as he sat down; he bade Miss. Wendtworth to do the same. He loved that line; he’d come up with it himself when last he was in the office, in early May. The way he said it, so soft, low, and a little deep, gave him the air of the embodiment of the national spirit. It was convincing, as if the entire Confederacy was at his personal disposal, to give or take as he wished. But it wasn’t so much the line, it was his eyes when he said it: he projected an air of power and passion, mixed with a playful disregard for his duties.

The line, and his eyes, did not work on Miss. Wendtworth. She seemed a little puzzled and off-put by the lack of decorum. She was, in fact, slightly offended at the subtle implication that he could use his position to woo her.

“My suitor is in your country, and I dearly wish to visit him,” she said. “I understand you have a sky-ship preparing to leave in two days, and I was told by the naval officers on board that it would require a letter from the Consular, as it is not a private vessel.”

Jason looked over his shoulder to speak to Myron, who was not there to save him.

“Miss., I would be more than happy to write a letter, stamp a visa, and render any and all assistance I can within my powers, but you must understand this is highly irregular.”
“I’m well aware. My family is willing to deliver ten- thousand pounds-sterling to the Confederacy upon my arrival in Savannah. You see, I am an heiress to the fortune of one of the great East Indian trading families, and we are willing to pay whatever cost is necessary.”
“Miss, if you would kindly call upon me in two days, I will happily have all the paperwork in order for your timely departure.” Jason nodded.
“Your office is open on Sunday? That is highly irregular, Consular.”

Jason chuckled, a little louder than he should have.

“I’m sorry, when you’ve flown across the Atlantic, you will understand the time differential between the continents. Call upon me tomorrow, and I will have your papers in order.”
“Thank you, Consular,” she stood. “On another, strictly personal note; I do know a fine young woman who would be more susceptible to your delightfully clumsy charms. I shall introduce you when I return.” She smiled and extended her hand.

Jason shook it this time, somewhat perplexed. Most women swooned; she was all business. When she left, Myron entered the office with a carafe of black coffee and a bowl of fine Jamaican sugar.

“You did not tell me she was so frigid, Mr. Henkel.” Jason said with slight disappointment.
“Sir, I am a married Jew. I do not flirt, much less with goy, so I am ignorant of her warmth or frigidity.”
“I keep forgetting. In any case, I need you to expedite her application. And find me some official stationary or suchlike, as I will need to write her letter later. For now, I am going to hit the streets—”

The sound of shattering glass punctuated Jason’s sentence. He stood with a start and reached for his service pistol,
when he realized it was in his luggage. He whispered for Myron to get the CSA Marine Guard from outside, but they were already in.

“Take cover, Consular,” Corporal Addams said as the two Marines rushed back to the private office. After two or three minutes, they returned with a brick, a note, and a Mohommedan kris-dagger in hand. They set them on the Consular’s desk.

“Sir, you are the addressee,” the other corporal, whose name Jason could never remember, said.

Jason took the note and opened it. The writing was familiar, and it closed with Arab script. “Dear Consular, you may
have forgotten me, but I have never forget [sic] you,” Jason read aloud. “I will kill you tonight at your signing. Salaam, old friend. Signed: Omar Mustafa Al’Hazred. And damned if I have forgotten my Arab letters.”
“Who is that?” Myron asked.

Jason frowned, he simply could not remember any particular Arab he’d crossed when he was on his pilgrimage through the Ottoman lands. He was not worried, or even angry; confused.

“I cannot for the life of me remember. Well, he gave me a rather sharp dagger,” Jason grabbed it and stuck it in his belt. “I shall thank him for his kind generosity tonight.”
“Sir, shouldn’t we notify the authorities? Mr. Disraeli’s office?”
“Send an errand boy and my regards to the good Mr. Disraeli. As I was saying, I’m going to hit the streets.”

Before Myron could register his protest, Jason was gone.

Thames Port, Sky-Ship Landing

Orion Dayton marched with silver-plated cane underneath his arm. He wore a black suit, a (woefully out of date) red cravat, and a tall stove-pipe hat much like his President’s. He held his cane beneath his arm and the end of his pointed moustache between his fingers.

“That is the infamous C.S.S. Albacore. It does rather resemble a fish, does it not Abdul?” He stopped and pointed to the gigantic canvass-covered dirigible tethered to its landing platform. Several Confederate soldiers, accompanied by British regulars patrolled the vicinity of the vessel.

