There were twenty-seven chairs on either side of the vast polished wood table. From the very center of one of these rows, an elderly military officer rose to reply.

  “I regret the displeasure of my esteemed colleague,” he said. “In the absence of the noble Abdul Aziz himself, Ali Pasha will serve as the Sultan’s vizier, his confidential ear and voice, in a manner of speaking. We must all be aware that Ali Pasha is a welcome spirit of reform in the Ottoman Empire. I regret your physical discomfort in these surroundings, discomfort which I and most of our associates share. I congratulate you, sir, in striking quickly at one of the sources of our difficulties here.”

  The venerable speaker was Colonel Sapt, the newly elected chairman of the IPF’s Second Plenary Session in Geneva. He was shorter than average in height, yet built thickly through the middle. He had a big, white-haired, bullet-shaped head, small, shrewd, pale blue eyes, and a bristly white mustache. Sapt wore an elegant military uniform, of light blue material just a shade darker than his eyes. Its jacket was figured with row after row of black braided frogs, and on his shoulders were gold-colored epaulets.

  The colonel’s trousers were also pale blue, and each leg had a single narrow black stripe running down into a black leather riding boot. Sapt had removed his officer’s cap and gloves and laid them beside him on the long table. Although the old veteran had no doubt won many medals in his years of service, he wore but one. It was an exquisite three-inch red-enamel rose, the mark of the House of Elphberg. The decoration, perhaps placed upon him by King Rudolf himself, circled his throat on a white satin neckband.

  Colonel Sapt paused for a moment in thought. “I have a bit of advice for the council,” he said in his gruff voice. “We’re scheduled for another meeting in three months, when we’re to review the military situations of both the U. S. Federal troops and the Confederate forces. At that session, conclusive decisions may be possible. Although the weather in Geneva will be more congenial in July, I invite you all to attend that council meeting in Strelsau, capital city of the Kingdom of Ruritania, as the guests of King Rudolf and Queen Flavia. I guarantee that the weather there at that time of year will certainly be to your liking.”

  “Fine, indeed,” said the second assistant foreign minister of Archduke Maximilian of Austria, “but what of the international conflicts that are certain to come about before then? What shall we do in the meantime?”

  “You’ll do what you always do in such situations,” said Colonel Sapt in a low voice almost like a growl. “You’ll dither from one alternative to the other, making yourself sick with panic the entire time. You’ll be certain that the fate of your nation and your own personal fortune depend on your lonely resolve. Finally, at the last possible moment, you’ll embrace the choice that offers the least risk of retribution in case of failure. If you can, delay your decision until our Strelsau session.” He turned to one of his young aides and murmured something about “diplomats.”

  The undersecretary for foreign affairs of the French Second Empire ignored the colonel’s straight-faced arrogance. “You mean,” said the legate of Napoleon III, “if in the interim we enter into an adventure with Mexico to help reacquire Texas, we need not consult with you in advance or with any of our other allies here?”

  “You understand me precisely,” said Sapt. “Of course, you may be called to account afterward, when your ‘allies’ gather to assess your dealings.”

  “But don’t you understand?” cried the emissary plenipotentiary representing Garibaldi. “We’re threatened with massive crises on a daily basis!”

  “That’s too bad, indeed,” said the silver-haired Sapt. “I didn’t accept the office of council president to be the conscience of the world. We’ll look forward to seeing you all again in about three months. Your international squabbles should’ve been resolved by then. Any problems that still exist, however serious — for instance, the American Civil War — will be taken care of quickly and without injury to any nation. I’ll entertain a motion to hold our next meeting on the 23rd of July, 1864, in the city of Strelsau.”

  “I so move,” said Leopoldo O’Donnell, Protector of Isabella II of Spain.

  “Do I hear a second?” asked Colonel Sapt.

  “I second the motion,” said Bertholdt von Issel, the Special Ambassador-at-Large appointed by Otto von Bismarck, Chancellor of Prussia.

