"Poor At Apologies"
Title: Poor At Apologies
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: PG
Premise: 1814. Russia and America share a glass of wine, complain about England, and indulge in a little foreshadowing.
Author's Notes: Check out the Index to see all the main stories and outlying canon in one spot. Seriously, do. It's cool.
+++
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day.
St. Petersburg, Russia. September 1814.
It was an impressive door. A good twenty feet high, covered in gilt inlay and Orthodox crosses and little rococo flourishes. America kicked it open hard enough that the right panel bounced off the inside wall and nearly cracked him in the face. He blocked it with his forearm, yelped in pain, then pushed into Russia's private rooms and started ranting. "I am so sick of this shit!"
Russia, poised halfway out of his chair, sank back down. "You just broke my lock," he observed.
"--Sorry...I'll replace it...But I can't take this anymore! England still won't sit down to peace talks! What the hell does he want from me? He's not getting anywhere, this whole war is completely pointless now that Napoleon's been exiled, he just won't give it a rest--"
"Would you close the door, at least?" Russia tilted his head, and winced as America nudged the splintered wood back into the doorframe with his foot. "And what have you done to your arm?"
"What?" America looked down at the splint on his right wrist. He flushed against a rush of memory. "We had a fight in DC about a week ago. He had me in a half-Nelson, and I told him he was a lousy fuck. Wait--no, I told him that France was a better fuck. So he broke my wrist." He looked up at Russia and allowed, "Possibly not the best timing on my part."
"I certainly wouldn't be able to lend any perspective in this case," Russia returned. He leaned forward for a better look at America's injured limb. "Although I can't imagine what you thought his response would be."
America yelped as the other Nation's fingers grazed his forearm. "I think I was going for effect."
"Don't you always?"
"He was in my capitol. He was burning down my capitol! It was a civilian target! Because of him, the First Lady had to escape alone with a portrait of George Washington stuffed up her bloomers owwww..." he shot Russia a wounded look as Russia experimentally bent back his fingers. He snatched his arm away. "Yes, it's really broken, thank you."
"Your ruling class continues to astound me. How big was this portrai--"
America planted his spare hand on one of the arms of Russia's chair, doing his best to loom threateningly. "This isn't funny, Russia!"
The mahogany creaked as Russia twisted out from under America and got to his feet. "I never implied that it was. I'm simply thanking God that most of my valuables are portable."
"It wasn't even that big," America muttered. "She cut it out of the frame first. And it's not like I looked to see how exactly she went about, uh, storing it. I'm sure it was ladylike, all right?" He backed off a step and gingerly massaged his wrist.
"I don't understand exactly what you're doing here," Russia remarked over his shoulder as he made his way to the liquor cabinet; "This may be a failing on my part. Or, perhaps, you have neglected to explain yourself." Glass clinked gently, and Russia pulled a dusky green bottle out from the depths of the cupboard. He gave America a half-smile. "Madeira?"
"Oh..." America blinked. "Um, sorry. Um, yes, thank you. I was just...I was hoping you could give me some advice."
Russia filled two glasses, one rather more than the other, and swirled the amber liquid gently against the crystal. "This was laid down in 1740, I believe," he said, and handed America the fuller glass. He raised his own in a toast. "You were very small then, yes? It was impossible to believe you might someday be at war with your ruling state."
"He isn't my ruling state anymore." He stared down into his glass, then gave a small start and looked up at Russia with a belated, "Thank you." Courtesy addressed: "He's just a bastard."
Russia chuckled and took a tiny sip. "England is certainly not company I would choose. He tends to be rather difficult."
America snorted. "Difficult? He provoked a war with me out of, out of…spite. That's more than 'difficult.'"
"Very difficult, then." The wine in Russia's glass sloshed gently as he set it down. "To be honest, I can't stand him."
"Why, what did he ever do to you?" America breathed in the bouquet, swirled the wine in his glass for a moment, then took a small taste. He brightened. "Hey, this is really good."
"Portuguese." Russia smiled at America. He toyed with the stem of his glass, and his face darkened. "I never knew England when I was young. In fact, we hadn't actually spoken to one another until, oh, almost fifty years ago. When he backed that bastard Prussia, and forced me into an alliance with Austria and your French friend. Later, I was forced into supporting both of them, for a time. It wasn't voluntary, you understand, but there are times when a Nation must follow his monarch's orders, no matter how idiotic those orders might be."
