Arrogance and Empire - An Alternate 7 Years' War Novel - Part 7 - 1800-1808

[Alt History Buff]

All,

This is a continuation of my previous TL based upon an alternate 7 Years War.

Largely, these "chapters" are in novel format rather than the historical chronical format I tend to use with my TL's.

Since the TL is so extensive, I break them up into book-sized novels based upon the year (otherwise, I'd be at chapter 630 and page 1804 by now) Someday, after heavy, heavy proofreading and rewrites, I may try to self-publish so any constructive criticism upon writing style, historical accuracy, flow, dialogue, etc would be appreciated.

Key POD's from the 5 Years' War (Book 1):
1. Great Britain wins "5 Years War" in North America (including Louisiana) but the Prussian/Hanoverian alliance sees the dismemberment of Prussia by her neighbors (and relegation to 3rd tier status) and seizure of Hanover by France.
2. Peter III regains his heritage in Holstein but gets overthrown in Russia. He later assumes the throne of Sweden.
3. Two fictional diseases - the Bleeding Death (akin to Ebola) and African Death (akin to AIDS) - ravage the world, with Africa as the epicenter. The slave trade effectively dies by the mid-1760's. This has a particularly terrible effect on large concentrations of men hailing from different regions...like soldiers and sailors who also enjoy the odd prostitute.
4. Great Britain's normal sources for "hired" mercenaries - Hesse, etc - are forbidden by treaty to lease Regiments of experienced sailors. This would cause a major handicap to the British war effort for the first year or two of the American Revolutionary War.
5. Robert Clive's exploitation of Bengal lead to a rebellion which evicts Britain from Bengal. This leads to the Circars and Madras falling to France and their allies.
6. Most of the French residents of Quebec are evicted after the "5 Years War" by a vengeful Britain and America but the Acadian population is largely intact.
7. With Britain's greater success in the 5 Years War in the Americas (seizing Louisiana and Guadeloupe in addition to OTL gains), the French and Spanish are increasingly nervous about the potential for British Hegemony in the west.
8. OTL crisis in the Falklands (OTL Spain backed down) and Corsica (OTL Britain backed down) flare up in violence.
9. Spanish/Portuguese rivalry continues in South America. However, in this TL, Portugal is successful in gaining British assistance due to increased importance of Portugal to maintaining British naval hegemony in the Mediterranean (Minorca is not returned to Britain after 5 Years War and Corsican-British alliance is firmer, thus contributing to the crisis). Great Britain offers modest support in Portugal and the Banda Oriental.

Key POD's from Alternate Revolutionary War (Books 2 to 4)
1. Robert Clive immigrates to Massachusetts in disgrace and eventually joins rebels.
2. "Continental" Congress becomes "Columbian" Congress and United States of America becomes United States of Columbia.
3. Shortage of British troops in the Americas leads to easy rebel seizures from Quebec to Savannah.
4. Through 1776 and 1777, most of the fighting takes place in New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania (similar to OTL).
5. French Nova Scotia throws off the British with French and Columbian aid and returns as the colony of Acadia.
6. Gibraltar falls in 1777 after a massive land and sea siege. Great Britain loses only base in the Mediterranean.
7. Portugal's King demands British aid in border conflict in South America. King George agrees and Montevideo taken. However, Portugal, facing invasion from Spain and France, exit the war. In OTL, Great Britain offered little to no help to their longtime ally.
8. French direct financial aid given to Columbia a year earlier than OTL in 1776 and French troops/naval support a year earlier in 1777.
9. The fictional "Bleeding Death" and "African Death" claim thousands of military lives and tens of thousands of civilians, cutting off the slave trade.
10. Robert Clive is captured by the British in November, 1777. Numerous high-ranking British and American generals are killed in combat from 1776 to 1777.
11. By the end of 1777, Great Britain's North American empire has been reduced to e "Royal Islands" of Manhattan, Staten Island, "Nassau" Island (Long Island), Newfoundland, Bermuda and most of the West Indies.
12. Spain and the United States of Columbia, while co-belligerents against Britain and mutually allied with France, have yet to sign an alliance.
13. King Carlos III's heir in Naples, Prince Ferdinand, dies in December 1777 of Bleeding Death, leaving the King to seek to merge Naples/Sicily to Spain once again for his son, Infante Carlos, despite this being against previous European diplomatic convention.
14. King Louis XVI's brother, Louis Stanislas Xavier, who nominally ruled Hanover after the Electorate was seized in 1759, dies of African Death in December of 1777.
15. The childless Maximilian Joseph of Bavaria dies as in OTL in December of 1777 of Smallpox. Numerous potential inheritors take notice.

Book 5
1. A series of disease-wracked expeditions by Britain, France, the Netherlands, Spain and the United States Columbia cross the West Indies. Great Britain seizes Dominica, St. Eustatius and French/Dutch Guyana. Spain seizes Virgin Islands. Dutch seize Anguilla. United States of Columbia seize the Bahama Islands and Bermuda.
2. Henry Clinton commands an invasion of Virginia by 6000 British soldiers and 3000 Loyalists.
3. The British invasion of Virginia inspires a mass slave uprising. General James Wolfe makes for a particularly ruthless and efficient British commander.
4. Initial battles in Virginia lead to massive victories.
5. After Patrick Henry is defeated (and captured) at the Battle of Williamsburg and William Heath is defeated (and killed) at Richmond, Nathanial Greene is tasked to command the shattered Columbian army in Virginia. He wins several close battles near Chancellorsville and Fredericksburg.
6. His command denuded of many of his best soldiers for the Virginia and West Indies campaigns, William Howe lacks the resources to further his campaign in New York.
7. A ferocious civil war between the races emerges in Virginia, leading to a total failed harvest and massive racial violence. Tens of thousands are slaughtered and perish of disease or starvation.
8. Henry Clinton is appointed commander-in-chief of North America to replace William Howe. However, Clinton is killed by a ruptured British cannon.
9. Boston and several New England port towns are destroyed by a vengeful Admiral Augustus Keppel.
10. Mysore, Hyderabad and the French East Indies join forces against the Maratha Empire, the British East India Company and the Nawab of Arcot. With much of Arcot having fallen, a Maratha-EIC army assault Hyderabad on New Years Day.
11. Great Britain, like all affected nations, is rapidly approaching bankruptcy.
12. With the death of the Elector of Bavaria, Maria Theresa of the Habsburg Empire seizes the Electorate. Later, a political settlement is agreed in which French Hanover is ceded to the rightful claimant to Bavaria (Palatine) in return for ceding Bavaria to Austria. Austria then ceded the Southern Netherlands to France. This was a massive diplomatic development in Europe which will lead to many butterflies.

Book 6:
1. British Invasion of Virginia fails after two years of violent racial war. Virginia devastated. Half of slave population killed, died of disease, escaped or sold into slavery into the French West Indies.
2. Last ditch attempt by Washington to seize New York from William Howe occurs on New Year's Eve, 1779, with the Columbian Army marching across the frozen Hudson. The attack fails with heavy casualties.
3. The Treaty of Paris sees Great Britain ceded all of mainland America (including East Florida) to Columbia along with Bermuda and the Bahama/Turk/Caicos Islands. Great Britain retains Newfoundland, the "Royal Islands of New York" (Manhattan, Staten and Nassau (Long) Islands) as havens for Loyalists. Great Britain gains the Banda Oriental, the Guyana Territories, Roatan, St. Eustatius, the Swan Islands and the Bay Islands. Spain gains Gibraltar, the Falklands, the Belize River Colony, the British Virgin Islands and West Florida. The Dutch Republic gained Anguilla. France regained Nova Scotia (Acadia) and later traded Minorca to Spain for the return of Louisiana. Great Britain also recognized French control over Corsica and acquisition of the Austrian Netherlands.
4. Suffering a mental breakdown, King George III falls to his death from the heights of his home, leading a very young George IV to the throne.
5. The social upheaval in Virginia leads to a lower and middle class revolt which results in a law manumitting all slaves in Virginia by 1800. This would effectively guarantee the remainder of the United States of Columbia would likely follow in the ensuing years. As a result, North and South Carolina elect not to join the new nation and accept George IV as their Monarch, bringing the two new nations into Personal Union (but not direct political affiliation) with Great Britain. The western counties of North and South Carolina secede and join the United States as Western Carolina.
6. In 1785, Benjamin Franklin is elected the first President of the United States of Columbia. Only North Carolina, South Carolina and Rhode Island decline to join.
7. In 1791, fearing violence, King Louis XVI successfully flees to a Royalist Garrison at the border of France while his country convulses in Revolution.

