Author’s Note:
Well fellow forum lurkers. 1 year, 7 months and 3 days since this little debacle appeared on this esteemed board it has finally, finally started. A big shout out to everyone here who has waited for me to get off my butt and write this thing. A big thanks to my brother and father, who served as my sometimes-unwilling betas, proofreaders and walls that I could bounce ideas off of. And a special thanks to every english professor who suffered by having me in their class.
Now, into this mess that I have made for myself, but decided to share with all of you.
Deo Vindice
The End of the Beginning
Warning and Disclaimer:
Because of the context of the nation in this AAR, there may be topics and wordings that some may find offensive. Please be aware that these are only written as they apply to the history of the nation and are in no way my personal views or beliefs on the subject.
The collapse of the Spanish nation and its empire came as something as a shock to us. That is not to say that it was unexpected. Pah, far from it. Spain never recovered from the Coalition Wars nearly a century ago. The little Corsican did manage to leave his brutal mark on the world in that regard. The Spanish never managed to get back to actually governing after that. Ferdinand VII, the runt, led his people poorly despite their sacrifices to ensure that he kept his throne.
Their reward? Another war, this time with Carlists over the secession. Maybe if de Borbón had won things would have been better off. A strong king, instead of the pathetic mockery of a government that came afterwards. Of course, the Bourbons never got that little fire stamped out, so it would spark up again, deposing a queen. They fooled around with a republic after that, but it was less a government and more a wild melee of whomever had a majority. The Carlists recognized that weakness and tried a third time, and only managed to draw Alfonso XII out of his exile in Paris.
He was the last chance that Spain had of regaining some of its lost power. He might have been a figurehead when he arrived in Madrid in ’84, but by god he won his spurs soon enough! He personally led the army that marched on the Carlist stronghold and drove them back to his old haunts in France, an exile of their own!
Alfonso was the king that Spain needed. He was the king that Spain wanted. The one the people had begged and bled for half a century to have. And he went and died at 27, from dysentery of all things. So much for that triumph, eh? He did manage to do his duty, pardon the vulgarity. His queen was carrying an heir, and Alfonso XIII became the king before he was born. Weak, scrawny and pale, that boy managed to build himself up into a respectable man while his mother and ministers pissed his empire away.
Of course, the revolution and civil war put an end to his reign. And his empire. And his mother and ministers too, come to think of it. That brief campaign his general fought was a valiant attempt, but worthless in the end. His little army got caught and smashed after a few months, and his nation collapsed into the state we see now. A dozen pathetic warlords all squabbling over the remains of the empire like jackals.
Of course, with that mess going on we never really got around to signing a peace agreement. How could we? No one was really in charge or had enough clout to be worth signing anything with. We sat there, with the Cubans and Puerto Ricans and Yankees, scratching our heads. In the end, the war just whimpered to a close.
The Union took the Philippines, as you know, and promptly sparked the rebellion that’s drawn so much of their attention recently. Cuba and Puerto Rico joined with us and became the twelfth and thirteenth states, respectively. The Kaiser somehow nabbed the Carolines and the Marianas in the mix. And thanks to the constant wars to their south, France has had a hell of a time of it and blames all of us for their troubles.
Interview with Rear-Admiral Miles Farlow on the Topic of the Recent War with Spain
Richmond News Leader, January 24thEdition, 1900
7:47 PM, Local Time, January 24th, 1900
Navy Building, Portsmouth, Virginia, Confederate States of America
“Damn it, Farlow.” Exclaimed Franklin Buchanan III in exasperation.
Miles Farlow looked up from his novel. “What?”
“I was hoping to find some information about the foreign troubles in this paper, but instead I find you running your mouth off to some reporter.” Buchanan waved the aforementioned newspaper under his friend’s nose.
“I don’t see how what I said to a reporter is any of your concern, Buchannan.” Farlow retorted. “Nor do I see why you should want to know about these ‘foreign troubles’ of yours. Who in the Confederacy gives a damn about some savages on the far side of the world right now?” He stabbed a finger at the offending paper. “You should be a bit more worried about what’s going on with Spain. That actually has something to do with us.”