  “In the interests of keeping this meeting as brief as possible, I’ll ask that discussion be kept to a minimum. Is there any discussion? No? Then we’ll go directly to a vote on the matter. Those in agreement with the plan, please raise your hands,” said Colonel Sapt. There was an immediate and obvious majority of voters supporting Sapt’s suggestion. “Fine,” he went on, “then the Third Plenary Session will be held in the city of Strelsau, in the Kingdom of Ruritania, on the 23rd of July, 1864.”

  There were no remarks of any kind, and the delegates looked at each other across the great table, watching their breaths billow forth in the frosty meeting hall.

  The parliamentary private secretary to Queen Victoria’s foreign minister rose from his chair, wrapped himself more tightly in his greatcoat, and put a question to the meeting at large. “What is the current policy,” he asked, “concerning the self-defense of the International Peacekeeping Force troops in the field? There are daily reports of men without uniform or other factional identification, apparently angry local citizens, throwing rocks at IPF patrols, even fire-bombing our vans and wagons. I’ve heard unconfirmed reports of sniper fire coming from the burned and blasted houses in the neighborhood near our headquarters. Shouldn’t our brave peace-keepers be permitted to return that fire? Otherwise, I believe, the many factions in the city will take our inaction as tacit approval of their terrorist activities.” The parliamentary secretary shivered violently, then sat down again.

  He was answered by Leopoldo O’Donnell. “There are too many splinter groups in the city to keep track of,” he said. “Some of them are glad to have us patrolling their streets, especially the poor people of the town. The aristocrats don’t trust us and, frankly, I understand their fears. If we issued orders to our men to shoot at everyone who displays outrage at our presence — some of these are but young, stone-throwing children — what does that make of the IPF? Our duty is to intervene in spontaneous clashes between factions, not to murder in a hail of bullets every citizen who resents our presence.” “Here, here,” said the French undersecretary. “Absurd,” said Bertholdt von Issel, the Prussian ambassador. He shook his head in disgust. “Within days, surely less than a week, we’ll have absolute chaos on the streets. Burning barricades, strongpoints set up by twice as many factions as we face now, a beginning of organized resistance. The only sensible course of action is to crush that opposition now, before it has a chance to grow and join forces with all the smaller groups.

  “If that means wounding or even killing a few underage young men — a terrible thing, I grant you, but one which we must be willing to risk — I remind you that these ‘young children,’ as you so sentimentally put it, have chosen the life of the guerrilla warrior. They surely understand the ultimate response to their terrorist activities. A fire-bomb from a twelve-year-old can do as much damage and kill as many of our own courageous men as a fire-bomb from a uniformed, battle-scarred veteran.” “Is there more discussion of this question?” asked Colonel Sapt. He was answered by an impatient silence. “Then I will entertain a motion, and we’ll put it to a vote.” Von Issel rose to make the motion. “I’ve made my feelings clear, I hope,” he said, “and therefore I move that our comrades in the IPF shall be given official sanction to return fire upon being attacked. They may shoot in self-defense only, of course. That must be made plain.” Then he sat down and waited to hear the reaction his words would stir from some of the more soft-hearted delegates.

  It did not take long. Leopoldo O’Donnell spoke without rising from his chair. “Then you’re authorizing our trained soldiers to turn their modern rifles against whoever harms them? Or even against whoever entertains the notion of harming them? An eye for an eye is certainly a philosophy with a long historical justification. But a bullet from a .52 caliber Spencer repeating rifle for a chunk of baked clay hurled by a child is very definitely not the same thing at all!”

  “I second the motion,” said Ali Pasha in an ugly tone. “Anything to get us out of here the quicker.”

  “Ambassador von Issel’s motion to permit our soldiers discretion in their use of defensive fire has been moved and seconded,” said Colonel Sapt solemnly. He asked for further discussion, and several delegates wanted to put their opinions on the record.