Key characters:
"Historical" Characters:
George Washington - the one-armed 2nd in command of the Columbian Army who struggles to keep the Army together and support his alcoholic and drug-using superior , Robert Clive.
Benjamin Franklin - perhaps the most powerful voice in the Columbian Congress.
Temple Franklin - Young Columbian officer, grandson of Ben Franklin
Thomas Knowlton - Columbian spymaster (I admit I'm still writing these chapters).
Benedict Arnold - a hard-fighting Columbian General
William and Alexander Macomb - American businessmen and traders

Lord North - First Lord of the Treasury and nominal head of the British government.
Lord Germain - Colonial Secretary and defacto Briton in charge of the war effort. Still recovering from his disgrace in the past war.
Thomas Gage - initial British commander-in-chief in America in 1775.
Richard Howe - later British commander-in-chief in America from 1776
James Wolfe - British General
Henry Clinton - British General
James Cornwallis - British General
John Andre - British officer
Thomas Hutchinson - Loyalist Governor of Massachusetts
William Franklin - Loyalist Governor of New Jersey and son of Benjamin Franklin
David Ochterlony - Boston-born officer in bankrupt East India Company
William Draper - Aging British General
Lord Downe - British General (killed in 7 Years' War OTL)
Marquis de Pombal - Prime Minister of Portugal
Duke de Belle-Isle - French General (killed in 7 Years' War OTL)


Fictional Characters from Books 2-6:
Marcus Hayes - new immigrant to America and friend of Benedict Arnold, becomes Commodore in Columbian Navy
Henri Dejardins - French Canadian evicted from Laval with his family to the Maritimes
Klaus Durrenmatt - German immigrant soldier in "Free" Georgia, Lieutenant in 1st Georgia
Hans Durrenmatt - son of Klaus, Captain in 1st Georgia
Private Sean Campbell - Scottish soldier in the Black Watch Regiment
Sergeant Kevin Giggs - Welsh soldier in 23rd Regiment
Bess Williams - camp woman in the British Army
Caleb Horn - freeborn Black Loyalist from New York, and member of the Ethiopian Regiment
Evander - an escaped Virginia Slave, member of the Ethiopian Regiment
Eli Stratford - rebel spy, saboteur and assassin in New York
Bilah, Sena and Dibb - runaway slaves of a North Carolinan Loyalist living under assumed names in New York.

Historical Characters in Books 7-8:
Aaron Burr
Nathan Hale
Andrew Jackson
James Wilkerson
Stephen Decatur
Napoleon Bonaparte
Tallyrand
George IV
Horatio Nelson
Arthur Wellesley
Manuel de Godoy
Jose de San Martin
Bernardo O'Higgins
Simon Bolivar
Michel Ney
Wolf Tone

Fictional Characters in Books 7-8:
James King - Columbian Army Private
Cillian Welsh - Irish Catholic Private in British Army
Valentine Joyce (semi-historical) - Quartermaster's Mate in the Royal Navy

Please see links to previous books below:

Arrogance and Empire: An Alternative 7 Years War Timeline

All, I've wrapped up my Fenians TL and am getting back to an old project. For several years, I've been writing a series of novels commencing with a POD at the 7 Years War, a conflict that could have gone very differently and had huge ramifications to the world. Throughout the next few months...

www.alternatehistory.com

Arrogance and Empire: An Alternate 7 Years War Novel - Part 2 - 1765-1775

Thanks to the readers of my previous TL, Arrogance and Empire: An Alternate 7 Years War (https://www.alternatehistory.com/forum/threads/arrogance-and-empire-an-alternative-7-years-war-timeline.523847/) This is part of a series of novels I've been writing off and on over the past 15 years or so...

www.alternatehistory.com

Arrogance and Empire - An alternate 7 Years War Timeline - Part 3 - 1776

All, If you took the time to read my two previous novels (links below), much appreciated. https://www.alternatehistory.com/forum/threads/arrogance-and-empire-an-alternative-7-years-war-timeline.523847/...

www.alternatehistory.com

Arrogance and Empire - An Alternative 7 Years War Novel - Part 4 - 1777

I appreciate any readers of my previous chapters (see links below of the 7 Years War novel and the first two books of the following American Revolutionary War). This will be the 4th chapter of 5. Unlike previous timeline's, these are intended to read as more of a novel in the Turtledove mode...

www.alternatehistory.com

Arrogance and Empire - An Alternate 7 Years War Novel - Part 5 - 1778

All, This is a continuation of my previous TL based upon an alternate 7 Years War. Largely, these "chapters" are in novel format rather than the historical chronical format I tend to use with my TL's. Since the TL is so extensive, I break them up into book-sized novels based upon the year...

www.alternatehistory.com

Arrogance and Empire - An Alternate 7 Years War Novel - Part 6 - 1779-1785

All, This is a continuation of my previous TL based upon an alternate 7 Years War. Largely, these "chapters" are in novel format rather than the historical chronical format I tend to use with my TL's. Since the TL is so extensive, I break them up into book-sized novels based upon the year...

www.alternatehistory.com

 

[Alt History Buff]

 

[Alt History Buff]

The bulk of Novel 7 of the Arrogance and Empire Series takes place in 1808.

Between 1785 and 1808, the events in Europe relatively closely follow OTL. The French Revolution overthrows the monarchy (though Louis XVI and family escape) and a series of Revolutionary Generals defend the nation from a coalition of European monarchies. In 1803, successful General Bonaparte crowns himself Emperor.

The United States of Columbia (minus the Carolinas and Rhode Island) elected Benjamin Franklin President in 1785, Joseph Warren in 1790 and John Jay in 1795. Partisan politics appears ready to take the fore.

The new states of Ontario (northern New York), Erie (parts of Western New York and Pennsylvania), Tennessee and Ohio have joined the Union. Most states have passed laws either liberating all slaves or providing a timeline or mechanism to do so. Only Maryland, Delaware and New Jersey have not (slaves are rare in the latter two).

Surrounded by Columbian territory, North and South Carolina attempt to control their slaves in increasingly harsh manners, including brutal restraints like arm and ankle shackles for extended periods.

The Bleeding Death and African Death epidemics have become a global fact of life. The worst hit regions for Bleeding Death are those of chronic tropical weather (Africa, Brazil, India and Southeast Asia). With so many of the complex West African Kingdoms destroyed, supply of slaves ground to a halt even as demand slowed given the unlikely-hood of slaves surviving their journey to the Americas and sailors unwilling to work such ships.

In order to forestall the loss of so much of the valuable West Indian trade (sugar, cotton, tobacco, indigo, coffee, etc), both Great Britain and France attempt to find alternate work forces. The French, having conquered North Africa in alliance of other Catholic powers, routinely ships North Africans across to work the sugar fields, decimating the Maghreb population. The British turn on their own people including prisoners, vagrants, orphans and, most commonly, the Irish as Ireland remained in a state of unrest and rebellion caused by the renunciation of the Popery Act of 1778 and withdrawal of most regained equality. Tens of thousands of Irish (mostly Catholic) are "transported" each year to the West Indies as convicts in Barbados, Jamaica and Guadeloupe.

Both Great Britain and France offer great inducements to almost any European to to settle the West Indies, including free transportation, land grants, etc but few settle. The population throughout the region continues to drop as disease takes its toll. Efforts to entice settlers from New Spain, the United States and South America are also only modestly successful.

 

[Harshavardhana]

View attachment 744912

What's that grey area? Are those Columbian territories as well?

 

[Joseph890]

What's that grey area? Are those Columbian territories as well?

I think those are Colombian territories but not ones that are organized at states yet.

 

[Alt History Buff]

I think those are Colombian territories but not ones that are organized at states yet.

Correct

 

[Alt History Buff]

1800

Monticello

Waking up refreshed, the recently retired Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson could not help but feel his mood lifted. Throughout the previous week’s flurry of deal making and alliance creation, his party’s chances in the November election appeared bright. In fact, virtually all political observers predicted a decisive victory for the Democratic-Republican ticket in the fall. Many reports indicated that the Federalists had all but conceded any chance that Adams was even capable of victory. With a wry smirk, Jefferson wondered how Hamilton was taking the news. With Hamilton safely out of the government, the odious reforms of the Jay administration could be overturned.

This in mind, Jefferson rose from bed and quickly dressed. Following his morning routine, Jefferson sat down to his hearty breakfast. With his beloved daughter off visiting relatives, Jefferson spent his breakfast in solitude. While he would usually miss his daughter’s company, today the quiet was quite satisfying. Too many heated political debates in the recent past left his nerves frayed to the point of breaking. The tranquil Virginia morning at Monticello did much to sooth them.