"What, you mean you were forced to support England and Pruss--hey, I remember this, don't tell me! This was that whole Austrian Succession thing, right? It was going on at the same time as the French and Indian War for me? I remember England was really worried about that for a little while, but then he said you got some new emperor. And you turned on your old alliance and...he kept laughing about this new emperor. What was his name?"
"Pyotr Alexeyevich Romanov. And it's wonderful to know that England's sense of humor is as robust as ever." Russia reached for his wine glass and took a large swallow, something France had taught America never to do.
"Oh, Peter! That's right. Is it true that he executed a dog because it ate one of his toy soldiers? Like, when he was in his twenties?"
Russia pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "It was a rat. The dogs were…something else. In the man's defense, it was a favorite toy soldier."
America gave a snort of laughter. He leaned his hip against the side of Russia's desk. "You know, this is a good example of why I'm glad I don't have kings. Someone like that could never be elected to the Presidency."
"You are only on your fifth." Russia replied. He raked a hand through his hair. "You should have more faith in the endless variety of people."
America fired him an expression of distaste over his raised wine glass. "I should have more faith that people will be lunatics and make bad choices? I think I'd just as soon not."
"Give people enough time and they'll do both anyway. I would much rather be prepared." The desk creaked as Russia leaned over it, snatched a piece of parchment, and slid it carefully beneath his glass: a makeshift coaster. "Just like you should have been for England." He gave America a wry smile. "In some respects, Nations aren't so different from people."
America grimaced and looked away. "...I know." He was silent for a few seconds, then took a drink. "He's still so angry with me."
"And you find this confusing?" Another sip, and Russia topped off both their glasses, not waiting for America's nod. "For years, all of Europe was buzzing about this extraordinary colony that England had taken under his wing. He poured effort into it, always had something to say about how it was growing. We all knew about you, America. And we were all watching when you made a fool of him." He shrugged. "He is going to be angry for a long time."
America flushed and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he fixed Russia with a steady look. "He's just going to have to get over it," he stated. "I'm my own country now, and his petty...bullying isn't going to change anything." He knocked back a long drink of his own.
Russia tapped his nails gently against the side of the bottle, watching America finish off his drink. "Perhaps you should make the first move, show him that you're more mature than he'd like to believe. You've been pushing back at him, but it takes more than force to settle matters between nations. Sometimes a bit of diplomacy is necessary."
"Did you use diplomacy against Napoleon?"
"At first."
"And then, when that didn't work, you burned your own crops."
"Better destroyed than consumed by French troops."
America blinked and gave Russia a sudden look of concern. "Hey, does it bother you? I mean...England picked this fight with me because I wouldn't stop trading with France. But Napoleon actually...I mean, he invaded you. Were you upset with me, too?"
"Frankly, yes." America frowned, but Russia continued. "You could have taken a step back and tried to negotiate with England, but instead you began this ridiculous war. There was no thought to it, America. Thousands of English troops were monopolized by your attempts to look like you could take care of yourself." He jerked his chin at the other Nation's splinted arm. "So you blustered and fought, sustained an injury, and now you want, what, my approval?" Russia leaned in, close enough for America to smell the wine on his breath. "My farmers torched their own livelihoods, my women were brutalized, and my soldiers froze."
There was a long, empty, horrible pause. America's blue eyes fell and he bowed his head. He took half a step back. "No. I don't want your approval." He set his glass carefully on Russia's makeshift coaster. "Please accept my apologies--I feel I must have taken up too much of your time."
Russia heaved a sigh, squeezed his eyes shut. "Stop," he growled. "I spoke out of turn. It wasn't my place to say that to you." His hand shot out. America flinched before he realized that Russia was going for the bottle.
He cleared his throat and collected himself. "Perhaps not, but that doesn't make you any less right." America centered his weight over his feet again and gazed down into his upturned hand. "I felt England's provocation was a threat to my sovereignty too great to ignore, but the integrity of Europe is a more important consideration than my pride. I have...mixed feelings about France's political situation. I have ever since the downfall of the monarchy. No doubt if I had been in a position where Napoleon's ambitions presented a threat to my borders, I would have behaved differently." He curled his fingers and glanced up at Russia. "Forgive my lack of tact."
