1860
Culiacan, capital of Lycia Dominion
Governor-General Robert E. Lee would oversee the first Parliamentary election in the Dominion of Lycia. Over the past years, the Governor-General would see a bizarre wave of migrants extending beyond the typical American subjects. There were Jews (there was a small Jewish community in Virginia thus Lee was somewhat familiar), Copts (of which he knew nothing but apparently they held the Jews in bondage in the Bible), Mennonites and a few other peoples which Lee couldn't even pronounce.
Lee had been a popular governor, attempting to juggle the interests of the modest Spanish population of the region at the time with the new multi-lingual new arrivals. There were always complaints but the Spanish peasants appreciated getting the vote (though some may have preferred to rejoin Anahuac) and were outright delighted at getting free land (though much of the land was hardly arable).
Entire new towns were settled as a wave of migrants descended upon the territory. The region was mapped and surveyed. The first railroad track arrived in 1859.
Some of the locals encouraged Lee to run for the future Governor position (the Governor-General position would be abolished with Dominionhood) but Lee was not even remotely interested. Military governance was difficult enough. Having to pander to voters would be utterly exhausting.
Lee was happy to leave the new Dominion in another's hands. Upon the new Governor assuming office in 1861, Lee would be returning East. In truth, the aging soldier was considering retirement. But his old student from West Point, subordinate from years before and friend Abe Lincoln had somehow become President years ago and offered Lee his choice of Commandant of West Point or the second-in-command of the army behind Winfield Scott with fine salary and office in Manhattan.
The General looked forward to seeing his old friend again. But he knew better than to bring up Lincoln's name in the presence of the local commander of American forced (nominally under Lee's command), Colonel Jefferson Davis. Davis never forgave his old classmate Lincoln for beating him out for Sarah Taylor's hand all those years ago and remained bitter.
Lee was surprised that Lincoln dispatched a letter detailing Davis' promotion to Brigadier and putting him in command of the entire region's (Baetica, Lycia and Pamphylia) British American Army forces. It was a kind gesture but Lee knew Davis would not accept the Olive Branch.
The old soldier WAS happy that one of his primary civilian adjutants, Benito Juarez, had been elected to Parliament. Lee was sure that he would not be welcomed with open arms in Manhattan but affecting that was beyond his power.
Perhaps more humorously, another civilian aid, the Freedman Frederick Douglas had been elected as a representative to the Dominion of Lycia's Legislature. It was an open secret that Douglas had been among those brigands who absconded with a million pound sterling payment due to Anahuac under escort of John James Smith (now known to be the infamous Armstrong Hyman Thruston). However, no witnesses could be acquired and Douglas, having lost his fortune in the failed revolt of New Spain, returned to the BNA.
Though he would miss his friends, both Lee and his wife would be happy to return east.
Manhattan
Lincoln would oversee the election and, based on the early returns already received from the eastern Dominions, it appeared that few Parliamentarians were thrown out and, therefore, the First Lord expected to be returned for another 5 year term.
The First Lord would have to attend a funeral in December. His former friend and ally, Stephan Douglas, expired from some ailment, possibly Typhoid. Lincoln regretted never being able to reconcile with a man who mattered so much to him during his career.
On a whim, Lincoln attempted one more time to contact his oldest friend, Jeff Davis. He wrote a letter....not exactly apologizing....but expressing his regret that Sarah had come between them and offered Davis his best wishes. It was unlikely to elicit a response but Lincoln could not regret the attempt.
As it was, news arrived in early 1861 regarding another old compatriot of Lincoln's from his first days in the Maumee militia under old Sam Houston, this one the First Lord dare not speak of aloud.
Unlike Jefferson Davis, Robert Lee or Sam Houston, this name was not someone Lincoln wished to associate with himself.
St. Barts
Prisoner Armstrong Hyman Thruston was an old man by 1860, one whom had taken a great deal of physical and psychological damage over the years. He'd been forced to hide his identity after a failed attempt at regicide (which resulted in the murder of George Washington) and endured a series of arduous or humiliating adventures ranging from cannibalism during a mountain snow-in, being nearly mauled by a River Cow, marooning on a remote Bahama Island and commanding a detachment which lost a million pounds sterling to a one-legged brigand.
After getting exiled to Newfoundland and then Greenland, a tumor growing on his neck would see Thruston confess his crimes in a tell-all biography assuming that he would be dead before anyone could read it. Instead, he was captured and then informed that the tumor was not cancerous but fat and he would live after all. Placed before Parliament for trial, the full facts of Thruston's life were laid bare for all to see.
During this time, the "fat tumor" had expanded notably and the left side of Thruston's neck was dominated by it. Indeed, there was some wonder if the tumor would eventually grow to such a point that it would constrict his throat. The press made great print of that and mocking portraits would be drawn for every newpaper in the country.
Unfortunately, the trial did not end at the noose as he had his sentence commuted to life imprisonment due to the "clemency" of His Majesty. Rather than serving in an American prison, Thruston was dispatched to the infamous prison island of St. Barts.