  Then Sapt called for the vote. “I ask for a show of hands in favor of the Prussian ambassador’s motion.” He paused and looked around the table. “Ten. Those opposed?” Again there was a brief, cold silence. “Four. Abstentions? Six. Ambassador von Issel’s motion passes, and the directive will be sent to our commander in the field as soon as possible.”

  “May the Blessed Lord forgive us,” said O’Donnell.

  “The last order of business, then,” said Colonel Sapt, “is to hear from the representatives of the combatants themselves. From the United States of America, we are honored to welcome Edwin Stanton, Secretary of War, and

  William Tecumseh Sherman, who is currently moving toward the city of Atlanta with the apparent purpose of laying siege to it. From the Confederate States of America, we have cavalry raider Major General Nathan Bedford Forrest, and General Joseph E. Johnston in command of the defenses around Atlanta.”

  “I still for the life of me can’t figure out why this session was called,” said Sherman grumpily. “And I promise you that I’ll be gone in the morning. I have a vital campaign to arrange.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Colonel Sapt. “We need your presence here to sign this proclamation, allowing for a forty-eight hour truce beginning in a fortnight, during which we hope both sides and the many independent factions will take the opportunity to negotiate their differences. The proclamation also calls for the possibility of a later thirty-day truce similar to the one that brought you here, with suggested timetables for the withdrawal of all belligerent parties.”

  The four American soldiers looked at each other distrustfully. “I’m certainly willing to sign,” said Secretary of War Stanton after a moment. “It’s well-known in Washington and elsewhere how much I detest this conflict, and what it’s doing to our fair Union.” He stepped forward, took a pen and dipped it in the inkwell, and affixed his signature to the document.

  Then Stanton held forth the pen with one hand to Sherman, and offered to shake hands with the other. Although joined in a common cause, each man hated the other and each was jealous and suspicious. Sherman took the pen, but pointedly refused to shake his superior’s hand. “Stanton signs a proclamation of peace with lyin’, blood-stained fingers,” he muttered, but only Sherman’s own aide, and possibly Stanton himself, could hear the words. He wrote his own signature just to the right of Stanton, at the same level, but slightly larger.

  Next, Colonel Sapt turned to the Confederates. He held out the pen to the great cavalry commander, Nathan Bedford Forrest, but the major general shook his head. “It would be unseemly,” he said in his gravelly voice, “for me to sign this important declaration before my superior officer.”

  Sapt nodded and offered the pen to the commander of the Army of Tennessee. Johnston accepted the pen thoughtfully. “I will inscribe my name upon this parchment,” he said in a grave tone, “praying to almighty God that this act will somehow save lives and lead to the end of our conflict. I’m sure we all agree this war’s been permitted to play on far too long.”

  Finally, Forrest took the pen and scribbled his name almost illegibly, below that of Joe Johnston’s. There was a moment of breathless silence in the great hall, and then the diplomats and warriors all rose together from their chairs. It was yet left to fate to see if this meeting, soon remembered for producing the Geneva Decree of 1864, would also lead to the end of the prolonged hostilities.

  When the council had been duly adjourned, the men moved to a smaller room with a large fireplace throwing out a comfortable amount of heat. Here the delegates broke up into smaller cliques, and shrewd Colonel Sapt observed who preferred to speak with whom. He had devoted his own life to the Army of Ruritania, his native land, and he had learned early that many battles — many entire wars — were won or lost in rooms like this, with groups of uniformed men chatting amiably with glasses of brandy in their hands.

  Old Sapt noticed that neither of the U. S. Federal representatives, Sherman and Stanton, would speak to each other. On the other hand, the Confederate generals seemed to share a rough, slightly awkward comradeship. Regarding the delegates from the IPF nations, the most interesting development was that the French and Mexican envoys were talking together in great good humor, and Sapt was wise enough to understand that history-making future plans were being discussed between them.

