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Boxing Day, 1918

Even in his moment of triumph he was annoyed. “Did you hear them chanting outside? ‘We Want Wilson! We Want Wilson!’” the Prime Minister snapped. “You’d think America won this war all by themselves. I just hope Wilson’s not as much of a glory-seeker during the dratted negotiations. If only these politicians didn’t care about their images so much I expect we would get much more work done.”

Lloyd-George stifled a chuckle at this clear hypocrisy. Bonar Law, more loyal, managed to hold back a twitch.
The Prime Minister didn’t notice – he was talking more for his own benefit than anything else.

“Why the man was first elected to an office all of seven years ago! A professor before that. And that prepares him for what exactly? Even my rise wasn’t – quite – so meteoric.” And as he spoke the memories came of their own accord.

His rise had begun all of 32 years ago – so long! – when he’d stood for Liverpool Scotland. The Conservatives had picked him almost by default – an energetic young man of means who wouldn’t overly mind winning or losing. They were wrong on that count. He’d fought hard, canvassing door to door, trying to impress upon people that he was fresh-faced, yes, but wasn’t that just what the party needed? His old uncle James, ultra enough to make Salisbury look pink, had even offered to come out and speak to constituents, an offer that had been respectfully denied.

He’d been slaughtered by Tay Pay anyway. “How does it feel being the only Englishman defeated by an Irish Nationalist MP?” the journalists had asked him, and he gritted his teeth and pushed through the inane questioning. His mind kept returning to the same bitter idea. I was a sacrificial lamb. If anyone had been watching closely, they would have seen his characteristic grin slip.

Action was the best way out of it, of course. It always was for him. It was that desire for action that had brought him to South Africa. He’d become a part of the British South Africa Police as fast as he could. Just fast enough, in fact to join Maj. Allan Wilson on a patrol that pushed deep into Matabele territory. Too deep. It was only when the ambushers leapt out the brush and began shooting that he really realized how much danger they were in. Maj. Wilson sent him back, along with three others, in a desperate attempt to get help. There was a brief, panicked charge through enemy lines, and then the slow, cold realization that they weren’t going to be able to save the others. They were the only four members of the Shangani patrol to survive.

Only in his darkest moments would the Prime Minister admit that he had been terrified. His desire to be a martyr in battle - like his father! – had dissolved in the face of chaos on all sides, in the cold pit in his stomach that told him he did not want to die. Somehow, he had lived.
And from then on he was a hero, of course, alongside the Maxim Gun. People were clambering all over him on his return, excited for just the hint of a handshake or a grin from the handsome, tanned young man who had killed savages. Their attention was almost enough to make up for the moment of fear, almost enough to make him confident again. It was enough to make him a good candidate.

He won the Liverpool Kirkdale By-election in 1898 and almost immediately was seen as going places. Elders began seeking out his opinions, cartoonists memorized his mustache and spectacles, and after his maiden speech the other members eagerly watched him tear into arguments, his hands chopping as he spoke. He did not want to wait for power, of course. Never had. He wanted to make himself known, by speaking out on almost everything that crossed his mind. Tariff reform – in favor. Home rule – firmly against. Lords reform – let’s see. He was a bit close to Joseph Chamberlain, yes, but Salisbury thought highly enough of an old book he had written on the Navy in the Napoleonic Wars to make him First Lord of the Admiralty.

He had put all his excited energy to good use – there was no stronger defender of the navy, no man more knowledgeable about what the future might bring. Port Arthur set all the gears in his mind whirring and for the next few months he pondered if British naval policy was ready for Japan. He gnashed his teeth at the rebels running rampant in the Spanish Phillipines. It was probably the best for his career that the Boer War was mainly an army affair. His jingoism produced no casualty lists.

He was moved up to Home Secretary and there he seemed to be stuck. He was immensely popular with the people, yes – always hoorahing and hullabaloo when he gave a speech. But he was too volatile to ever seem like a trusted party leader, too much of a reformer to be the necessary safe pair of hands. He had absolutely no chance of being an anointed successor.

And then chance brought him to the pinnacle of power. 1906 was a deluge, discontent over the Boer War, social policy, a lack of reform, all contributing to a Conservative decimation. Balfour was one of many upstanding MPs to be swept away. Liverpool Kirkdale however, retained a Conservative majority of a few hundred. He had survived again.
Balfour was, temporarily, out, Joe Chamberlain was too ill and too old, and he was only 47, charismatic, and possibly just the gamble needed to turn around Conservative fortunes. He became leader of the opposition. Everywhere he went the party was renewed, and although Campbell-Bannerman moved ahead with reform he was determined that the Conservative Party would not be left behind.

It was four years later that Asquith, finally fed up with inaction, called a new election. To help “the people” of course. But then both parties wanted to do that now. And he made it crystal clear that he cared more for the people than Asquith ever would, that Conservatives had always cared more for the forgotten man.

They won back a little over 180 seats, which meant a narrow majority but a strong popular mandate. And Walter, Austen, and A.J. just sat around and didn’t want to do anything with it! Nonsense! They seemed to think that the issue of the Lords would simply go away now, that all their promises to the people meant inaction. He had other plans.
He told them what he was going to do at the very first Cabinet meeting. They were dumbfounded. And it took all of his pressuring and oratory to convince them that this was a good idea. That it was, in fact, a masterstroke.

It was all worth it of course to go to the House and crow “Remember Disraeli?” as Asquith sat in shock and the Liberal benches realized that, once again, they had been flanked. All worth it when in the general election he was able to put up posters saying “When you vote for your peer - Vote Conservative!” And this time he got much more than a narrow majority. Was he being inconsistent? – yes, but it worked wonders. Reform and reform and reform – and pretty soon the Liberals had nothing to run on. Between them and the socialists, he almost wished he had real opposition.

And so with some misplaced eagerness he went to war, looking for the next British challenge, and hoping that after years of speaking softly the Kaiser would finally have to listen to Britain. He was not prepared – no one was prepared – for the living hell that British soldiers would be stepping into. There was no glory, no virtue here. Only death. As much as he yelled and roared – “It takes more than that to kill the British lion!” he knew that he couldn’t pull this off by himself. Britain needed American help; and he needed to form a coalition that would endure until victory. Onlookers were very surprised to see the Welsh Wizard join forces with the Dutch Dervish. And from then on-

He was called back to the present by the glinting smile of President Wilson. “Delighted to meet you.”

Wilson winced at the tight handshake. “You as well, Prime Minister.”

“I suppose they taught you not to call me Mr. Prime Minister at Princeton? Most Americans can’t get it straight.”

“Princeton yes, although I grew up in Virginia.”

The Prime Minister did some mental arithmetic. “You would have been a young Confederate, would you not?”

“Yes, although it’s far in the past I barely recall. Actually, I’d heard you had family in the war?”

“Two uncles. They were on the same side as you. Brought me to Liverpool in the first place.” That wasn’t all though. His throat caught on the next few words. “That was only after Theodore Roosevelt Sr. – my father – died at Cold Harbor. I’m an Englishman by choice you see.”

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