The other nation gave him a tight little smile, and spread his hands. "There is nothing to forgive." He got up from the desk and moved across the room; his fingers began to pick idly at the splintered doorframe. "Isn't it odd how we always seem to be apologizing to one another?"
"I don't think either of us technically apologized, there," America observed.
Russia's hand stilled. "I'm sure I did. Was yours not genuine?" He gave America a blank look.
America looked at him for a few seconds, and then laughed.
The sound seemed too loud in the vaulted chamber, but Russia grinned. "You are a very strange nation, America." He reached out, took America's uninjured hand, and shook it gingerly.
America smiled and squeezed his fingers before letting him go. "And you're a bit of a son of a bitch, but I think I might like that about you."
"Good. I'd hate to see us at odds over something as small as that." Russia paused for a moment and pursed his lips. "But what I said about England still stands: you have a great deal to gain by making the first move."
"I'm not going to apologize to him, either. He's still a bastard."
"I'm sure he doesn't expect you to. And yes, he is. But you two can't go on like this for much longer. You know your list of trading partners is growing thin." He clasped his hands behind his back. "And I would be lying if I said we didn't miss your furs."
"You know, about that. It's only September, why is it so cold?" America recovered his glass and finished his wine.
"Because..." Russia halted, and America watched a flash of something very like pain cross his face. "Because it is always cold in Russia." He detached his left cufflink and rolled up his sleeve, offering his wrist for inspection. America glanced at him, then bushed his fingers across the exposed skin. As he withdrew, Russia quickly pushed back his sleeve. "You see?"
America rubbed his fingertips together. "You're like ice," he wondered. He looked up and started to speak, then caught his words behind his teeth.
The other nation arched an eyebrow. "Yes. But I am used to it. Luckily, the French are not. " He eyed America's heavy coat and the corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Neither are you, I see."
America didn't smile back. "I can manage. I get cold, too. England never got used to winters in Plymouth and Boston and those places. For a while, I thought it would drive him off and he'd never come back. Of course, then he figured out that my coast kept going south..."
"Would you have minded if he never came back?" Russia spun his cufflink between his fingers. "You were just a child."
America set his glass down and worked his jaw for a few seconds. "No," he acknowledged. "If he had left as soon as he arrived, I would never have cared." He collected a trace of wine from the corner of his mouth with the side of his thumb. "I suppose I would have been raised by France, or Holland." He looked to Russia and gave a short nod. "I'll speak with him. I'm sure he would rather resume trading than continue driving up his national debt with this pointless war."
"You will have to convince him. I think we both know that there is more at stake here than trade routes." The remains of the door shrieked in protest as Russia pushed it open. "And be as cruel in your convincing as you like. Although, " he stood aside to let America pass, "That's more for my sake than his."
America grimaced. "I have no intention of causing England unnecessary pain." He sighed and rubbed his splinted wrist as he stepped out into the echoing hallway. "I just want to be left alone. Do you think that's possible?"
Russia let their eyes lock. "Oh, yes."
And without another word, he retreated back into his study.
+++
--In September 1812, Russian officials approached the American diplomats in St. Petersburg with the suggestion that the Russians mediate in the increasingly tense conflict between Great Britain and the United States. The Russians hoped to maintain American commerce, upon which they had come to depend, and to ensure that more British forces would be freed to combat Napoleon's French troops, which were encroaching on Russian territory. While the Americans accepted the offer of a third party mediation, Great Britain refused to participate.
--Napoleon invaded Russia in June of 1812 with an army of 650,000 men. Five months later and after a disastrous retreat, fewer than 30,000 of those soldiers remained. The vast majority of Le Grande Armee died or deserted in the face of the Russian army's scorched earth tactics and the onset of the bitter Russian winter. Napoleon abdicated on April 6, 1814, and was exiled to Elba.
--British forces invaded Washington DC on August 24th, 1814. They met no organized resistance, and burned most of the American buildings of government, including the presidential mansion. Dolly Madison, who was the First Lady at the time, is said to have cut the iconic Lansdowne portrait of George Washington out if its frame in James Madison's office and smuggled it out of the White House concealed in her skirts.
--In early 1815, the Americans met with the British and concluded the Treaty of Ghent, which ended the War of 1812, without Russian assistance.