“That attitude is exactly what got us involved the war with Spain.” Buchanan quipped in reply. “You can ignore reality as much as you want. I, however, would prefer some warning before the city blows up. Again.”
“Now see here you arrogant brat, I’ll have you know that- “
“Gentlemen.” Cut in Barton Engle as he passed by with an empty glass, heading for the well-stocked side table. “You can argue later. Preferably somewhere far away from me.”
The two men shared a concerned glance as they watched Engle refill his tumbler with brandy. “Who are you and what have done with Cookie?” Questioned Farlow cautiously. “He would always be up for a debate, and he certainly was in the room a few moments ago.”
“Funny.” Engle replied as he walked back to his seat. “No, I would indulge you, if we did not have company, and if our esteemed leader was not currently, hmm” He checked his scuffed and battered pocket watch. “Three hours and forty-seven minutes late.”
“Yes,” Cut in one of the other men in the room, a rather disgruntled looking rear admiral. James Meyer leaned forward to place his hands on the long, polished board room table. “Where exactly is the secretary. Not a very good start to the year if he can’t be bothered to show up on time.”
“I’m certain that there is a very good reason for his delay.” Replied Buchanan, in defense of his friend. “If you give me a moment, I can think of a few.”
“Really?” Exclaimed Commodore Laymon. “Well, go on then. What’s your excuse?”
“His horse threw him on his way here and bolted.” Buchanan stated after a moment of thought. “Now he has to walk.”
Engle chuckled. “You used that one on Squints in Pensacola to get out of detention, and it didn’t work on him.”
“Damn.” The Virginian swore. “Missed his train?”
“He said he was here in Portsmouth, so that doesn’t work.” Replied Laymon. “Freak tornado?”
Farlow snorted. “Used that one too. Sudden onset of liver failure thanks to whiskey?”
“He likes drink that much?”
“Yes.” Replied the three friends in unison.
“Martians!” Exclaimed Engle, endangering the carpet by gesturing with his glass.
Meyer stared at the pale science officer in confusion. “Martians?”
“Yes, like out of Wells.” Engle enthused excitedly. “You’ve read it of course? No?” He questioned the room. “No one else has read ‘War of the Worlds?’”
Farlow reached over and patted the thinner man’s shoulder in sympathy. “Cookie, never change.”
The exchange of ideas continued for some time, with each being more extravagant and unlikely than the last. Some brought laughs, others caused groans to echo around the meeting room. Eventually time, and a considerable amount of alcohol, convinced even the reserved Meyer to join the discussion.
“Flood of molasses washed him out to sea, where he was kidnapped by a rebel faction of German princes in order to bring about the rebirth of the Holy Roman Empire.” Stated the slightly tipsy admiral as the door opened.
“What exactly are you doing?” Secretary Johnson Gains question as he stared at the table full of suddenly sheepish flag officers and senior navy men.
“Coming up with reasons to explain why you are now…four hours and fifty-three minutes late.” Replied a nonchalant Buchanan. “Cookies’ winning with a stolen pocket watch leading you to discover a secret society of mole people who then worshiped you as a deity.”
Gains looked at his academy friends dumbfounded, then turned to ask the one man who hadn’t joined in the conversation. “How long have they been doing this?”
“Not long, sir.” Replied Liam Bruner, a small man who had retired from the active service of sailing warships around the world to begin a career in marine design, planning warships for other men to sail. His young assistant, who was busy balancing a display stand, looked thoroughly confused. “Are they always like this?”
“Yes, I’m afraid they never grew up.” Sighed Gains as he collapsed into one of the open chairs. A glass of scotch materialized from somewhere and slid in front of him. He gratefully downed the drink. The other men settled into their seats as Gains’ secretary, thin, pale man going by Shae, bustled in with a small typewriter to take notes.
“Well,” Asked Farlow casually. “What was it?”
“Pardon?”
“Why were you late?”
Gains was quiet for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “A meeting with Mr. Patton about our joint project that ran longer than we expected it to, which was followed by an extended amount of time comforting the grieving widow Anderson. Again.”
The shorter man shifted, suddenly uncomfortably. “Ah.”