“Yes Mr. Dayton, it is rather like the fish of the Infidel.” Abdul Ali was an Egyptian trader of fine cloth. He also ran a network of assassins throughout the British and Ottoman Empires. He wore unbelievably garish, multi-colored Arab garb and a purple turban. He seemed rather a caricature of himself: he normally played fast-talking huckster, but today he was on official business.

“Did your agent deliver his threat to Mr. MacPherson as planned?”

“Omar has a grudge against the Consular, so he was more than pleased to take the job. The Rebellious Infidel will die tonight, and we will all rejoice in the name of Allah.” Orion was not normally curious as to the details of his dirty-work, but wondered what Mr. MacPherson could have done.

“Tell me, what did the good Consular do?”

“When he was in his youth, Jason MacPherson traveled the Ottoman Empire. He had the audacity to tread in riding boots on the Holy Mountain in Jerusalem. He seduced Brother Al’Hazred’s sister and defiled her by beholding her face. It is an honor and duty for Brother Al’Hazred to avenge the purity of his sister and the holy ground of Al’Aqsa.”

“Mr. MacPherson is known for his debaucheries all across the world. He has no regard for local custom or morality. It will be good to be rid of him.” Orion could not speak much; he quite enjoyed the company of the fairer sex himself, but good Abdul did not need to know of his personal excesses. He had the decency not to cause incident.

“It is good to know that America breeds moral men such as yourself, Mr. Dayton. Go with God, sir; I will attend to getting our special package on board the Infidel sky-machine.”

Dayton smiled to himself and resumed his stilted, formal pace back in the opposite direction towards his carriage. He had his own vendetta against Jason MacPherson, and would be glad to see him gone. That he was working for Ambassador Whitehead was merely incidental to his personal revenge. He let out a forced, villainous chuckle before embarking his carriage.

“Back to London,” he said to the driver. “We have much to do.”

Fleet Street, London, two hours after the attack on the Consulate:

Jason tipped his broad-brimmed hat to all the ladies, said “good day,” to all the gentlemen, and smiled and tossed shillings to all the little lads and lasses as he made his way towards the Fleet Street Hotel and Carriage Hire. He needed to see the captain of the Albacore and the commander of the twenty-five Confederate Marines stationed aboard. The two officers were put up in the hotel for their own comfort and convenience while the Albacore took on fuel and provisions.

He tipped the door-man generously and was shown to the bar while the two officers were summoned. He asked for whiskey, but received whisky instead. Scotch was not his favorite beverage, but it was acceptable. The Slavic bartender was not much for conversation, and the other patrons seemed unimpressed by the “American Rebel.”

Sympathy for the Confederacy was rather mixed among the British: some believed it served the Northern states right, and haughtily suggested that now they knew how the British felt less than a century before. Others believed it was wrong for any nation to cast off its government and, by all rights, both sides should surrender to the scepter of the Queen.

When the Captain and the Commander both approached, Jason immediately stood and saluted.

“You have forgotten everything you learned in your, what, six months in the navy?” The gruff Captain said with subtle humor.“I salute you, not the other way around, but not indoors.”
“Consular, what d’y’all want?” The Commander laughed.
“Well, Gentlemen, if you would give me the honor of speaking in some place a little less, well, where there are no prying ears.” Jason’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I have a highly irregular request.”

“Consular MacPherson, every request you make is irregular. Commander, he actually asked me to fly at ‘two fathoms’ above the surface of the ocean, just so if the air-bladder deflated, he would be able to swim to safety and not, and I quote, ‘die in the course of falling.’” The Captain spoke at regular volume.

“I insist that we hear the good Consular’s request!” The Commander boomed a laughed and spoke in his South Georgian accent

Jason did not mind their getting a laugh at his expense, especially not with the request he was about to make. The three men stepped off into a private parlor and locked the door.

“All right,” said Jason.
“I know that the chain-of-command says to do one thing, but I ain’t got time for it you see. I need your Marines to take off their uniforms, conceal their service pistols, and prepare for an attack on the French embassy.”

The two men burst into laughter. Then they realized Jason was not kidding.The Captain spoke up.

“Consular, with all due respect, your job as a diplomat is to make certain we keep friendly relations with other nations. The French are about the only friends we have in the war. What you propose is tantamount to a declaration of war on our only ally!” Jason shook his head.

“No sir. And they are officially a neutral party to the conflict, not an ally. Your men will be operating off-duty, out of uniform. It cannot be considered an act of war if our men operate as irregulars under the command of a civilian. I have not yet declared an emergency because of the attack on my office today, so all of this, while highly illegal and outside the usual rules of conflict, cannot be held against the Confederacy.”

The two men were stunned and puzzled.

