Lincoln's call to arms—"A house divided against itself cannot stand"—struck the United States like a surge of raw electricity.
"Well said! That is the backbone America must have!"
"Why should Britain meddle in our domestic affairs?"
"War, then! War it must be! Hang the traitors tearing the Union apart!"
The North was swept into a fever of shared hostility, a near-hysterical martial enthusiasm. Congress, paralyzed only days earlier, now moved with ruthless speed, passing the final resolution for the armed suppression of the Southern Confederacy.
Only days later—
At Fort Sumter, South Carolina, Federal and Confederate artillery exchanged fire.
The first cannon blast shattered the quiet morning over Charleston Harbor.
And with it began the first truly industrialized war of the modern age—a conflict that would rage for years, drown a continent in blood, and enter history as the American Civil War.
Windsor CastleAt the Same Hour
While American brothers greeted one another with cannon and rifle across the Atlantic, the man who had so carefully lit the fuse of this war—Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart—was enjoying a rare afternoon of domestic calm.
In the gardens of Windsor, beneath a pale English sun, four-year-old Princess Victoria—Vicky—sat proudly astride a tiny Shetland pony, her posture earnest, her grip determined under the watchful eye of a royal riding master.
Nearby, two-year-old Prince Edward toddled along behind her, stumbling, laughing, and rising again with inexhaustible enthusiasm.
Arthur and Queen Victoria sat beneath a parasol, quietly taking tea.
"Look at her," Arthur said, genuine pride softening his voice. "I told you—our Vicky is a born commander. That seat alone would shame half the junior officers of the Royal Cavalry."
"She is merely stubborn," Victoria replied, though her eyes betrayed unmistakable affection. "Entirely your fault."
She passed him a scone, layered with cream and strawberry preserve.
"A reward," she added lightly. "Had it not been for you, our future field marshal would likely still be practicing the delicate art of waving a lace fan."
Arthur accepted it with mock solemnity, then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss against her lips, stealing a trace of cream.
Victoria flushed at once.
At that moment, Lord Melbourne approached, his expression grave, an urgent document in hand.
"Your Majesty. Your Royal Highness," he said, bowing. "News from Washington. They have begun fighting."
Arthur took the paper calmly.
"So it begins," he murmured, scanning the report of Fort Sumter. "And Lincoln… he moves decisively."
Victoria frowned slightly. "Will they turn against us now?"
"No," Arthur replied, eyes steady, distant—as if gazing down upon a chessboard.
"Not while the house is burning from within."
"Lincoln understands this. A divided nation cannot challenge the world."
He paused, then added quietly:
"But a unified America—hardened by industry and nationalism—would be far more dangerous to us than any European empire."
Victoria looked at him. "Then what will you do?"
Arthur smiled faintly.
"Remain neutral," he said. "Officially."
He rose, already drafting the plan in his mind.
"A declaration of strict neutrality. Moral superiority secured."
"A 'humanitarian' naval presence in the Atlantic—escort fleets, inspections, delays."
"And privately…" His voice lowered. "We ensure the South has just enough credit to keep bleeding—but never enough to win."
Victoria studied him, half in awe, half in disbelief.
"You are ruthless."
Arthur turned back to her, his expression suddenly lighter, almost playful.
"Only in matters of empire," he said. "In matters of the heart, I remain entirely your prisoner."
She shook her head, smiling despite herself.
"You are incorrigible."
"Perhaps," Arthur replied, offering his arm. "But I am yours."
As the distant echoes of cannon fire reshaped a continent, the British Empire rested—watchful, calculating, and very much in control.