Picking absently at his eggs and oats, Jefferson reassessed his situation. Too many of his agreements were based on a contentious election. Now that the path to power appeared to be easing, perhaps some of these needed to be readdressed, starting with Aaron Burr. Jefferson genuinely respected the man’s intellect and patriotism but something in the New Yorker’s character grated on him. It was almost as if Burr constantly grasped for more, whether the more represented money, power, or adulation. The choice of Burr as his Vice-President was strictly politically driven. Democratic-Republicans in the north demanded at least one of their own on the ticket. Virginia remained in their minds a state of slavers despite Jefferson’s successful abolition of the institution years ago, coming to fruition in 1800. Conversely, many of his Virginia countrymen viewed Jefferson as a traitor to their cherished southern way of life.

Burr seemed the logical choice. He was unquestionably a respected northern politician with established connections that Jefferson could never have matched. His presence ensured the vote in the northern states would be split between the parties, allowing the middle and southern states, dominated by Democratic-Republicans, to tip the scales in Jefferson’s favor. As a bonus, Burr had long ago owned slaves when the practice was legal in New York and his views on the subject were ambiguous. Given the open abolitionist bent of all three past presidents and, John Adams, the Federalist nominee, Burr seemed the best the southern states could hope for.

However, with victory inevitable, Jefferson felt that certain compromises could be revisited. Madison and Monroe were due to visit later in the morning. He would discuss the matter with them. Not for the first time, Jefferson congratulated himself on having the foresight to send Burr off as Ambassador Plenipotentiary to Europe before Jefferson resigned his post to concentrate on the campaign. Not only was Burr an adequate appointment to the important mission but it allowed Jefferson an opportunity to get rid of him. Burr’s allies in New York could handle the election campaign as well or better without him. Often the direct participation of a candidate in electioneering was received with distaste with the voters. Burr’s absence would certainly aid in his elimination from the ticket.

Feeling more and more satisfied with himself, Jefferson inquired of the negro servant that came to clear his table, “Have I received the latest papers from Philadelphia and Richmond?”

“Yes, suh. They came yesterday when you was in consultation with the gentlemen.”

“Please bring them at once,” an annoyed Jefferson ordered. When available, he always preferred to read the latest news at breakfast and discuss with his daughter. It vexed him that he had wasted time.

Presently, the aging servant delivered several newspapers which Jefferson subscribed too. Naturally, they were days old due to distances, but often they contained useful news. Carving up a small apple which the servant had left on the table, Jefferson perused the latest gossip from Richmond. At first glance, they held little that Jefferson did not know. Diatribes against Jefferson’s conduct in the War for Independence continued to be printed. Though, painful, the Virginian knew natives of his home state would never forgive the Virginia Line and state militia’s poor performance against the British, a failure leading to the mass slaughter of whites by vengeful bonded men. Even less regarded in some quarters was Jefferson’s successful manumition of the remaining slaves after the war.

Did the fools really believe, having shed white blood, that the Negro would meekly return to the fields?

Accepting his popularity in Virginia might never recover, Jefferson moved on to the Philadephia papers. An eye-catching headline of “Southern Hypocrisy and Immorality” blared forth from one. Hoping that this would not be another rant against southerners in general for opposing protective tariffs championed by northern industry, Jefferson read on. The author’s name was a known pseudonym that various Federalists frequently employed when making their more offensive charges. Truly this campaign brought out the worst in all parties. As Jefferson scanned the first few paragraphs, he popped an apple slice into his mouth. Seconds later, he nearly choked.

"...is not nearly the most galling factor in this revolting character. While simultaneously maintaining the outer appearance of propriety and civic-mindedness, Thomas Jefferson reaches the height of hypocrisy. His publicly stated goal of gradual manumition of the southern slaves is directly contradicted by his personal conduct.

“For a period of years, Jefferson has taken for his mistress, a teenage slave, Sally Hemmings, of three quarters white heritage, upon whom he used for his own means. Siring several illegitimate children with her, Jefferson offends this nation by attempting to present his conduct as aspirational to the character of her people.”

“Even more repugnant, this slave, now a nominal servant kept in de-facto bondage, is no stranger to his family. She is the reputed daughter of John Wayles, father of Jefferson’s late wife. Thus, with barely a girl in her teens, this scion of southern aristocracy was forcing himself upon his negro sister-in-law.”

“Perhaps most damning of all are his own words, mired in his hypocrisy, stated in his public papers on the subject of miscegenation.”

"The amalgamation of whites with blacks, produces a degradation to which no lover of his country, no lover of excellence in the human character, can innocently consent."

“Not content with this spurious conduct……”

As the room began to spin, all blood left Jefferson’s face to such an extent that the old negro woman ran screaming for the housekeeper. Clutching the paper in his hand, Jefferson tried desperately to prop himself up against the table. Barely succeeding in staying upright, Jefferson looked down at the paper in his hand as if to try to will it out of existence. Feeling the cold fiber against his skin, Jefferson knew that nothing could ever erase the words that burned into his memory.

 

[Hoyahoo9]

"This just in - - Condor-sized butterflies have been observed hovering over the Blue Ridge . . ."

 

[Alt History Buff]

1800

The Hudson River

None uttered a word to Jefferson as the oars softly broke the surface the Hudson River. Though he stared across the great body toward Manhattan, his eyes remained unfocused, his body unnaturally still. Too much had been said by too many, all to no avail. Through it all, the dignified Virginian quietly and politely listened as his second attempted to dissuade him from this course. Invariably, he gave a heartfelt, but firm response in the negative.

One by one, his friends and allies, those who remained so, had fallen away from their arguments. Most privately admitted that their reaction to the bastard New Yorker’s horrific and ungentlemanly slur would have driven them to open murder. After locking himself away for several days without food, unable to sleep, Jefferson eventually returned to his work. Gingerly, his political advisors broached the subject of the election, unsure how to approach their leader to discuss how his reputation could be rehabilitated. With a solemn dignity, he replied that the American people will undoubtedly make the correct decision upon reflection.

Those who knew him best, however, like Madison, were far more worried than the other Southern aristocrats rallying to his cause. Though outwardly Jefferson made the perfect southern gentleman, calm and unemotional, Madison understood the man far better than the American public knew the icon. Jefferson, in many ways, was insecure, arrogant, and selfish. Too many of the man’s actions in their decades long friendship and partnership gave testimony to his capacity of spite and self-promotion. Though he loved his friend dearly, Madison could not believe Jefferson would allow this inexcusable public humiliation to continue without retaliation. When Jefferson returned from his self-imposed solitude to announce a trip to the Bronx, many of his political advisors hoped that he could rebuild his political fortunes along with that of the Democratic-Republicans.

Ensconced in their hotel, Madison made preparations to meet with their local allies in hopes to mitigating the damage to the party when Jefferson announced his intention to confront Hamilton, who returned to the Bronx to command the Federalist electioneering efforts. His suspicions validated; Madison made every effort to convince the Virginian that such a meeting could only have catastrophic consequences. Predictably, given his friend’s state of mind and general stubbornness, Jefferson refused to budge.

Madison’s worst fears were shortly realized. Arriving at Hamilton’s office, the New Yorker’s staffers expressed little surprise at the appearance of their fallen political nemesis. At Jefferson’s polite request to speak to their leader, they unconsciously formed a human barrier before Hamilton’s office. As one of Hamilton’s assistants stuttered out an explanation that Hamilton was in conference, a short, stocky man stepped quietly out of the backroom. Madison had not seen Hamilton in quite some time. Momentarily taken aback, Madison saw for the first time that the past few years aged the ambitious and arrogant man, once so perpetually young.

As the others fell back in nervous silence, Hamilton nodded politely to Madison and turned to Jefferson, “Hello, Secretary Jefferson. I heard of your visit but had not expected you to call on me.”

“I find that most unlikely, Mr. Hamilton,” Jefferson replied without his typical preamble.

Uncertain how to reply, Hamilton searched for the correct words to say to a man whose life he had ruined. Realizing such words would and could never come, Hamilton gave up before he began. Instead, he stood up to the full extent of his relatively diminutive height and looked up at the tall Virginian and said, “I’m afraid I cannot accede to your demands. Nothing that I have said has been untrue. You have made no attempt to deny these allegations. I have no reason to apologize or retract any statements that I may have made privately or publicly.”

Pausing momentarily for a response from Jefferson that did not appear to be forthcoming, he continued, “Incidentally, your letters were nothing less than insulting. I have never given false testimony about any such subject and would never stoop to such a tactic of mere politics.” Madison imagined that, in other circumstances, most observers witnessing a political backstabber of Hamilton’s caliber making such a proclamation would struggle to stifle their laughter, but none could find humor in this situation. Certainly, the fact Jefferson had neglected to mention to his advisors of corresponding with Hamilton during the smear campaign left Madison with a growing sense of unease and foreboding.

Seemingly encouraged by the sound of his own voice, Hamilton plunged forward despite the cold, expressionless stare that Jefferson subjected him too, “To apologize for making a statement that is undeniably true, not that I acknowledge that I made such statements at all nor wrote any article on the subject, is patently ridiculous and I will do no such thing.”