Here, Prisoner 882, as Thruston was known, was forced to grow vegetables for the prison. Among his duties was collecting the horse, cow, goat, sheep and pig manure to fertilize the vegetable garden. The only benefit was that Thruston was allowed to remove the manacles from his hands and feet for a few hours so he could do his job. The garden was outside the prison and he was regularly given liberty to move a few hundred yards beyond the prison stone walls (but within the fence) with the express statement that he'd lose his "privileges" if he did not report back on time or generally did anything to annoy the warden. Armed guards patrolled the fenced periphery a few hundred yards and shot any prisoner caught eyeing the fence.
In many ways, the scorching island was both better than any American prison.vOf course, the god-forsaken climate was a point to the detriment.
On the positive side, one certainly got more fresh air as liberty was allowed. After all, where would the man go?
There was only one port on the island and no civilian transports or contact was allowed. The island was too small for anyone to hide for long and virtually all provisions were controlled by the prison. Thruston supposed he could slip away by climbing the fence. The guards were hardly well-paid or motivated. Most of the time they were drunk or sequestered somewhere gambling. But where would he go? Hide in some cave for a few days, eating wild berries or seabird eggs until the dogs sniffed him out?
Punishments for "running" included months in the "Black Hole" where guards would routinely arrive at night to beat the unfortunates (another hobby of the guards). The poor soul would usually be consigned to the dungeon-esque cells for the rest of their lives, irons around their wrists, ankles and necks (not that one could fit around Thruston's these days).
As it was, Thruston had not expected to live long. The tropical disease and heat killed many within months. To alleviate the former, the prison would organize gangs to drain the swamps of the small island. Thruston, despite his age, would be put on this detail. Eventually, the warden granted the old man the relatively easier job of gathering manure from the hills and cliffs near the Prison (though within the external fence).
While climbing one of these hills with his manure bucket, the prisoner would find several "deposits" laid by the goats and actively begin begging god to let him die. He even briefly considered throwing himself from the cliff-face onto the rocks below. But he dismissed this. Knowing his luck, he'd miss the rocks and simply be pressed by the tide back to the prison-fortress.
Thruston was about to begin navigating down the hill once again when an odd object caught his eye. What appeared to be a small boat was bobbing up and down in the surf along a beach not too far from the prison. From this vantage point, no one from the prison was likely to see it. As non-official craft were banned from the island, Thruston knew that it could not be approved. It was probably some fisherman or something by the size of the small craft.
In a split second, Thruston made two decisions:
1. He would break through a small gap in the fence he'd spied over a year before and never bothered to exploit. Guards seldom came to to area anyway and he doubted anyone would miss him for hours. Though he had no reason to believe that ship would be his salvation, he would make one last attempt to regain his life.
2. That, if in all likelihood this failed, that he would not allow himself to live another day. He would grab a club or rock or whatever was on hand and charge at the nearest guard. On St. Barts, the guards did not fire warning shots.
Thruston made his way through the the gap in the fence and raced towards the alcove where he saw the ship. His heart sank as he witnessed what was, indeed, a small fishing vessel, but one obviously damaged. The fishermen must have anchored in the bay in hopes of finding help to repair their vessel.
Luck was with Thruston as two of the three fisherman had marched over to the prison to inquire for help, leaving only a fifteen year old watching the vessel. Thruston swam aboard where the boy actually helped him up, confused as to how help arrived so quickly and wondered why his father hadn't returned. He jabbered a bit in Coptic (apparently the fishermen were Copts from Hispaniola) gesturing towards the prison.
Thruston grabbed a knife and advanced menecingly. Perhaps more creeped out by the giant tumor on Thruston's neck than his potential prowess with the knife, the boy opted to jump overboard and swim for shore, leaving Thruston to inspect the ship. To his great lack of surprise, the reason why the ship was in harbor proved evident. The smaller foremast had snapped off, perhaps in that storm a few days prior, and the amount of water within the ship verified that there must be at least one puncture in the hull.
Still, Thruston didn't give a damn. He knew enough about boats to unfurl the sail and turn the rudder towards the sea. He pulled up the small anchor and waited for what was, fortuitously, the evening tide. To occupy his time, he found a bilge pump and got to work as the boat slowly pulled away from land.
About an hour later, the boy could be seen at the beach with what Thruston assumed were the other sailors....and a party of prison guards shouting threats and firing their rifles. However, Thruston was at least 200 yards from shore by this point and he wasn't particularly worried about being hit by inept prison guards from such a distance. His greater fear was that the warden would dispatch one or two of the skiffs kept under lock and key in the prison. However, Thruston suspected that the Warden would not have time to review the situation before the evening tide had already gone out. Hopefully, by that point, Thruston would be well away from St. Barts.
As it was, he need not have worried. No one in the prison understood the Copts at all and only followed out of confusion. By the time they reached the beach, they only knew that SOMEONE was taking the ship. They couldn't even tell at this distance that it was a prisoner and only fired out of caution. They would bring the fishermen back to the prison where hours were spent trying to understand the situation. The evening tide was well out long before the Warden received reports that a prisoner was, indeed, missing.
By that point, Thruston was miles away from the island in a vessel already sinking.
The cove where Thruston escaped St. Barts.