+++
Reviews are greatly appreciated!
+
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: PG
Premise: 1814. Russia and America share a glass of wine, complain about England, and indulge in a little foreshadowing.
Author's Notes: Check out the Index to see all the main stories and outlying canon in one spot. Seriously, do. It's cool.
+++
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day.
St. Petersburg, Russia. September 1814.
It was an impressive door. A good twenty feet high, covered in gilt inlay and Orthodox crosses and little rococo flourishes. America kicked it open hard enough that the right panel bounced off the inside wall and nearly cracked him in the face. He blocked it with his forearm, yelped in pain, then pushed into Russia's private rooms and started ranting. "I am so sick of this shit!"
Russia, poised halfway out of his chair, sank back down. "You just broke my lock," he observed.
"--Sorry...I'll replace it...But I can't take this anymore! England still won't sit down to peace talks! What the hell does he want from me? He's not getting anywhere, this whole war is completely pointless now that Napoleon's been exiled, he just won't give it a rest--"
"Would you close the door, at least?" Russia tilted his head, and winced as America nudged the splintered wood back into the doorframe with his foot. "And what have you done to your arm?"
"What?" America looked down at the splint on his right wrist. He flushed against a rush of memory. "We had a fight in DC about a week ago. He had me in a half-Nelson, and I told him he was a lousy fuck. Wait--no, I told him that France was a better fuck. So he broke my wrist." He looked up at Russia and allowed, "Possibly not the best timing on my part."
"I certainly wouldn't be able to lend any perspective in this case," Russia returned. He leaned forward for a better look at America's injured limb. "Although I can't imagine what you thought his response would be."
America yelped as the other Nation's fingers grazed his forearm. "I think I was going for effect."
"Don't you always?"
"He was in my capitol. He was burning down my capitol! It was a civilian target! Because of him, the First Lady had to escape alone with a portrait of George Washington stuffed up her bloomers owwww..." he shot Russia a wounded look as Russia experimentally bent back his fingers. He snatched his arm away. "Yes, it's really broken, thank you."
"Your ruling class continues to astound me. How big was this portrai--"
America planted his spare hand on one of the arms of Russia's chair, doing his best to loom threateningly. "This isn't funny, Russia!"
The mahogany creaked as Russia twisted out from under America and got to his feet. "I never implied that it was. I'm simply thanking God that most of my valuables are portable."
"It wasn't even that big," America muttered. "She cut it out of the frame first. And it's not like I looked to see how exactly she went about, uh, storing it. I'm sure it was ladylike, all right?" He backed off a step and gingerly massaged his wrist.
"I don't understand exactly what you're doing here," Russia remarked over his shoulder as he made his way to the liquor cabinet; "This may be a failing on my part. Or, perhaps, you have neglected to explain yourself." Glass clinked gently, and Russia pulled a dusky green bottle out from the depths of the cupboard. He gave America a half-smile. "Madeira?"
"Oh..." America blinked. "Um, sorry. Um, yes, thank you. I was just...I was hoping you could give me some advice."
Russia filled two glasses, one rather more than the other, and swirled the amber liquid gently against the crystal. "This was laid down in 1740, I believe," he said, and handed America the fuller glass. He raised his own in a toast. "You were very small then, yes? It was impossible to believe you might someday be at war with your ruling state."
"He isn't my ruling state anymore." He stared down into his glass, then gave a small start and looked up at Russia with a belated, "Thank you." Courtesy addressed: "He's just a bastard."
Russia chuckled and took a tiny sip. "England is certainly not company I would choose. He tends to be rather difficult."
America snorted. "Difficult? He provoked a war with me out of, out of…spite. That's more than 'difficult.'"
"Very difficult, then." The wine in Russia's glass sloshed gently as he set it down. "To be honest, I can't stand him."
"Why, what did he ever do to you?" America breathed in the bouquet, swirled the wine in his glass for a moment, then took a small taste. He brightened. "Hey, this is really good."
"Portuguese." Russia smiled at America. He toyed with the stem of his glass, and his face darkened. "I never knew England when I was young. In fact, we hadn't actually spoken to one another until, oh, almost fifty years ago. When he backed that bastard Prussia, and forced me into an alliance with Austria and your French friend. Later, I was forced into supporting both of them, for a time. It wasn't voluntary, you understand, but there are times when a Nation must follow his monarch's orders, no matter how idiotic those orders might be."
