The Southern Declaration of Independence shattered the United States of America.
Not figuratively—structurally.
Washington fell into a paralysis bordering on hysteria.
Its politicians resembled a betrayed husband, storming toward the neighbor's house in righteous fury, only to discover that his wife had already fled with her lover—taking the silver, the furniture, and the deed to the land.
Rage.
Humiliation.
And above all, a suffocating sense of helplessness.
"What do we do now?"
"What in God's name do we do?!"
Capitol Hill erupted into its fiercest debate in living memory.
One faction—the commercial pacifists, bankers and merchants—were openly terrified. With the South already independent and shielded by British naval power, continued resistance, they argued, would mean mutual ruin. Better to accept reality and preserve Northern industry than bleed the nation dry for pride.
Opposing them stood the war faction—abolitionists and Manifest Destiny zealots—howling for immediate federal intervention. To them, secession was treason, and treason demanded force.
The chamber roared. Men shouted themselves hoarse. Spittle flew.
Then—almost unnoticed at first—a single congressman rose.
He was tall, awkwardly thin, wrapped in an ill-fitting black suit that made him appear rural, even crude. His face still bore the faint marks of youth, his bearing devoid of grandeur.
His name was Abraham Lincoln.
At the time, he was nobody of consequence.
A one-term Whig from Illinois.
No lineage. No machine. No reputation.
Yet when he spoke, the chamber slowly—instinctively—fell silent.
His voice was not loud.
Nor polished.
It carried a faint frontier cadence.
But it possessed something rarer than volume: moral gravity.
"Gentlemen," he began, without slogans, without citations, without theatrical fury.
"Our nation is a house. Built by our fathers with blood and belief."
"Today, some of our brothers wish to leave that house. Not quietly—but carrying its doors, its beams, its wealth with them. And they have invited a powerful neighbor to stand behind them while they do so."
His eyes moved calmly across the hall.
"I ask you this: as stewards of this house, do we stand aside while it is dismantled—while that neighbor fingers our land and decides what remains ours?"
He paused.
"No."
His voice rose—not in anger, but certainty.
"A house divided against itself cannot stand."
"We fight not to conquer. Not to punish. We fight to preserve. To ensure that our children inherit a house still whole enough to be called a home."
"Even if the price is blood."
The words struck like iron.
This address—later known as the House Divided Speech—cut cleanly through indecision. It gave hesitation a moral enemy.
LondonBuckingham Palace
Arthur Lionheart read the transcript in silence.
For the first time in weeks, something like genuine admiration flickered in his eyes.
"Interesting," he said, passing the paper to Queen Victoria, seated beside him.
"It seems America is not populated solely by cotton barons and gold-hungry provincials. Occasionally, a man of substance appears."
Victoria read carefully, then nodded.
"He speaks plainly," she said. "But powerfully."
"More than powerfully," Arthur replied, smiling faintly.
"He has the potential to become my most troublesome opponent on that continent."
She glanced at him. "And what will you do?"
"What I always do," Arthur said lightly.
"I will gift him a crown—before he learns it is poisoned."
The Lionheart Gambit
Under his public mantle as President of the Royal Society for the Advancement of Science and Industry—and celebrated pacifist—Arthur Lionheart published an open commentary in The Times.
Its title:
"For Unity and Liberty: To a Respected American Congressman."
The first half was unrestrained praise.
Lincoln was hailed as
"a patriot of Roman gravity,"
"the truest echo of the American founding spirit,"
"a statesman born before his time."
The flattery was so extravagant that Lincoln himself flushed when reading the translation in Washington.
Then the tone shifted.
"Yet," Arthur wrote sorrowfully,
"as one devoted to peace, I cannot endure the thought of brothers butchering brothers. War is humanity's most obscene invention. It solves nothing. It multiplies graves."
"Therefore, I implore restraint. The British Empire stands ready to offer an impartial platform for peaceful resolution—so that civilization need not drown in its own blood."
Europe applauded.
Britain swooned.
Arthur Lionheart's image as a saint of restraint was complete.
And in Washington, wavering congressmen seized upon the article eagerly.
"Even the Prince of Britain urges peace!" they cried.
"Why should we bleed when civilization offers mediation?"
Lincoln Understands
Lincoln read the article alone that night.
He said nothing for ten minutes.
Then, quietly:
"What a vicious method of murder by praise."
He understood at once.
Arthur Lionheart had bound Lincoln's name to unity and freedom—then defined war as barbarism, and peace as British supervision.
Fight—and become a savage.
Accept mediation—and surrender sovereignty.
"No," Lincoln whispered. "Never."
The Counterstroke
That very night, Lincoln wrote.
The following morning, The New York Tribune published a letter signed:
"An Ordinary Citizen of Illinois."
Its title:
"Our House, Repaired by Our Own Hands."
Lincoln thanked the Prince—politely, sincerely.
Then he struck.
"When a house collapses due to a rotten foundation, the owners do not ask a wealthy neighbor to decide which walls may stand."
"They take up their own tools—even if bloodied—and tear out the rot themselves."
"A peace built upon slavery is not peace. It is surrender."
"We ask only this of our European friends: trust that we will settle our family affairs without foreign hands passing tools across the fence."
Washington erupted.
The illusion shattered.
Arthur Lionheart's maneuver collapsed—cleanly, publicly, irreversibly.
Buckingham Palace
Arthur read Lincoln's reply twice.
Then smiled.
"Abraham Lincoln," he murmured.
"At last."
Victoria looked up. "A problem?"
"A pleasure," Arthur replied softly.
"For the first time in years, the board has acquired a worthy piece."
The game had truly begun.