“Besides,” Hamilton concluded, rage seeping into his own voice. “I am quite certain it was you whom ordered Monroe to release those unfortunate letters in his possession, letters he swore to keep confidential.”

Yeas ago, Hamilton entered into an ill-advised affair with a woman of dubious reputation. The lady in question and her husband promptly began blackmailing the then-Secretary of the Treasury, a situation made worse when the woman’s husband was arrested on unrelated public corruption charges. When confronted by his colleagues investigating the man’s crimes, Hamilton freely admitted the distasteful episode and handed over the evidence of the affair but swore the nation was harmed in no way by his own personal misconduct. Unfortunately, the person to whom Hamilton entrusted the documents was James Monroe.

Staring up at the towering Virginian above him, Hamilton seemed to run out of energy as he waited for what must follow. Jefferson simply stared down at his former colleague, whom he stood beside on countless occasions to ensure that this country would survive in the face of adversity. Though Hamilton was both a legitimate genius and an American patriot, Jefferson could not see anything but the man who ripped out his soul, destroyed his reputation and stole his honor. And the Virginian was too arrogant to concede he’d done the same to Hamilton.

For only the second time, Jefferson spoke, this time his calm demeanor could not mask his deadly earnest, “If there is anything resembling a man within you, honor will require you to meet me in New Jersey at 8:00 tomorrow morning.”

Realizing his emotions were betrayed by his clenched jaw and trembling hands, Jefferson abandoned any pretense of civility and launched a vicious backhand strike across Hamilton’s face. Falling heavily on his back, Hamilton’s outraged aides rushed forward to support their leader, several stepping toward the Virginians menacingly.

Ignoring them completely, Jefferson looked down at his prostrate enemy and repeated, “8:00 tomorrow,” then slowly turned and walked out of the room.

Arriving on the shores of Weehawken, New Jersey, Jefferson’s party disembarked from the boat and walked silently towards the open field. Low voices carrying in the wind proved that Hamilton had at last accepted his challenge. For a moment, each group stared silently at the other waiting for someone to speak. Hamilton seemed intent to avoid looking at anyone. Presently, it was Hamilton’s second, a man whose name Madison did not remember, that stood forward.

With a strained voice, the man began to speak, “Though Mr. Hamilton maintains his innocence against Mr. Jefferson’s accusations of slander, his honor is willing to pursue any avenue that may lead to avoidance of this duel.” Almost hopefully, he paused for Jefferson’s response.

“No,” Jefferson replied coldly.

Wide-eyed, a youth stumbled forward with a small mahogany box and presented it to Hamilton’s second. Opening the lid, he offered first choice of weapons to Jefferson. With barely a glance, the Virginian accepted the one closest to him. Hamilton slowly slipped forward to face Jefferson. Looking down at the remaining pistol that his friend Pendleton offered, he calmly lifted it and looked up into Jefferson’s eyes.

Hamilton always viewed Jefferson as a hypocrite utilizing the basest political tactics against his own enemies while publicly feigning to stand above it all. As the news of the Hemming scandal reached the newspapers, Jefferson chose to deny the charges until the point when sufficient witnesses confirmed the allegations beyond doubt. Without the decency of apologizing for his conduct, Jefferson instead chose to blame his accusers. At least when Hamilton had become embroiled in his own humiliating conduct with Maria Reynolds, he accepted full responsibility and offered the public his most sincere apologies.

Upon seeing Hamilton raise the pistol, Pendleton, Hamilton’s second, voice shaking, recited the rules, “Gentlemen, upon my word, you shall turn in opposite directions. I will then count to five. At each number, you will take one step away from another. Upon reaching the fifth step, you may turn and fire at your adversary. If one combatant were to fire first without killing his opponent, then he must stand motionless until the second party completes his shot.”

Both men nodded shortly and turned around without saying a word. In his last glimpse in Jefferson’s eyes, Hamilton caught a cold rage that the man rarely showed. Men like Jefferson, born into privilege, wore their trappings of honor as a banner, always using it to justify their inherited position of power and wealth. Because they could afford proper schooling in the ways of etiquette, southern honor, and the various forms of noblesse oblige, their continued superiority over less fortunate individuals was deemed entirely justified. Given his own impoverished childhood, Hamilton couldn’t stomach such men.

Clearing his throat, Pendleton glanced at both men to verify neither intended to turn before the proper time. Pleased with what he saw, the man, in a loud, clear voice just short of a shout, he said,

“One!”

Taking a step which Jefferson duplicated, Hamilton cleared his mind.

“Two!”

The second step was a bit rigid as Hamilton failed to control his nervousness, though he was certain wasn’t obvious to others.

“Three!”
Seeing the slight quiver in his upturned pistol, Hamilton was relieved that Generals Clive, Washington, Arnold or any of the other great men with whom he fought with in the War for Independence weren’t there to witness his shame.

"Four!”

Uttering a quiet prayer for his soul, his grip tightened.

“Five!”

His mind flashing to the letter he had written the previous night and left on his bureau, Hamilton turned around to face Jefferson’s vengeance. As planned, Hamilton lowered his pistol, but not toward Jefferson. Instead, he aimed well above his antagonist’s shoulder and fired intentionally into the air. As Hamilton began to lower his pistol, he contemplated the wisdom of refusing to aim at his assailant. Jefferson did not allow Hamilton long to think. The echo of Hamilton’s shot had not left the witness’s ears when the flash of powder leapt from Jefferson’s pistol.

With an audible crack, Hamilton knew that the Virginian had not missed. Falling heavily to the ground, Hamilton reached for his left shoulder, his nerves in fiery agony. At the sound of the second shot, the “witnesses” turned back to the combatants to view the results of the duel. Beforehand, each had turned their backs to avoid the risk of being implicated in a murder should the worst occur. Though dueling was not technically illegal in New Jersey, such matters were too important to leave to chance. Pendleton immediately rushed forward to inspect Hamilton’s wound. Though his selection as second was coincidental, Hamilton was grateful for Pendleton’s training as a physician.

Slowly walking over to where Hamilton lay prostrate, gasping in pain with each labored breath, Jefferson looked down at Pendleton with an expression more quizzical than malicious, and inquired softly, “Will he live?”

Pendleton, momentarily startled, looked down at Hamilton and said, “Oh yes, provided there is no infection. The ball struck his shoulder, probably breaking the bone. Honor is fully satisfied,” he added hopefully. Looking down at Hamilton, he said, “I believe you can make a full recovery.”

Having received the information he needed, Jefferson turned to Hamilton, “Will you admit culpability in this affair and renounce your slander?”

Looking up into the cold, gray sky, Hamilton replied through clenched teeth, “Slander is lies. I did no such thing.”

Staring at Hamilton for a few more seconds, Jefferson bent down to collect Hamilton’s fallen weapon. Walking over to the boy who was entrusted the pistol container along with the ball and powder, he said but a single word,

“Reload.”

Ten Minutes Later:

Though Madison, Pendleton, even the boy beseeched Jefferson to consider his honor restored by the blood Hamilton had already shed, the man was not to be moved. In a way, Hamilton understood. A bit of blood, even a full recanting of the accusations on Hamilton’s part, could never restore the dignity that Jefferson lost nor extinguish the knowledge that he was unlikely to reach the highest office in America with the stink of this scandal attached to him. This duel, like most others Hamilton supposed, was in reality just socially accepted revenge. Not satisfied with injury, Jefferson wanted his tormenter dead.

In between arguments with Jefferson or his seconds, Pendleton dressed Hamilton’s wound sufficiently to staunch the minor blood flow. Since it did not significantly impair his ability to shoot, Jefferson would not accept it as an excuse not to continue. As it was, Hamilton was not inclined to show weakness anyway. The countdown began again.

“Three!”

Convinced Jefferson would not stop until one of them was dead, Hamilton began to dread each of Pendleton’s pronouncements. Having faced death before in times where his life meant much more to him than it did now did not make that sting go away.

“Four!”

Still, Hamilton was determined not to kill the man. The idea of going down in history as the slayer of one of the country’s giants held no appeal. His choice made, Hamilton prepared, once again to avoid shooting directly at Jefferson.

“Five!”

Spinning slowly around, Hamilton chose to make it a bit more obvious that he had no intention of killing the man. At the back of his mind, he questioned whether such a strategy was another attempt to humiliate Jefferson, to make himself a martyr, or to force his opponent to end this duel due to lack of opportunity for real satisfaction. Deep introspection never being a strong suit, Hamilton chose to concentrate on the task at hand. Instead of firing just over Jefferson’s shoulder, Hamilton decided to fire nearly straight up in the air. As his pistol edged higher, the flash and smoke from Jefferson’s weapon gave notice that Hamilton had moved too slowly.

