“That’s all, thank you!” the photographer said. Everyone clapped, Mr. Nelson the loudest of all of the men present. With a hand motion, a pair of dragoon officers came over and both bowing before the respective representatives of China and Korea, opening the boxes they held with the gold (well, gold tinted) revolvers. “Now then, gentlemen, let’s drink!” the Secretary of State said, going down the stairwell of the manor selected for the event. The waiters were of course white Mexicans - a strange sort of fashion symbol for wealthy Whigs - but they were all instructed in functional Korean and Chinese in addition to their English literacy.
Now, Nelson had already heard of the yellow peril some men spoke of, and behind closed doors he himself was one of the people disseminating said racial topic. However, the gentlemen he was speaking with were most enchanting. Though he didn’t know a lick of Korean or Chinese their oriental ways were swaying him around. They were so… polite. Oftentimes the almost ritualistic nature of even the basic matters of everyday life that explorers to the orient had described had its own appeal. It had almost the behavioural aesthetic of Greek stoicism, and yet was so different from it in practice. The trouble of course was the it made figuring out whether or not the men had a good time ever so difficult; he would only know if he had done his job many days later, maybe even months. He wondered if in some months, or even years the ambassadors would become more American and be easier to judge. He wondered if the same was happening to all the John Smiths over in the lands of mystery.
A man tapped him on the shoulder, and he half-turned from a conversation with a Korean man in a dashing silken suit. “Sir, your attention. Europe’s calling.”
The President sat with his boots on the table of the oval office, advisors of all sorts around him.
“Mr. President, if I may-”
“Cool it Danny. You’re new to this, you’re not thinking right.” he said, speaking to a middle-aged man. “Tell them this, after you’ve had your Viennese beers. You will support a unified rail gauge for Europe, Africa. However you will insist that the rest of the conference acknowledge the supremacy of the American gauge in Asia, and the Americas. Are we in agreement gentlemen?”
There was a murmuring of half hearted agreement to the compromise from the extremes proposed by the impromptu council assembled. “Good. Now then, lunch.”
Mr. Jenifer, surrounded by a slew of translators, clerks and other staff puffed on his cigar, of course not being the only one of the delegation to do so. Politely refusing requests to stop smoking inside, a small cloud reminiscent of a steam engine emanated from the American party as it awaited the commencing of the conference. Their message was a simple one, though despite being a middle ground that the President was so insistent upon he had his doubts that the organizers of the event would agree. The Austrians weren’t full of the same conservatism their Northern cousins held, but they had the almost peacockish arrogance that had lead to the dissolution of the “Holy Roman Empire” as it had styled itself. He rummaged in his pocket, removing the pocket watch therein with a frown. He still had the Samoa and Hawaii briefings in the evening. It would certainly be a long day, and thus he hoped that at least there would be an invitation for drinks following the business being done.
A little less happily, Ambassador Jenifer sat in the much smaller conference room of the American embassy surrounded by a few staff. As a Whig, he truth be told could not endorse what he was hearing. The man presenting it, was as far as he knew also a Whig, but the fact remained that they were all hearing words they’d more expect from a Southern Democrat twirling his mustache with his legs on the back of a negro. But, the worst was hearing they didn’t really have any say in this. Neither in Samoa nor Hawaii was the domination of local industries and businesses in any way ordained by the federal government. Yet, it was being roped into supporting the very same men that the Whig government had been sworn in to curtail.
Something was wrong here. The fact American cannons and flags were flying side by side the hastily designed ones of Pacific island tribes was almost a foreshadowing of American getting dragged into wars over these God-forsaken mosquito breeding grounds that would end with thousands of good American boys dead. For land that wasn’t even a State of the Union. Well, it wasn’t up to him he supposed. He had all the faith he could in the president to ensure that the United States would act in its own interests, rather than in the interests of little cabals in the United States. Somehow, he feared that this wouldn’t be enough.
Captain Donovan looked down at his revolver, a droplet of sweat falling from his nose on the smoking barrel. He looked back up at the Mexican with his mangled face falling into the tropical dirt. He had shot and killed men before, but he had never seen such a mess made of someone’s head, the battle around him for the briefest of moments escaping what little attention he had outside of his stupor. But he charge of another Mexican with his bayonet quickly brought him back into the world of now. Parrying the spear with his saber he raised the pistol and once more fired. A third, a fourth, a fifth. Six times he took a life in less than a minute. No pistol of the past could reliable achieve such a performance unless it was a lucky pepperbox, and then it was hardly usable for the rest of the battle. Parrying again and riposting with a stab, the Captain fell against a tree. He got to the arduous process of reloading that was nevertheless in the past accomplished by simply drawing another pistol. Looking about in anxious sweeps of his vision, he noticed his fellows had likewise already inflicted a bloody toll on the Mexican ambush. They knew their land, oh they sure did appearing in every damn corner. But the home field advantage had not saved the Mexicans before, and it wouldn’t now. Santa Anna ran with his tail between his legs long before Colt’s finest work was in the hands of good American warriors. Now it was another matter entirely, a fact he would be happy to demonstrate to the damn beaners as he got up with his newly loaded rifle. Again a half dozen men fell to pistol fire, the latter three of them receiving the shots into their backs as they ran. He smiled. Mr. Monroe’s Doctrine would stand tall today.
Captain Donovan was one of the men that joined the army because he believed in all that America stood for, and today they proved that the Stars and Stripes would not only have the slow march of progress, it would herald the bold charge of advancement.
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