“Yes.” The secretary stated grimly. “Ah. Now, gentlemen, I am well aware of the time and how long you have been waiting, so I will try to make this meeting as brief as I can. Mr. Buchanan, the first item on the agenda please.”
The room quickly filled with the sounds of ruffled papers and opening folders as those present adjusted their belongings. Buchanan placed a pair of wire rimmed reading glasses before reading through the list in front of him. “First item is the status and repairs of our facilities here in Portsmouth.” He looked down the table to the grizzled shipyard manager who looked remarkably out of place in a suit. “Mr. Caiden, as head of the yards I would suggest you start.”
The much older man pulled at his collar as he growled. “The situation is about as good as it can be at the moment. I’ve ordered the boys to focus on getting the docks repaired in order, one then two and so on. Doing that will get the most damaged areas completed first, leaving the less damaged docks for later. Once repairs are complete, we can start work on the Mallorys again.”
“When can we expect the docks to be finished?” Meyer questioned.
“We should be able to get the first pit fully fixed and craned by sometime in July. Dock two will go easier, less damage to it and with the big cranes rebuilt for number one we can borrow them to help the construction. That one should be ready before the end of the year, but I can’t give you a date. Three and four will be ready sometime next year.” Caiden fixed the rear-admiral with a disinterested glare. “Remember, this is just the pits we’re talking about. The hulls will take a lot longer to be finished and ready for commissioning.”
Gains swirled his scotch. “How soon after the docks are finished can we expect the Mallory’s to be ready?”
“The first might be ready by April of ’01, but not earlier.” The manager rubbed his chin in thought. “It’s too soon to tell for the others. Beyond the pits, fixing the rest of the place has been straight forward. You can yell at me for being insensitive to our loss, but having a new rail line just for us is a lot better than what we used to have. Still, we’ve got a dozen balls in the air and only a handful of men to keep them up. I’m gonna need more men and materials if you want anything faster.”
“Very well, Mr. Caiden.” Stated Gains. “If you have the time, I want to meet with you at some point in the next week. We can go over what you need then, and I will see what we can send your way. On to item two.”
“Replacement facilities to cover the temporary loss of Portsmouth.” Answered Buchanan. “That would be my area. We have managed to secure a handful of civilian shipyards around the country who are willing to work with us in replacing our recent losses. The two largest are the Newport News Shipbuilding Company in Newport News of course, which has accepted contracts for four new protected cruisers, two of the Pamlico-class and two of the Chuckatuck-class, and the Texan Ship Company in Galveston, which has agreed to build several destroyers of the Isaac Brown type.”
One of the commodores, a rather stout man who led his destroyer squadron with pride, chuckled merrily as he reached for the decanter. “Well that’s good. We’re gonna need those ships soon. The Wests are a bit big to run patrols, and us small boys are working our tails off trying to cover twice the work with half the ships.”
The Virginian smiled thinly. “Beyond that a few of our own facilities, the smaller ones in Mobile, Charleston and Pensacola, are also attempting to build some destroyers, but they are not really suited for anything larger. John, I would recommend looking into expanding at least one of those ports so they can tackle something the size of our scout cruisers.”
“Yes, that is a fine idea. Mr. Shae, table that for me to look over later, I’m going to need to meet with the commanders of those ports.”
“Of course, sir.” The pale man replied, sliding the carriage of his typewriter back.
“Item three is a review of our current fleet and any recommendations that we feel should be added, as well as any requests for new ships or ship classes.” Buchanan continued.
“Hold on a moment.” Interrupted Farlow, placing his glass down with a thunk. “We aren’t members of the design board. Why are we deciding what ships should be built?”
At that question there came a soft cough. “If I may, Admiral Farlow,” Asked Bruner. “Most of the design board is now dead, and the survivors are either far to injured to ever return to work, or fresh from Pensacola and are too inexperienced to design anything larger than a schooner.” The short man fixed the other men in the room with a determined look. “Those of us who are in this room are, with a handful of absences, the few men who are actually capable of rebuilding this navy.”
“I see.” Murmured the admiral.
“Good. Bruner reached under the table and pulled up a substantial leather briefcase. Opening it, he began passing several sheets around to the other men. His assistant quickly placed a large board on the stand, covered in notes and a large picture of a warship at speed. “Any other questions? No? Very well then. I suggest we start with the battleships and work our way down from there.”