With an abrupt crack, a muffled blow jolted Hamilton’s side. Startled at the stinging pain coursing through the left side of his body, Hamilton involuntarily flexed his hand. The hair trigger of his dueling pistol caused a shot to ring through the air. Through the flash of pain, Hamilton somehow heard the ball strike a tree branch. Falling into a crumpled heap, Hamilton desperately attempted to breathe. Once again, Pendleton knelt over him at tears blurred Hamilton’s vision. Presently, the pain and nausea lessened to the point where he could understand the doctor.

“Alexander, you are perhaps the luckiest man I have ever met. The shot may have cracked a rib but did not hit a major vein. I don’t expect there to be any major damage,” Pendleton stated with no small amount of relief.

“Do you withdraw all charges made against my character and admit your deception?” inquired a quiet voice from above.

Pendleton jumped in hotly, “Surely you cannot believe that dueling with an injured man can possibly retrieve anything you feel that you have lost.”

With deliberate words, Jefferson replied, “Doctor, you just stated that the man has not suffered significant injury. His wounds in no way reduce his capacity to protect himself in this duel.” Looking down again at Hamilton, he continued, “Do you recant?”

Emboldened by his pain, Hamilton shook his head and fiercely intoned, “No.”

Nodding, Jefferson simply turned his back and walked slowly over his allies. After speaking a few inaudible words, Hamilton saw Madison and the others frantically gesticulating and speaking over one another. Obviously, what support Jefferson had among his friends for this duel had run out. In the background, Hamilton saw the youth cleaning and reloading both weapons.

Accepting the inevitable, Hamilton insistently pushed away Pendleton’s hands and rose again on his shaky legs. Momentarily facing a wave of pain and dizziness, Hamilton once again stood ready to face his fate. With a look of resignation, Pendleton backed away. As a doctor, Pendleton witnesses dying men cling desperately onto a few remaining moments. He saw no honor in two men choosing to kill one another. With a knowing look and a surprisingly firm handshake, Hamilton silently thanked him for his concern and friendship. Backing away, Hamilton turned once again toward Jefferson and waited for his weapon.

“Three.”

As the countdown to the end of his life began, Hamilton could not stop thinking about his family. The grandchildren he would never know. The memories he would never have. More than anything, he felt shame. Shame at allowing his own sense of honor to deprive them of his council throughout his later years. Shame at knowing that it really wasn’t his honor at stake. That was Jefferson’s motivation. For once, Hamilton admitted he formulated this moment when pride refused to allow the New Yorker to admit that he might have been wrong. Wrong at destroying a patriot like Jefferson for all his many, many faults.

“Four.”

Sweat poured out from Hamilton’s brow as he thought about the things he would never do or accomplish. He would never see this nation take its rightful place among the pantheon of history’s noblest creations. Never before had Hamilton felt such a fervent desire to live. Gripping the pistol in his trembling hand, Hamilton’s breath came in frantic, silent gasps. Looking outward toward the grey sky, his breathing stopped all together as Hamilton awaited the word he dreaded the most…

“Five!”

With a silent prayer, Hamilton spun around with desperate speed only to see Jefferson’s pistol slowly rising up. The Virginian’s eyes betrayed no emotion beyond deadly earnest. Raising the pistol towards his opponent, Hamilton could see Jefferson’s trigger finger flex in what he was certain would be the end of his life. Almost panicked, Hamilton did the same. Twin explosions ripped through the air, shattering the calm and flushing several birds out of the scrub.

For the third and what would most certainly be the final time, Hamilton felt a crushing impact assault his body. Flying rearward through the air, Hamilton landed on his back. Nearly blacking out, slit eyes witnessed a flock of birds lurching ungracefully through the air, seeking escape from from the rude creatures disturbing their morning meal. As the haze of shock slowly passed, sound soon returned along side a piercing pain that vibrated throughout his body.

Looking up to see Pendleton staring down at him again, Hamilton managed to choke out, “How bad?”

Without pausing to look into Hamilton’s eyes, Pendleton said, “The ball bounced off your right collarbone, probably breaking it,” shaking his head, he continued in an awed breath as he dressed the wound, “Still no organ or artery damage. God must want you to live a while longer.”

“Not if Jefferson has his way,” replied Hamilton with a level of gallows humor which surprised him even as he said it.

“Doctor!” erupted an urgent shout from across the field. Looking down to verify that the dressing would hold, Pendleton quickly jumped up and half-ran out of view.

Wondering why his friend would abandon him, Hamilton strove to sit up only to face a wave of searing pain and equally unsettling nausea. Pausing momentarily to acclimate his equilibrium, Hamilton closed his eyes for a few seconds and then haltingly rose to his feet. Amazed that the blood-loss was not severe enough to kill him, much less allow mobility, Hamilton stumbled toward a collection of voices raised in consternation.

Spying Pendleton on the other side of the withered old tree, Hamilton circled the massive trunk and froze in astonishment. Surrounded by Pendleton and the other witnesses, Jefferson lay prostrate on the ground, his vest torn asunder to reveal a river of thick, black blood staining his white shirt. The Virginian’s tanned face unnaturally pale as he, in obvious agony, choked up the same dark blood spewing forth from his abdomen. As the earth spun under Hamilton’s feet, Jefferson’s eyes, previously clenched shut, snapped open and stared at Hamilton. Stricken by the glare, Hamilton attempted to make out the dying man’s final words. Lungs and throat coated with blood, nothing intelligible arose. With a final convulsion, Jefferson ceased to be, wide eyes continuing to bore into Hamilton’s soul.

Without a word, Pendleton reached out and softly closed the orbs. Glancing at the men around him, the doctor attempted to find appropriate words to say at this moment. Finding none, he simply removed his hat and looked over at Hamilton. Every witness did the same regardless of which party they supported that morning. Sensing their judgement, Hamilton could only stare down at the still form of the patriot once held as a friend and ally.

The mournful words of disbelief that he spoke echoed through the quiet breeze.

“I killed Thomas Jefferson.”

 

[HonestAbe1809]

I would argue that Hamilton throwing away his shot not only once but twice should reflect well upon his character. The fact that he was willing to spare Jefferson’s life despite Jefferson’s part in exposing his affair speaks well about him. In the end Jefferson forced his hand.

 

[JustinTexas]

1800

The Hudson River

None uttered a word to Jefferson as the oars softly broke the surface the Hudson River. Though he stared across the great body toward Manhattan, his eyes remained unfocused, his body unnaturally still. Too much had been said by too many, all to no avail. Through it all, the dignified Virginian quietly and politely listened as his second attempted to dissuade him from this course. Invariably, he gave a heartfelt, but firm response in the negative.

One by one, his friends and allies, those who remained so, had fallen away from their arguments. Most privately admitted that their reaction to the bastard New Yorker’s horrific and ungentlemanly slur would have driven them to open murder. After locking himself away for several days without food, unable to sleep, Jefferson eventually returned to his work. Gingerly, his political advisors broached the subject of the election, unsure how to approach their leader to discuss how his reputation could be rehabilitated. With a solemn dignity, he replied that the American people will undoubtedly make the correct decision upon reflection.

Those who knew him best, however, like Madison, were far more worried than the other Southern aristocrats rallying to his cause. Though outwardly Jefferson made the perfect southern gentleman, calm and unemotional, Madison understood the man far better than the American public knew the icon. Jefferson, in many ways, was insecure, arrogant, and selfish. Too many of the man’s actions in their decades long friendship and partnership gave testimony to his capacity of spite and self-promotion. Though he loved his friend dearly, Madison could not believe Jefferson would allow this inexcusable public humiliation to continue without retaliation. When Jefferson returned from his self-imposed solitude to announce a trip to the Bronx, many of his political advisors hoped that he could rebuild his political fortunes along with that of the Democratic-Republicans.

Ensconced in their hotel, Madison made preparations to meet with their local allies in hopes to mitigating the damage to the party when Jefferson announced his intention to confront Hamilton, who returned to the Bronx to command the Federalist electioneering efforts. His suspicions validated; Madison made every effort to convince the Virginian that such a meeting could only have catastrophic consequences. Predictably, given his friend’s state of mind and general stubbornness, Jefferson refused to budge.

Madison’s worst fears were shortly realized. Arriving at Hamilton’s office, the New Yorker’s staffers expressed little surprise at the appearance of their fallen political nemesis. At Jefferson’s polite request to speak to their leader, they unconsciously formed a human barrier before Hamilton’s office. As one of Hamilton’s assistants stuttered out an explanation that Hamilton was in conference, a short, stocky man stepped quietly out of the backroom. Madison had not seen Hamilton in quite some time. Momentarily taken aback, Madison saw for the first time that the past few years aged the ambitious and arrogant man, once so perpetually young.

As the others fell back in nervous silence, Hamilton nodded politely to Madison and turned to Jefferson, “Hello, Secretary Jefferson. I heard of your visit but had not expected you to call on me.”