"What, you mean you were forced to support England and Pruss--hey, I remember this, don't tell me! This was that whole Austrian Succession thing, right? It was going on at the same time as the French and Indian War for me? I remember England was really worried about that for a little while, but then he said you got some new emperor. And you turned on your old alliance and...he kept laughing about this new emperor. What was his name?"
"Pyotr Alexeyevich Romanov. And it's wonderful to know that England's sense of humor is as robust as ever." Russia reached for his wine glass and took a large swallow, something France had taught America never to do.
"Oh, Peter! That's right. Is it true that he executed a dog because it ate one of his toy soldiers? Like, when he was in his twenties?"
Russia pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "It was a rat. The dogs were…something else. In the man's defense, it was a favorite toy soldier."
America gave a snort of laughter. He leaned his hip against the side of Russia's desk. "You know, this is a good example of why I'm glad I don't have kings. Someone like that could never be elected to the Presidency."
"You are only on your fifth." Russia replied. He raked a hand through his hair. "You should have more faith in the endless variety of people."
America fired him an expression of distaste over his raised wine glass. "I should have more faith that people will be lunatics and make bad choices? I think I'd just as soon not."
"Give people enough time and they'll do both anyway. I would much rather be prepared." The desk creaked as Russia leaned over it, snatched a piece of parchment, and slid it carefully beneath his glass: a makeshift coaster. "Just like you should have been for England." He gave America a wry smile. "In some respects, Nations aren't so different from people."
America grimaced and looked away. "...I know." He was silent for a few seconds, then took a drink. "He's still so angry with me."
"And you find this confusing?" Another sip, and Russia topped off both their glasses, not waiting for America's nod. "For years, all of Europe was buzzing about this extraordinary colony that England had taken under his wing. He poured effort into it, always had something to say about how it was growing. We all knew about you, America. And we were all watching when you made a fool of him." He shrugged. "He is going to be angry for a long time."
America flushed and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he fixed Russia with a steady look. "He's just going to have to get over it," he stated. "I'm my own country now, and his petty...bullying isn't going to change anything." He knocked back a long drink of his own.
Russia tapped his nails gently against the side of the bottle, watching America finish off his drink. "Perhaps you should make the first move, show him that you're more mature than he'd like to believe. You've been pushing back at him, but it takes more than force to settle matters between nations. Sometimes a bit of diplomacy is necessary."
"Did you use diplomacy against Napoleon?"
"At first."
"And then, when that didn't work, you burned your own crops."
"Better destroyed than consumed by French troops."
America blinked and gave Russia a sudden look of concern. "Hey, does it bother you? I mean...England picked this fight with me because I wouldn't stop trading with France. But Napoleon actually...I mean, he invaded you. Were you upset with me, too?"
"Frankly, yes." America frowned, but Russia continued. "You could have taken a step back and tried to negotiate with England, but instead you began this ridiculous war. There was no thought to it, America. Thousands of English troops were monopolized by your attempts to look like you could take care of yourself." He jerked his chin at the other Nation's splinted arm. "So you blustered and fought, sustained an injury, and now you want, what, my approval?" Russia leaned in, close enough for America to smell the wine on his breath. "My farmers torched their own livelihoods, my women were brutalized, and my soldiers froze."
There was a long, empty, horrible pause. America's blue eyes fell and he bowed his head. He took half a step back. "No. I don't want your approval." He set his glass carefully on Russia's makeshift coaster. "Please accept my apologies--I feel I must have taken up too much of your time."
Russia heaved a sigh, squeezed his eyes shut. "Stop," he growled. "I spoke out of turn. It wasn't my place to say that to you." His hand shot out. America flinched before he realized that Russia was going for the bottle.
He cleared his throat and collected himself. "Perhaps not, but that doesn't make you any less right." America centered his weight over his feet again and gazed down into his upturned hand. "I felt England's provocation was a threat to my sovereignty too great to ignore, but the integrity of Europe is a more important consideration than my pride. I have...mixed feelings about France's political situation. I have ever since the downfall of the monarchy. No doubt if I had been in a position where Napoleon's ambitions presented a threat to my borders, I would have behaved differently." He curled his fingers and glanced up at Russia. "Forgive my lack of tact."