“The Stephan Mallory class was originally meant to serve two purposes. The first was to replace the much older and smaller Robert E. Lee class of monitor battleships as our primary battle line combatants.” Stated the designer, a pointer appearing in his hand. “Their second purpose was to serve as a counter to the Union Navy’s Delaware class. In comparison to the Delaware class, the Mallory’s are faster, carry the same belt, carry the same main armament and are 500 tons less in displacement. The only advantage the Yankees have is a secondary battery of their 7” Ordnance guns and a dedicated tertiary battery of 3” guns compared to our 6” Selma’s.”
Engle motioned with his glass of water. “How do they compare to other foreign battleships?”
“They match up favorably. Some foreign ships have larger main guns, thicker armor, are slightly faster, or carry a heavier secondary battery. But in order to do that they had to sacrifice in another area. For every advantage they have, they also have a disadvantage. None are truly better than our ships, just different.”
“Their guns are British.” Muttered Meyer. “If we want to build more of them, we have to order the 12” guns from Vickers in England. We are hamstrung there.”
“Yes, there is that problem as well.” Bruner said slowly. “Tredegar has attempted to manufacture a domestic 12” gun, but none of their designs have been satisfactory. Currently, the first four ships of the planned eight are in active service, as Admiral Meyer can attest. The remaining four are confined here in Portsmouth until Mr. Caiden can finish building them. Once they are commissioned, we will have eight first line battleships in service.”
“If the Mallory’s are first line ships,” Asked Farlow. “I assume the Lee’s are now second line?”
“Yes, the Robert E. Lee class. They were to be designated as second line ships once the Mallory’s were finished. Of course, with the loss of James Longstreet and A. P. Hill, the original plan to have three divisions are rather unusable. They have same speed of the Mallory’s, something that we designed for. If we had made the newer ships faster, we would have left the older ones behind.” The designer sighed. “Unfortunately, while Tredegar’s 11” guns might have been among the best in the world when the ships were launched in the ‘80’s, they are woefully underpowered now.” The designer tapped his pointer against the picture, indicating the small battleship’s gallery.
“The Lee’s also carry a lighter secondary battery than the Mallory’s, 12 guns to 16. They also have less armor protection, one of an older design and using weaker steel.”
“They are also sitting across the harbor, half-wrecked and half-sunk.” Growled Meyer. “Not much good they can do.”
Caiden shifted uncomfortably in his ill-fitting suit. “We can start work on them as soon as we get the pits cleared of the Mallory’s, and not a second sooner. We’ve already asked around, and there ain’t a shipyard in the country that has a pit that can hold a ship larger than 8,000 tons displacement. They won’t survive a trip across the Atlantic to Britain, and the Yanks have refused to take them in Philadelphia. We can wait to start repairing them here, which won’t be for a year at the least, maybe two, or we can scrap them.”
The old yard manager glared around the room. “I’m gonna say this once, boys. Give up any hopes of matching the Yankees ship for ship. It ain’t gonna happen. We might have been able to keep up with them before the blast, but we can’t now. They can out build us two to one, and it will only get worse since we have to build up to match their current level. If we scrap those ships, we lose any chance of having a comparable battle line for the next two decades.”
“It’s that bad, Caiden?” A concerned Gains asked.
“We lost our best shipyard, sir.” Came the blunt reply. “The civilian yards can do their best, and I’ve got men out there working triple shifts around the clock to get the pits working again. But we are too far behind to catch up, so unless the Yankee fleet decides to sink itself, we are going to be outnumbered for a few decades.”
“Wonderful.” Groaned Farlow, as he shifted in his chair. “Can we move on to something less grim?”
“Yes, Admiral Farlow.” Replied Bruner, as his assistant replaced the display board again. The ship in the photo was clearly on patrol, with her balloon up to scout ahead.
“Your Key West class was next on the list. These gentlemen, I am happy to say, are the best of their type in the world. They are the fastest non-destroyer warships in active service in any current navy and are heavily armed and armored despite the fact. They can outrun anything that can kill them, and anything that can catch them will very quickly come to regret that success.” Bruner paused. “This is not to say they have no drawbacks. They displace just as much as a Mallory and were nearly half again as expensive to build.”