“Consular, what attack?”
“You hadn’t heard?” Jason asked, amazed at their ignorance. “Why, an attempt is to be made on my life tonight, and I fail to trust Mr. Disraeli to do an adequate job. Therefore, I would like to take complete control of the proceedings this evening, after the signing of the cease-fire agreement.”

The two men stepped away for a moment and whispered among themselves. Jason did not mind their private conference. The Commander returned.

“With all due respect, Consular, neither I, nor my men can comply with your request unless you declare an emergency.”
“Very well, I declare this an emergency,” Jason said without a second thought.
“Sir, we must attend in uniform.”
“And we can’t send Marines into the embassy without permission from the French government.”
“Oh, y’all don’t worry about the pesky details, I got them under control. Captain, I almost forgot, I want you to fly the Marines to the embassy.”
“Sir? We cannot land the Albacore in London.”
“Okay, y’all have those tethers right? The ones to tie the Albacore to the ground?”
“Yes sir. They are ten yards long.”
“There are ten of them. That works out to two and a half marines per tether. I want them to slide down those there ropes, down on to the roof of the embassy and make quite a show of things.”

The Commander understood what Jason was saying.

“In all the history of warfare, nothing like this has ever been tried. The sky-ships are new machinations of mankind, and I don’t believe anyone has ever rappelled off of one into a sortie. I believe this is a worthwhile endeavor, if only for the message that our Marines are the best trained in the world!”
“It will be difficult to navigate,” the Captain said.
“We’ll all hang for this, gentlemen,” said Jason without a care in the world. “But it’s better than being assassinated by some mad Arab. I believe the Union is behind this attempt on my life, but I have no proof.”
“How do you believe that?”
“I actually took time to read Ambassador Whitehead’s dossier on the flight over.”
“A first, the infamous Consular MacPherson actually read something!” The Captain said.
“He seems the type who would hire someone to hire someone to kill me, just for some damnfool reason only Yankees would comprehend.”

The Office of Her Majesty’s Secret Service

“Young Master, what was your name again? Forgive this forgetful man, I fear I do not always live up to my axiom, ‘nobody is forgotten when it is convenient to remember him.’” Benjamin Disraeli said in his wise tone to the teenaged Confederate errand-boy.

“Sir, mah nayme is Willyam.”
“Ah yes! Master William. I believe I made your distinguished acquaintance at the consulate last month. What brings you to my humble office?”

For a fourteen year old who grew up in poverty, the polished, stained wood and brass fixtures and rich portraits did not paint a picture of humility. He clutched his cap in both hands.

“Sir, sir, there has been an attack on, on the Confederate Consulate.”
“I am aware of all important matters in London. You are running a little late, lad, but it is rather understandable,”

Disraeli smiled and patted William on the head.

“I have been trying to speak to the honorable Consular. But, I assure you, my men are doing everything in their power to find the Arab responsible, as well as whomever sent him on his mission. Rest assured, I am not one to be capricious in my duties.”

“Thank yiu sir.” The child didn’t understand, and thought to himself that the old man must really like hearing himself say big words.

“You are most welcome. Please do this public servant one important favor, make certain the Consular comes to call on me at once. We must arrange for his safety at the signing, and time is short. Three hours, I believe. Report back to your post, Master William, and never hesitate to ask Her Majesty’s Secret Service for any assistance.”

William dashed out of the Secret Service Office, and made his way back towards the Consulate. He ran right into an old, white-haired man, and upon impact, bounced backwards a good three feet into a pratfall which elicited a laugh from some local street-urchins.

“Mind yourself!” The grumpy, gigantic old man said.
“Accursed street urchins. You do not know who I am, do you child?”

He glowered down without reaching to help William up.

“You talk lahk a dayumyankee, that’s alls I need to know,” said William as he got to his feet. He snatched his cap from the ground.

“I am the Ambassador from the United States! This, this attack on my person will not go unpunished!”
“Yer one to talk, old man. Now if you’ll pahr-pahr-dun me, I’m’oh get myself back to mah office.” He stood as tall as he could and pointed his thumb back to himself overdramatically.

“I will register a complaint for your assault. Return to your consulate. It won’t matter much after tonight anyway; tonight you all will pay for your treachery!” The Ambassador chuckled, shoved William aside, and continued on his way.

Is Consular Jason MacPherson really going to attack the French Embassy? Will the Mad Arab Al’Hazred take his revenge? Will Ambassador Whitehead’s plan to embarrass the Confederacy succeed? Find out in our next episode: The Impossibly Impish Imbroglio: Part Two