“I find that most unlikely, Mr. Hamilton,” Jefferson replied without his typical preamble.

Uncertain how to reply, Hamilton searched for the correct words to say to a man whose life he had ruined. Realizing such words would and could never come, Hamilton gave up before he began. Instead, he stood up to the full extent of his relatively diminutive height and looked up at the tall Virginian and said, “I’m afraid I cannot accede to your demands. Nothing that I have said has been untrue. You have made no attempt to deny these allegations. I have no reason to apologize or retract any statements that I may have made privately or publicly.”

Pausing momentarily for a response from Jefferson that did not appear to be forthcoming, he continued, “Incidentally, your letters were nothing less than insulting. I have never given false testimony about any such subject and would never stoop to such a tactic of mere politics.” Madison imagined that, in other circumstances, most observers witnessing a political backstabber of Hamilton’s caliber making such a proclamation would struggle to stifle their laughter, but none could find humor in this situation. Certainly, the fact Jefferson had neglected to mention to his advisors of corresponding with Hamilton during the smear campaign left Madison with a growing sense of unease and foreboding.

Seemingly encouraged by the sound of his own voice, Hamilton plunged forward despite the cold, expressionless stare that Jefferson subjected him too, “To apologize for making a statement that is undeniably true, not that I acknowledge that I made such statements at all nor wrote any article on the subject, is patently ridiculous and I will do no such thing.”

“Besides,” Hamilton concluded, rage seeping into his own voice. “I am quite certain it was you whom ordered Monroe to release those unfortunate letters in his possession, letters he swore to keep confidential.”

Yeas ago, Hamilton entered into an ill-advised affair with a woman of dubious reputation. The lady in question and her husband promptly began blackmailing the then-Secretary of the Treasury, a situation made worse when the woman’s husband was arrested on unrelated public corruption charges. When confronted by his colleagues investigating the man’s crimes, Hamilton freely admitted the distasteful episode and handed over the evidence of the affair but swore the nation was harmed in no way by his own personal misconduct. Unfortunately, the person to whom Hamilton entrusted the documents was James Monroe.

Staring up at the towering Virginian above him, Hamilton seemed to run out of energy as he waited for what must follow. Jefferson simply stared down at his former colleague, whom he stood beside on countless occasions to ensure that this country would survive in the face of adversity. Though Hamilton was both a legitimate genius and an American patriot, Jefferson could not see anything but the man who ripped out his soul, destroyed his reputation and stole his honor. And the Virginian was too arrogant to concede he’d done the same to Hamilton.

For only the second time, Jefferson spoke, this time his calm demeanor could not mask his deadly earnest, “If there is anything resembling a man within you, honor will require you to meet me in New Jersey at 8:00 tomorrow morning.”

Realizing his emotions were betrayed by his clenched jaw and trembling hands, Jefferson abandoned any pretense of civility and launched a vicious backhand strike across Hamilton’s face. Falling heavily on his back, Hamilton’s outraged aides rushed forward to support their leader, several stepping toward the Virginians menacingly.

Ignoring them completely, Jefferson looked down at his prostrate enemy and repeated, “8:00 tomorrow,” then slowly turned and walked out of the room.

Arriving on the shores of Weehawken, New Jersey, Jefferson’s party disembarked from the boat and walked silently towards the open field. Low voices carrying in the wind proved that Hamilton had at last accepted his challenge. For a moment, each group stared silently at the other waiting for someone to speak. Hamilton seemed intent to avoid looking at anyone. Presently, it was Hamilton’s second, a man whose name Madison did not remember, that stood forward.

With a strained voice, the man began to speak, “Though Mr. Hamilton maintains his innocence against Mr. Jefferson’s accusations of slander, his honor is willing to pursue any avenue that may lead to avoidance of this duel.” Almost hopefully, he paused for Jefferson’s response.

“No,” Jefferson replied coldly.

Wide-eyed, a youth stumbled forward with a small mahogany box and presented it to Hamilton’s second. Opening the lid, he offered first choice of weapons to Jefferson. With barely a glance, the Virginian accepted the one closest to him. Hamilton slowly slipped forward to face Jefferson. Looking down at the remaining pistol that his friend Pendleton offered, he calmly lifted it and looked up into Jefferson’s eyes.

Hamilton always viewed Jefferson as a hypocrite utilizing the basest political tactics against his own enemies while publicly feigning to stand above it all. As the news of the Hemming scandal reached the newspapers, Jefferson chose to deny the charges until the point when sufficient witnesses confirmed the allegations beyond doubt. Without the decency of apologizing for his conduct, Jefferson instead chose to blame his accusers. At least when Hamilton had become embroiled in his own humiliating conduct with Maria Reynolds, he accepted full responsibility and offered the public his most sincere apologies.

Upon seeing Hamilton raise the pistol, Pendleton, Hamilton’s second, voice shaking, recited the rules, “Gentlemen, upon my word, you shall turn in opposite directions. I will then count to five. At each number, you will take one step away from another. Upon reaching the fifth step, you may turn and fire at your adversary. If one combatant were to fire first without killing his opponent, then he must stand motionless until the second party completes his shot.”

Both men nodded shortly and turned around without saying a word. In his last glimpse in Jefferson’s eyes, Hamilton caught a cold rage that the man rarely showed. Men like Jefferson, born into privilege, wore their trappings of honor as a banner, always using it to justify their inherited position of power and wealth. Because they could afford proper schooling in the ways of etiquette, southern honor, and the various forms of noblesse oblige, their continued superiority over less fortunate individuals was deemed entirely justified. Given his own impoverished childhood, Hamilton couldn’t stomach such men.

Clearing his throat, Pendleton glanced at both men to verify neither intended to turn before the proper time. Pleased with what he saw, the man, in a loud, clear voice just short of a shout, he said,

“One!”

Taking a step which Jefferson duplicated, Hamilton cleared his mind.

“Two!”

The second step was a bit rigid as Hamilton failed to control his nervousness, though he was certain wasn’t obvious to others.

“Three!”
Seeing the slight quiver in his upturned pistol, Hamilton was relieved that Generals Clive, Washington, Arnold or any of the other great men with whom he fought with in the War for Independence weren’t there to witness his shame.

"Four!”

Uttering a quiet prayer for his soul, his grip tightened.

“Five!”

His mind flashing to the letter he had written the previous night and left on his bureau, Hamilton turned around to face Jefferson’s vengeance. As planned, Hamilton lowered his pistol, but not toward Jefferson. Instead, he aimed well above his antagonist’s shoulder and fired intentionally into the air. As Hamilton began to lower his pistol, he contemplated the wisdom of refusing to aim at his assailant. Jefferson did not allow Hamilton long to think. The echo of Hamilton’s shot had not left the witness’s ears when the flash of powder leapt from Jefferson’s pistol.

With an audible crack, Hamilton knew that the Virginian had not missed. Falling heavily to the ground, Hamilton reached for his left shoulder, his nerves in fiery agony. At the sound of the second shot, the “witnesses” turned back to the combatants to view the results of the duel. Beforehand, each had turned their backs to avoid the risk of being implicated in a murder should the worst occur. Though dueling was not technically illegal in New Jersey, such matters were too important to leave to chance. Pendleton immediately rushed forward to inspect Hamilton’s wound. Though his selection as second was coincidental, Hamilton was grateful for Pendleton’s training as a physician.

Slowly walking over to where Hamilton lay prostrate, gasping in pain with each labored breath, Jefferson looked down at Pendleton with an expression more quizzical than malicious, and inquired softly, “Will he live?”

Pendleton, momentarily startled, looked down at Hamilton and said, “Oh yes, provided there is no infection. The ball struck his shoulder, probably breaking the bone. Honor is fully satisfied,” he added hopefully. Looking down at Hamilton, he said, “I believe you can make a full recovery.”

Having received the information he needed, Jefferson turned to Hamilton, “Will you admit culpability in this affair and renounce your slander?”

Looking up into the cold, gray sky, Hamilton replied through clenched teeth, “Slander is lies. I did no such thing.”

Staring at Hamilton for a few more seconds, Jefferson bent down to collect Hamilton’s fallen weapon. Walking over to the boy who was entrusted the pistol container along with the ball and powder, he said but a single word,

“Reload.”

Ten Minutes Later:

Though Madison, Pendleton, even the boy beseeched Jefferson to consider his honor restored by the blood Hamilton had already shed, the man was not to be moved. In a way, Hamilton understood. A bit of blood, even a full recanting of the accusations on Hamilton’s part, could never restore the dignity that Jefferson lost nor extinguish the knowledge that he was unlikely to reach the highest office in America with the stink of this scandal attached to him. This duel, like most others Hamilton supposed, was in reality just socially accepted revenge. Not satisfied with injury, Jefferson wanted his tormenter dead.