“I can remember Mr. Anderson complaining about how much money was draining from the coffers thanks to these things.” Chuckled Gains. “Said they would bankrupt the navy.”
“Watch your tone!” Quipped the Georgian as he came to the defense of his ships. “Those girls are worth every penny!”
“That may be, Admiral Farlow,” Interrupted Bruner. “But they were expensive. I would strongly recommend against expanding the class beyond the four we currently have. A better suggestion would be the Chuckatuck class. They are a solid protected cruiser class, and are expected to take on scouting, patrol and trade protection duties for us. Currently only three are in commission, but a further five are expected to join the fleet shortly. Surprisingly enough, only some of the French cruisers are of better design, though most of them sacrifice firepower for armor or armor for firepower. Neither is a good choice in my opinion, but I did not design them.”
“Speaking of the French, John, have you heard any news about them?” Buchanan asked offhandedly.
“They are still blaming us for the troubles they are having around their southern border with Spain. Evidently a large number of bandits, raiders and other unsavory characters have discovered that the south of France is nice this time of year.” Gains poured himself another dose of whiskey. “The Republic has blamed us for their misfortune because we indirectly caused Spain to collapse. Thankfully they haven’t done anything beyond being slightly more unpleasant to deal with, though they have repeatedly insulted our ambassador’s choice of chef.”
“How typical, the French insulting someone else’s food.”
“Gentlemen, if I may continue?”
“Of course, Mr. Bruner.”
“On to the Pamlico class then.” The harried assistant switched out the board again. “In short, they are a Chuckatuck class cruiser that has been extended for an extra 100’ to carry more coal, another pair of 6” Selma guns and enough space to house a full company of marines. Unfortunately, even with the reduction of their belt armor the class is nearly 5,000 tons in displacement. We hope that they will make excellent overseas ships or, should war come, commerce raiders that are also capable of taking on enemy warships should the need arise.” The designer gave a glance towards his superior. “Currently only the lead ship is in service, and, if I’m not mistaken, it is in the far east at the moment.”
“That is correct. The Pamlico herself is conducting a brief voyage to China to show the Empress we haven’t forgotten our duties in her nation,” Gains stated while going over the sheets that Bruner’s assistant had given out, the different lists and numbers blending together into an intelligible tangle, “She is also there to drop off some, eh, supplies for our litigation.”
“Finally, we have the Isaac Brown class of destroyers.” Bruner sighed. “Frankly, gentlemen, these are not a very good design. Had I the chance, I would have recommended removing one of the torpedo mounts replacing it with another 3” Richmond gun. That, or remove the 2” Hotchkiss revolvers and add more torpedo mounts. Armaments aside, they have a powerplant that is far too expensive to warrant.”
Meyer looked up from his papers. “What do you mean by that?”
“Their powerplants are very efficient for a destroyer. It allows them a greatly extended range, but producing such systems is an expensive and time-consuming task, and the engines themselves are quite large and add greatly to the tonnage of the vessel. Had a lighter powerplant been used it would have reduced their range, but it also would have made them much cheaper to construct. It certainly would have been a benefit to our smaller shipyards, now that we are dependent on their work to restore our loses.”
The old designer glanced around the table. “I believe that covers all classes of active vessels in the Navy. I have a few other designs and plans that were in discussion prior to the explosion, I’ve included them in the papers that were passed around. If you could go over them or make any suggestions, I would be happy to order a preliminary draft made.”
The room descended into a handful of murmurs and muttering as the men went over the papers that had been distributed. A few, like Meyers and Buchannan, pocketed their copies for later reading. Bruner’s assistant began to break down the tripod while his employer returned to his seat, only to be interrupted by Gains standing.
“Gentlemen.” Stated the secretary. “The hour is late, and while I am certain that we could continue meeting, I believe that we would better off ending here and resuming this tomorrow at noon, when we are more rested and less inebriated.”
He smiled warmly as the other navy men began to leave but grabbed Cookie before he could vacate the room. “Not you. Frank, Miles, you stay too. I have something that you deserve to know. It would be better if moved to my office for this.”