The other nation gave him a tight little smile, and spread his hands. "There is nothing to forgive." He got up from the desk and moved across the room; his fingers began to pick idly at the splintered doorframe. "Isn't it odd how we always seem to be apologizing to one another?"
"I don't think either of us technically apologized, there," America observed.
Russia's hand stilled. "I'm sure I did. Was yours not genuine?" He gave America a blank look.
America looked at him for a few seconds, and then laughed.
The sound seemed too loud in the vaulted chamber, but Russia grinned. "You are a very strange nation, America." He reached out, took America's uninjured hand, and shook it gingerly.
America smiled and squeezed his fingers before letting him go. "And you're a bit of a son of a bitch, but I think I might like that about you."
"Good. I'd hate to see us at odds over something as small as that." Russia paused for a moment and pursed his lips. "But what I said about England still stands: you have a great deal to gain by making the first move."
"I'm not going to apologize to him, either. He's still a bastard."
"I'm sure he doesn't expect you to. And yes, he is. But you two can't go on like this for much longer. You know your list of trading partners is growing thin." He clasped his hands behind his back. "And I would be lying if I said we didn't miss your furs."
"You know, about that. It's only September, why is it so cold?" America recovered his glass and finished his wine.
"Because..." Russia halted, and America watched a flash of something very like pain cross his face. "Because it is always cold in Russia." He detached his left cufflink and rolled up his sleeve, offering his wrist for inspection. America glanced at him, then bushed his fingers across the exposed skin. As he withdrew, Russia quickly pushed back his sleeve. "You see?"
America rubbed his fingertips together. "You're like ice," he wondered. He looked up and started to speak, then caught his words behind his teeth.
The other nation arched an eyebrow. "Yes. But I am used to it. Luckily, the French are not. " He eyed America's heavy coat and the corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Neither are you, I see."
America didn't smile back. "I can manage. I get cold, too. England never got used to winters in Plymouth and Boston and those places. For a while, I thought it would drive him off and he'd never come back. Of course, then he figured out that my coast kept going south..."
"Would you have minded if he never came back?" Russia spun his cufflink between his fingers. "You were just a child."
America set his glass down and worked his jaw for a few seconds. "No," he acknowledged. "If he had left as soon as he arrived, I would never have cared." He collected a trace of wine from the corner of his mouth with the side of his thumb. "I suppose I would have been raised by France, or Holland." He looked to Russia and gave a short nod. "I'll speak with him. I'm sure he would rather resume trading than continue driving up his national debt with this pointless war."
"You will have to convince him. I think we both know that there is more at stake here than trade routes." The remains of the door shrieked in protest as Russia pushed it open. "And be as cruel in your convincing as you like. Although, " he stood aside to let America pass, "That's more for my sake than his."
America grimaced. "I have no intention of causing England unnecessary pain." He sighed and rubbed his splinted wrist as he stepped out into the echoing hallway. "I just want to be left alone. Do you think that's possible?"
Russia let their eyes lock. "Oh, yes."
And without another word, he retreated back into his study.
+++
--In September 1812, Russian officials approached the American diplomats in St. Petersburg with the suggestion that the Russians mediate in the increasingly tense conflict between Great Britain and the United States. The Russians hoped to maintain American commerce, upon which they had come to depend, and to ensure that more British forces would be freed to combat Napoleon's French troops, which were encroaching on Russian territory. While the Americans accepted the offer of a third party mediation, Great Britain refused to participate.
--Napoleon invaded Russia in June of 1812 with an army of 650,000 men. Five months later and after a disastrous retreat, fewer than 30,000 of those soldiers remained. The vast majority of Le Grande Armee died or deserted in the face of the Russian army's scorched earth tactics and the onset of the bitter Russian winter. Napoleon abdicated on April 6, 1814, and was exiled to Elba.
--British forces invaded Washington DC on August 24th, 1814. They met no organized resistance, and burned most of the American buildings of government, including the presidential mansion. Dolly Madison, who was the First Lady at the time, is said to have cut the iconic Lansdowne portrait of George Washington out if its frame in James Madison's office and smuggled it out of the White House concealed in her skirts.
--In early 1815, the Americans met with the British and concluded the Treaty of Ghent, which ended the War of 1812, without Russian assistance.
+++
Reviews are greatly appreciated!
+