In between arguments with Jefferson or his seconds, Pendleton dressed Hamilton’s wound sufficiently to staunch the minor blood flow. Since it did not significantly impair his ability to shoot, Jefferson would not accept it as an excuse not to continue. As it was, Hamilton was not inclined to show weakness anyway. The countdown began again.

“Three!”

Convinced Jefferson would not stop until one of them was dead, Hamilton began to dread each of Pendleton’s pronouncements. Having faced death before in times where his life meant much more to him than it did now did not make that sting go away.

“Four!”

Still, Hamilton was determined not to kill the man. The idea of going down in history as the slayer of one of the country’s giants held no appeal. His choice made, Hamilton prepared, once again to avoid shooting directly at Jefferson.

“Five!”

Spinning slowly around, Hamilton chose to make it a bit more obvious that he had no intention of killing the man. At the back of his mind, he questioned whether such a strategy was another attempt to humiliate Jefferson, to make himself a martyr, or to force his opponent to end this duel due to lack of opportunity for real satisfaction. Deep introspection never being a strong suit, Hamilton chose to concentrate on the task at hand. Instead of firing just over Jefferson’s shoulder, Hamilton decided to fire nearly straight up in the air. As his pistol edged higher, the flash and smoke from Jefferson’s weapon gave notice that Hamilton had moved too slowly.

With an abrupt crack, a muffled blow jolted Hamilton’s side. Startled at the stinging pain coursing through the left side of his body, Hamilton involuntarily flexed his hand. The hair trigger of his dueling pistol caused a shot to ring through the air. Through the flash of pain, Hamilton somehow heard the ball strike a tree branch. Falling into a crumpled heap, Hamilton desperately attempted to breathe. Once again, Pendleton knelt over him at tears blurred Hamilton’s vision. Presently, the pain and nausea lessened to the point where he could understand the doctor.

“Alexander, you are perhaps the luckiest man I have ever met. The shot may have cracked a rib but did not hit a major vein. I don’t expect there to be any major damage,” Pendleton stated with no small amount of relief.

“Do you withdraw all charges made against my character and admit your deception?” inquired a quiet voice from above.

Pendleton jumped in hotly, “Surely you cannot believe that dueling with an injured man can possibly retrieve anything you feel that you have lost.”

With deliberate words, Jefferson replied, “Doctor, you just stated that the man has not suffered significant injury. His wounds in no way reduce his capacity to protect himself in this duel.” Looking down again at Hamilton, he continued, “Do you recant?”

Emboldened by his pain, Hamilton shook his head and fiercely intoned, “No.”

Nodding, Jefferson simply turned his back and walked slowly over his allies. After speaking a few inaudible words, Hamilton saw Madison and the others frantically gesticulating and speaking over one another. Obviously, what support Jefferson had among his friends for this duel had run out. In the background, Hamilton saw the youth cleaning and reloading both weapons.

Accepting the inevitable, Hamilton insistently pushed away Pendleton’s hands and rose again on his shaky legs. Momentarily facing a wave of pain and dizziness, Hamilton once again stood ready to face his fate. With a look of resignation, Pendleton backed away. As a doctor, Pendleton witnesses dying men cling desperately onto a few remaining moments. He saw no honor in two men choosing to kill one another. With a knowing look and a surprisingly firm handshake, Hamilton silently thanked him for his concern and friendship. Backing away, Hamilton turned once again toward Jefferson and waited for his weapon.

“Three.”

As the countdown to the end of his life began, Hamilton could not stop thinking about his family. The grandchildren he would never know. The memories he would never have. More than anything, he felt shame. Shame at allowing his own sense of honor to deprive them of his council throughout his later years. Shame at knowing that it really wasn’t his honor at stake. That was Jefferson’s motivation. For once, Hamilton admitted he formulated this moment when pride refused to allow the New Yorker to admit that he might have been wrong. Wrong at destroying a patriot like Jefferson for all his many, many faults.

“Four.”

Sweat poured out from Hamilton’s brow as he thought about the things he would never do or accomplish. He would never see this nation take its rightful place among the pantheon of history’s noblest creations. Never before had Hamilton felt such a fervent desire to live. Gripping the pistol in his trembling hand, Hamilton’s breath came in frantic, silent gasps. Looking outward toward the grey sky, his breathing stopped all together as Hamilton awaited the word he dreaded the most…

“Five!”

With a silent prayer, Hamilton spun around with desperate speed only to see Jefferson’s pistol slowly rising up. The Virginian’s eyes betrayed no emotion beyond deadly earnest. Raising the pistol towards his opponent, Hamilton could see Jefferson’s trigger finger flex in what he was certain would be the end of his life. Almost panicked, Hamilton did the same. Twin explosions ripped through the air, shattering the calm and flushing several birds out of the scrub.

For the third and what would most certainly be the final time, Hamilton felt a crushing impact assault his body. Flying rearward through the air, Hamilton landed on his back. Nearly blacking out, slit eyes witnessed a flock of birds lurching ungracefully through the air, seeking escape from from the rude creatures disturbing their morning meal. As the haze of shock slowly passed, sound soon returned along side a piercing pain that vibrated throughout his body.

Looking up to see Pendleton staring down at him again, Hamilton managed to choke out, “How bad?”

Without pausing to look into Hamilton’s eyes, Pendleton said, “The ball bounced off your right collarbone, probably breaking it,” shaking his head, he continued in an awed breath as he dressed the wound, “Still no organ or artery damage. God must want you to live a while longer.”

“Not if Jefferson has his way,” replied Hamilton with a level of gallows humor which surprised him even as he said it.

“Doctor!” erupted an urgent shout from across the field. Looking down to verify that the dressing would hold, Pendleton quickly jumped up and half-ran out of view.

Wondering why his friend would abandon him, Hamilton strove to sit up only to face a wave of searing pain and equally unsettling nausea. Pausing momentarily to acclimate his equilibrium, Hamilton closed his eyes for a few seconds and then haltingly rose to his feet. Amazed that the blood-loss was not severe enough to kill him, much less allow mobility, Hamilton stumbled toward a collection of voices raised in consternation.

Spying Pendleton on the other side of the withered old tree, Hamilton circled the massive trunk and froze in astonishment. Surrounded by Pendleton and the other witnesses, Jefferson lay prostrate on the ground, his vest torn asunder to reveal a river of thick, black blood staining his white shirt. The Virginian’s tanned face unnaturally pale as he, in obvious agony, choked up the same dark blood spewing forth from his abdomen. As the earth spun under Hamilton’s feet, Jefferson’s eyes, previously clenched shut, snapped open and stared at Hamilton. Stricken by the glare, Hamilton attempted to make out the dying man’s final words. Lungs and throat coated with blood, nothing intelligible arose. With a final convulsion, Jefferson ceased to be, wide eyes continuing to bore into Hamilton’s soul.

Without a word, Pendleton reached out and softly closed the orbs. Glancing at the men around him, the doctor attempted to find appropriate words to say at this moment. Finding none, he simply removed his hat and looked over at Hamilton. Every witness did the same regardless of which party they supported that morning. Sensing their judgement, Hamilton could only stare down at the still form of the patriot once held as a friend and ally.

The mournful words of disbelief that he spoke echoed through the quiet breeze.

“I killed Thomas Jefferson.”

We’ll that escalated quickly and really got out of hand fast! What was Jefferson thinking?! Keep up the good work!!

 

[Kloka]

TTL’s Hamilton musical is gonna hit hard.

 

[Alt History Buff]

September, 1800

Versailles

Exiting the ornately fabulous Versailles), Burr paused along the ornate façade as the carriage his hosts had generously provided was brought around. Though the tall, handsome New Yorker avoided the indignity of gawking open-mouthed at his surroundings, Burr was unquestionably impressed by the wealth and splender of Consul Napoleon's capital city. More than a few Kings or Emperors in history have used the ostentatious trappings of wealth to overwhelm potential enemies. Taking one last look around, Burr nodded to the footman as he climbed into the carriage. Shortly, the Columbian emissary was on his way back to Paris, bumping along every time a wheel hit a rut in the road.

Though he was certain the assignment to Paris to be a Jeffersonian plot to marginalize a rival, Burr conceded the Virginian, was without a doubt, the prohibitive favorite for the presidency. A giant in Columbia (though loathed in his home state), Thomas Jefferson possessed the brains, popularity, and power base to rise as its next leader. Unfortunately, the man was also thin-skinned with a streak of self-deluded hypocracy. While decrying the cutthroat world of Columbian politics, Jefferson frequently allowed his faction to commit the most vicious and underhanded tactics against his opponents. Burr himself desired the Presidential Mansion but simply was unwilling to make the proverbial backroom "deal with the devil" to gather adequate support. As such, many of his potential supporters were promptly bought off by other factions.