  Leopoldo O’Donnell of Spain stood glowering to one side. Sapt’s own intelligence network had learned that he was currently planning an absurd attack on both Peru and Chile, and that O’Donnell would be of little further use to the IPF in any capacity. Sapt shrugged his broad shoulders. O’Donnell was a fool in the first place and would not be missed, and he doubted that Isabella II of Spain would be queen there much longer, either.

  In another part of the room, colder because it was farther from the fireplace, the delegates from the German Confederacy and Otto von Bismarck’s Prussian Empire stood with their heads close together, speaking in whispers. This made Sapt’s stomach burn; he knew that such an alliance would eventually reshape the map of Europe. Bismarck was already making war on Denmark, and Austria and France suspected that they’d soon attract his attention. All of that made the Plenary Sessions more uneasy than they had to be.

  At last, realizing he was neglecting his duties as council president and host, he joined a conversation between the British parliamentary secretary and Ali

  Pasha, the son of the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. They both greeted him cheerfully enough, but Sapt realized that he’d interrupted some delicate negotiation. Perhaps out of orneriness, the clever old man did not give the two diplomats an easy way to excuse themselves. He chattered on with them, showing no desire to leave them again in peace, until finally Ali Pasha regretfully announced that he needed badly to get some rest. There would be time later to continue the British-Turkish conversation.

  Sapt shuddered. There would be time tonight, time next year, time next century. The changing heads of state would turn to this imperfect process in one conflict after another. Millions of soldiers would die, never knowing why they’d been sent into battle. What, in truth, would cost such enormous loss of life?

  Perhaps, thought Sapt, realizing the brandy had made him maudlin, the instruments of death were really only the hasty and shortsighted agreements made among reckless men full of official liquor and all in a hurry to get back to their own homes.

  Colonel Sapt looked around the smaller room sadly. Not for the first time did he feel a flush of gratitude that he’d spent his years as a soldier, and not as one of these diplomats. At least as a soldier, on the battlefield, you could act. You could do something true, something honorable, perhaps to live another day.

  It was early on the 21st of July that the young man realized he’d contracted brain fever. There was surely enough bad water and sparse rations around to explain it, but none of that made him feel any better. The boy found him about nine o’clock in the morning, wrapped in a thin blanket stolen from some dead comrade or enemy. The young man was moaning and curled up for warmth, in the back of a bombed-out, shell-shattered schoolhouse less than half a mile from the Episcopal church where the boy had found the sweet potatoes.

  “Sit up,” said the boy, “you’re not so bad off by half. I seen worse.”

  “Don’t mean I got to feel grateful.” The young man sat up, shivering, although the July heat inside the school-house was stifling. The motion of raising his head from the floor made him dizzy, and for a few seconds he thought he was somewhere else.

  He forgot that he was in well-defended Atlanta, but thought he was in an ancient land by the sea. This antique city, too, was facing a long siege, and the young man witnessed the helpless women running through the stone-flagged streets, pleading for milk for their children, or bread for themselves, or any scrap of food to be had. The enemy from across the ocean had known well how to enforce a siege, and the days of extra scraps of food had long since passed.

  As the young man put his head down again, he closed his eyes and saw massive legions in leather and polished brass destroying this once-great city, putting it to the torch and creating a fire that lasted two entire weeks. As he drifted off again into troubled delirium, he imagined the brilliant and masterful stratagem of salting the area where Carthage had stood, so that no living thing might graze there ever again.

  His fevered mind argued that he hadn’t actually recalled this mythical fact. It could be that his brain fever just confused himself with Odysseus, his great personal hero. Odysseus once tried to avoid the Trojan War by feigning madness, plowing up the seashore and sowing the furrows with salt. That clever device, unfortunately, had not succeeded.

  A little later, the young man felt the boy rinsing his face with a damp rag. The boy was speaking as if to some attentive audience. The young man opened his eyes and raised his head slightly, but there was no one else in the school house but the two of them.

 

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