Manassas, Virginia.
The air reeked of black powder, churned earth, and blood.
Here, the first truly decisive engagement between two Americas unfolded—one that would shape the fate of a continent.
On one side stood the Army of the North, raised by the Federal government, ranks dressed in immaculate blue.
Its commander, General Winfield Scott, a soldier of an older age, sat proudly atop a white horse, surveying his troops through a field glass. A veteran of the War of 1812, he believed in tradition, ceremony, and discipline above all else.
Tens of thousands of men advanced in perfect line formations, as though lifted straight from a military manual.
At the rhythm of shouted commands—one, two, one—and accompanied by martial music, they moved forward with the measured elegance of a parade.
"Observe, gentlemen," Scott declared confidently to the officers beside him.
"This is the American Army—disciplined, resolute. Those Southern rebels will crumble before this blue wall of iron."
None doubted him.
To them, this campaign was little more than a forceful demonstration.
Opposing them stood the Army of the South—irregular in color, clad in greys, browns, and dust-stained cloth.
Its commander was General Robert E. Lee.
Unlike Scott, Lee did not arrange his men into neat geometric lines, inviting slaughter in the name of tradition.
Instead, his forces lay concealed behind low stone walls and earthen embankments, prepared well in advance.
Lee watched the advancing blue mass through a finely crafted British telescope.
"General," murmured Thomas 'Stonewall' Jackson, "they are closing."
Lee smiled faintly.
"Good," he replied. "Let them come closer."
Behind him, Southern infantry lay prone, fingers tight around British Enfield rifles, newly acquired at tremendous cost. Dark barrels rested calmly against the earth.
"Eight hundred yards."
"Six hundred."
"Four hundred."
Northern officers continued calling distances, adhering rigidly to doctrine. Their smoothbore muskets were to fire only at close range.
Then—
"Fire."
Lee's signal flag dropped.
The earth erupted.
A deafening storm of rifle fire tore through the air.
Thousands of breech-loading rifles spoke at once.
The advancing blue line struck an invisible wall of lead.
Men fell by the dozens—cut down before screams could form.
Panic rippled instantly through the Northern ranks.
"At this distance?!" Northern commanders shouted in disbelief.
"Our muskets can't hit anything at four hundred yards!"
Before they could recover—
A second volley followed.
Then a third.
Southern soldiers reloaded in seconds, firing again without rising from cover.
The contrast was merciless.
While Southern rifles thundered relentlessly, Northern troops stood exposed, fumbling through slow muzzle-loading drills learned on parade grounds.
"Retreat!" Scott shouted at last. "Withdraw immediately!"
But the order came too late.
From the flank, Southern cavalry—hidden until now—charged.
Steel flashed. Horses screamed.
The Northern line broke.
The First Battle of Manassas ended in a humiliating Federal rout.
Washington
The news struck like a slap across the face.
Illusions shattered.
The reality was brutal: numbers and enthusiasm meant nothing against technological disparity.
"We need better rifles."
"Modern artillery."
"Anything that can match British steel."
President Zachary Taylor stared at casualty reports in silence.
Northern industry could not match British arms production—not quickly, not under blockade, not under pressure.
Foreign procurement became inevitable.
"But Britain will sell us nothing," one advisor muttered bitterly.
France, too, was unreliable—its offerings outdated, its loyalties questionable.
Then Secretary of State Daniel Webster spoke carefully.
"Mr. President… Austria and Prussia have developed notable armament industries. And neither has ever loved Britain."
Taylor's eyes lit briefly.
Enemies of Britain might yet be allies of America.
The Second Blow
Before relief could take shape, worse news arrived.
Texas had moved.
President Sam Houston, under a proclamation dripping with frontier rhetoric—carefully polished in London—ordered his forces forward.
Texas Rangers, armed to the teeth with British rifles, crossed into New Mexico under the banner of "liberation."
Their objective was clear: Santa Fe, the commercial artery of the West.
Federal forces there were few, poorly armed, and unprepared.
They collapsed almost immediately.
Taylor nearly struck the table in fury.
A two-front war.
East—Lee.
West—Texas.
And an army already bloodied, under-armed, and shaken.
The White House descended into chaos.
"Send troops west!"
"If we weaken the east, Lee will strike for Washington!"
"What choice do we have?!"
No solution emerged.
Only exhaustion.
LondonBuckingham Palace
While Washington argued itself toward despair, Arthur Lionheart knelt calmly in the palace gardens, fastening fresh linen around a squirming Prince Edward.
Queen Victoria stood nearby, newspaper in hand, her expression grave.
"Manassas…" she murmured. "So much death."
Arthur did not look up.
"War always demands payment," he replied evenly. "In blood, in gold, in futures."
He finished his task with practiced ease, lifting the child gently.
After a pause, he added quietly:
"When Edward inherits this world, it may seem more peaceful than it truly is."
Victoria looked at him.
"Because you have already decided the outcome?"
Arthur smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "Because wars that exhaust nations leave empires standing."
The child laughed.
And the British Empire, untouched, continued to watch.