Slightly later, the four men sat comfortably around a table. While Gains would have preferred something less ostentatious for his workplace, as the Secretary of the Confederate Navy he had to keep up appearances. That meant having not only a spacious office, but a private conference room, a private washroom and facilities and a small room off to the side fitted out with a bunk if he needed to stay late. It also meant having a well-appointed lounge for entertaining guests or other important individuals or, as it was being used now, as a space to hold a late-night meeting between friends.
“So what exactly was so important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” Groaned Farlow as he sank further into his chair. “I promised Bridget that I would be home by the end of the week. Thanks to your little delay I’m going to have to wire and tell her I’ll be late.”
“You can afford it.” Snapped Gains, the foul mood that he had hidden during the meeting coming to the surface as he placed a small leather-bound book on the table. “This is more important than your schedule. It appears that Mr. Anderson had the habit of keeping a daily journal. When I first went to meet Mrs. Anderson a few months back, she was adamant that I take his last journal and having read though it I understand why she did so.”
“And what was it that is so important?” Questioned the Georgian.
“Anderson, before his death, was gathering evidence and conducting a handful of personal investigations, and he recorded much of his findings in this journal. From those efforts he, and myself now that I have gone over his work, had concluded one thing: the war with Spain was manufactured by a group of powerful and influential men here in the Confederacy.”
The silence that filled the room was deafening. The three men shared a look with each other, pointedly not looking at their friend. Whatever happened during the private conversation that had transpired between them, Cookie had clearly drawn the short straw, as he was the one who spoke first.
“Alright, John. Just what makes you believe that?”
The secretary responded by flipping open Anderson’s journal to an already marked page, before placing it in front of the group. “A complete listing of all ships that we know were involved in supplying the Cubans, as well as the cargo they carried.” He flipped several pages further. “Coupled with the listings for the purchase of said cargo and who exactly made those purchases. Note how most of those purchases were made by a handful of large and important companies, and that the cargo in question was always transported by another company on this list, be it by rail, sea or road. What we have here, gentlemen, is a group of companies, all of whom are important to the Confederacy in one way or another, working in tandem to arm a revolution in another nation’s territory. A territory that is now part of the Confederacy, thanks in no small part to that same revolution.”
Gains settled back into his chair. “Working by myself I have managed to make a few requests into the condition of Cuba and Puerto Rico, all under the guise of finding a suitable port from which the navy can base a new destroyer flotilla. Those requests pulled up some rather interesting information. Specifically, that a great deal of investment is being poured into the new states from the Confederacy proper, nearly all of which comes from one of the companies on this list or a subsidiary owned by a company this list.” The secretary held up a hand to stop Buchannan before he had a chance to speak. “It is quite clear that the idea of a Confederate civilian arming Cuba out of the good of his heart is nothing more than a lie, one spread by those who were really responsible. The vast majority of materials and manpower supplied to the rebels came from this group of companies, all of whom are now going to profit from Cuba and Puerto Rico joining the Confederacy.”
“So,” Started Farlow slowly, still trying to organize his thoughts, “I can understand why this information is important. Hell, even a portion of this would be enough to call the whole war in question. What I can’t understand is why Mr. Anderson didn’t take this before the Senate or the President. Even minor investigation would have stopped this whole thing dead.”
“That was my first thought after reading through this.” Gains stated, smiling grimly. “But I did a little digging of my own and noticed a very disturbing trend. These companies or, more accurately their owners, all donated large amounts of capital, resources or time to a select few politicians and senators, all of whom are either connected to companies on this list, or own companies on this list. Interestingly, every single one of those politicians supported war with the Spanish before my little convoy was attacked off Gibara.”
“Then why didn’t you go the President?” Demanded Buchannan. “You may not like him, but if the Senate is that corrupt, he is the only person in the government with the power to call for an investigation.”
Gains didn’t say anything. He just tapped a name on the list.
“The Nashville and New Orleans Railroad?” Murmured Cookie.
“One of the railroads most frequently used to move the supplies given to the rebels. One third of all the purchases on this list was transported in some way by this company, and every one of them was sent to New Orleans. There the cargo was loaded onto a handful of ships, all of which were owned by a now defunct subsidiary of the same railroad.” The secretary fixed his friend with a freezing glare. “The controlling partner of the Nashville and New Orleans Railroad is Senator John Morton of Tennessee.”
“Who helped launch Benjamin Garrison’s Presidential campaign in the 1880’s.” Finished Farlow. “What?” He asked when he noticed the slightly surprised looks on his friends faces. “Just because I consider politics to be a waste of time doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to what’s going on in Richmond.”
“So, because one of President Garrison’s political allies is the owner of a railroad that helped move supplies that were given to the Cuban revolutionaries, Garrison himself is somehow involved in this conspiracy.” Cookie shook his head. “Look, John. Normally I’m the one trying to connect loose threads together. That is a bit of a stretch.”
“I admit, it is an unstable argument to make. Until you realize that Morton practically fathered Garrison’s political career and has continued to be one of his biggest supporters. Or that more than half of the civilian ships in the Gibara convoy were all owned by Morton’s subsidiary, and that the convoy itself was only formed because of a direct order from Garrison, not Anderson.” Gains started flipping through journal again. “But the most damning fact is that shortly after the Senate voted for war with Spain, Anderson overheard Morton congratulating Garrison on accomplishing their goal of, and I quote, ‘gaining control of most the Caribbean’. So, Cookie, it really isn’t much of a stretch to assume that Garrison is involved with this. In fact, I’d say that he is the one in charge of this debacle.”
The room fell back into silence.
“Alright.” Snorted Farlow, breaking the quiet. “What are we going to do about it?”
“There’s not much we can do.” Snapped Cookie. “If this information is true, and I still have my doubts about that, then the entire war, and every life that was lost fighting it, was nothing but a farce so that these men could line their pockets, and they did so with the full support of the President and the Senate. We can’t fight our own government.”
“Well I’m not going to leave it at that!” Replied the Georgian angrily. “These bastards wanted to get rich, so they started a war to do it! A war that killed tens of thousands of Confederate civilians, including my best friend! And we were all pawns in their game, marching to their tune and following their orders! All so that they could bring in the greybacks a bit faster! They can take their happy little success and shove it!”
“Miles!” Barked Buchannan. “Be realistic. We don’t have the power to take on the rest of the government, and if we tried it would be labeled as a military coup.”
“They caused a war that blew up our city! Just so they could pull in a bigger profit!” Farlow roared. “John, give me that list and a month, I’ll make certain that every man on it gets a noose for a necktie!”
“Miles, while I agree with you, we cannot just go hanging people, regardless of if they are responsible for this. We don’t have the authority or the power to do so and if we try, we’ll be the ones dangling.” Stated Gains. “We have to go about this another way.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Questioned Cookie, rolling his eyes. “Let’s say that this is all accurate. That means that the entirety of the government, from the President to the Senate and most likely the Court, is completely corrupt. That’s to say nothing of the army or the navy, which are no doubt infiltrated as well. We would also have to deal with practically every major business or monopoly in the Confederacy, some of which we rely upon to keep the navy running. Face it John. If this is true, then we can’t fight it.”
“I know.” Replied the secretary. “We can’t fight this. Not head on, at least. It’s far too big to try that. But if we break it up…”
“Split their line,” Muttered Farlow, “And destroy in detail. Focus on their weakest spot and hit it hard.” The Virginian stared into his glass. “We have ourselves, and you, John, have the ability to make the decisions for the navy. Start with that. Get men we can trust completely into positions of power in the service.”
“My father and grandfather were very well connected in Richmond.” Added Buchannan. “I’ve got some connections myself, and I’ve already been lobbying for more funds for the navy. It won’t look out of place if you make me our representative in the capital. From there I can begin to work out who we can and cannot trust.”
Cookie sighed, before forcing a slight grin. “I cooperated with the army for some of my work. I’ll see what I can do from that side.”
“And while you lot are all working on that,” Chuckled Farlow. “I’ll focus on cleaning up the navy. Find their agents and get them stuck in dead end positions where they will be useless. It’ll drive them mad and they won’t be able to do anything about it.” His chuckle became laughter. “This is going to be downright fun!”