Just to be safe, Jefferson arranged for Burr to be offered this presigious, but powerless, position as special envoy to Council Bonaparte's court. In all reality, the peace had long since been signed ending the defacto naval war between the United States of Columbia and France. Burr's presence was a mere formality as the unofficial diplomatic rules encouraged a ridiculous amount of posturing despite the real work being complate. Given the sheer breadth of France's enemies these days, Bonaparte was happy to end the pointless raiding on Columbia's shipping. According to recent intelligence, the Frenchman’s word was good, at least in this instance. Unmolested by the French Navy, trade with Europe resumed and the economic recession in Columbia would soon be over. Unfortunately for the ruling Federalists, the benefits would likely come too late for many to retain their offices.

The biggest winner of Burr's assignment was, of course, Jefferson. Without Burr available to organize an opposition within the Democratic-Republican Party, the nomination could only go to the Virginian. Against the faltering Federalists, blamed for the recession and the humiliating failure to protect Columbian trade, nothing could stop Jefferson's election. By offering the Vice-Presidential nomination to Burr and then getting rid of him for several months, Jefferson could use the support of Burr's New York machine rather than fight it. Quite clever, really, Burr thought. Of course, the Virginian may have offered the office to a half dozen other rivals as well to temperarily silence them. Such tactics would hardly be without precedent. Burr may return to find himself unemployed.

Jefferson made a good politician but would likely be remembered as a poor president, Burr decided. Though extremely intelligent, Jefferson remained married to the idea of a nation of small farmers voting in their local town halls. Burr simply could not imagine any real steps being taken to improve the nation's industrial, banking, and naval capabilities during the tenure of such a leader. Such capacity was necessary for any nation to achieve international respectibility. Unfortunately, the presumptive President held such things to be nearly offensive.

Making the best of the situation, Burr found his experience in France exhilerating. Taking time to study the French Bureaucracy, tax system, and military, he was dismayed to find how hopelessly backword his own country's government truly was. Constricted by a Congress beholden to their cash strapped districts, the first three Presidents of the young Republic held relatively little power to actually make the grand changes in the economic and political system necessary to bring Columbia to the modern age. Even now, covetous European eyes looked on at Columbian lands with hunger.

Perhaps best of all was Burr's opportunity to commune with the Consul himself. Usually flanked by his chief diplomat, Tallyrand, the French leader practically exuded an aura of energy and power. This man would reshape the world. Of that, Burr was certain. If there was one thing Burr believed, it is that willpower can overcome any obstacle. Consul Bonaparte displayed this trait more than any other person the New Yorker ever encountered. During several long interviews, Burr noted the abject self-confidence the Frenchman possessed regardless of the topic. Whether discussing his plan for the reformation of the France's class structure, reshaping the Maghreb from a nest of Islamic pirates to a prosperous European colony or the economic integration of Europe, anything seemed possible. If Bonaparte viewed Burr with the polite condecention reserved for a charming rustic, the Columbian felt no need to rise to the bait. Instead, he simply listened to everything the powerful Frenchman said…..and wondered if such goals were possible across the Atlantic.

Upon hitting one final rut, Burr's carriage halted before his modest rental home. Stepping down, he offered the footman a generous tip and set off to pack. Burr's passage had already been booked for Philadelphia the next day. As he methodically gathered his baggage with the efficiency of an old soldier, Burr thought back on the plans the Frenchman had for his country. It was a pity, Burr thought, that the new Columbian President held no such ambitions. With the right man at the helm, there was no limit to what Columbia could become.

 

[Alt History Buff]

1801

Philadelphia

As he was ushered into the President's office, Burr marveled again that soon these quarters would soon be his. Despite consulting many times in this room throughout the years, the grandeur of what occurred here on a daily basis never fully sank in until this moment. Far removed from the opulent palaces of Europe, the Presidential Mansion nevertheless exuded an aura of distinctively Columbian spirit. Perhaps it was the humility of these surroundings allowing the occupants to remain true to the common people electing them.

Rising politely from his desk to greet his guest and future successor, President John Jay clasped Burr's hand firmly and expounded, "Mr. President Elect, congratulations on your victory. It seems that, once again, New York shall be well represented."

Smiling at the title, Burr replied, "Is that my title until your term runs out? I was wondering what people would be calling me until I take office next March."

With a short, wry laugh, Jay half-joked, "I can assure you, you will be called many things once you have occupied this office for any length of time."

The ice broken, Jay waved Burr into a comfortable-looking chair near the wall, and settled into a small couch opposite it. Appreciating the gesture intended to put them on equal level, Burr stated, "I admit, Mr. President, I remain in something of a state of shock. When I departed for Europe, I expected to be back well before the election. In fact, I was not entirely certain that I would still be on the ballet with Jefferson when I returned. The final decision had not really been made."

Seeing a wave of pain pass through Jay's face at the mention of Jefferson, Burr hurriedly continued, "When the crowd approached the dock upon my landing, I feared they meant to arrest me. Instead, I was informed of my own election as the next President of the United States of Columbia."

Smiling ruefully, Jay replied, "Yes, I suspect you ran one of the quietest election campaigns in history."

Given Hamilton's slaying of Jefferson virtually eliminated the Federalists’ already slim chances for electoral victory, much of the mirth was lost on both men. If anything, Burr was surprised that he was not removed from the Democratic-Republican ballot in favor of another Virginian of close association to Jefferson. Burr was sure men such as Madison or Monroe were considered, though both were relatively young and had held few high offices. However, the cries for "Jefferson's choice" for Vice-President to be honored were too strong for Burr's rivals to overcome. Naturally, his allies in New York took full advantage.

Stepping up to pour two glasses of port from the cabinet adjacent the divan, Jay almost absently inquired, "Have you a plan for your first priorities upon ascention to office?"

Fully understanding Jay's intent, Burr countered, "You mean you wish to know which of your policies will be reversed?"

Freezing momentarily, Jay simply nodded. Turning from the cabinet, he offered one glass to Burr and sat back down. Taking a short sip, Jay cleared his throat and replied with a simple, "Yes."

Looking down at his drink, Burr considered for a moment. This question had been asked many times by his supporters as he rode south to Clivetown, the Philidelphia neighborhood containing the Presidential Mansion and a number of important governmental offices. Named in honor of the late General, Clivetown had become virtually synonamous with the government of the United States of Columbia.

"Though many of my supporters would prefer a comprehensive unraveling of Federalist policy, I would think very few, really, Mr.President, require alteration." Burr replied at length, "In all fairness, many of your policies have succeeded, even those that I initially opposed."

"Such as?" Jay prodded.

Counting off one by one, "I never supported Jefferson's ridiculous opposition to the infrastructure improvements. He seemed to think that a decent road system would in some way harm the small farmer. I find it more likely that slashing by fifty to ninety percent the transportation cost to move their product to market helped this nation of small farmers far more than it hurt."

A rising glimmer of hope arose in Jay's heart as Burr continued, "I’ve always been a vocal supporter of your military buildup. As a former soldier, I well know what would happen if, in event of conflict, we were forced to muster an army of untrained militia against a foreign standing army. We certainly learned that lesson often enough during the Revolution.” Seeing Jay nod, he proceeded, “You were also right to concentrate on developing manufacturing facilities. In event of war, we could not count on any foreign supply or support. The Philadelphia Ironworks, the Richmond Munitions factories, and the shipyards throughout the coast from Boston to Baltimore will ensure that we maintain the capacity to fight back against any potential aggressor. And there is no shortage of those.”

Grateful for that, Jay interjected, “That served the twofold purpose of ensuring a supply of war material and stimulating the manufacturing sector. In time of war, it also would be vital to keep as much specie as possible within the country.” He added meaningfully.

With a sly, almost playful grin, Burr replied, “You refer to the Bank of the United States?”

Jay just waited for Burr to continue. More than anything else, it was the status of the Bank that most concerned him. In the years following the end of the Revolution, the battle for control over the banking system between the Federal and State authorities was among the former colonies’ most contentious debates. Many, led by Jefferson, opposed anything that would reduce the power of the states. Others, led by Hamilton and Jay, favored central authority. Hamilton won. But the Bank’s charter must be renewed every ten years. Jay was certain that failure to renew would lead to economic collapse.

Despite his long friendship with the President, Burr could not help but enjoy the situation. Intent on staying above party politics, Jay never officially joined the Federalists though his partiality was obvious. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that Jay’s legacy could be shattered on Burr’s whim. Realizing that his silence was bordering on rudeness, Burr left his reflections and turned to the President.

“I opposed the creation of the Bank of the United States’ charter years ago under the belief that it would encroach on state’s rights and lead to massive corruption. Upon reflection, I have grown to appreciate its benefits.”

Jay nodded, “Previously, the local unaffiliated banks, whose deposits were not guaranteed, would collapse frequently, thus bringing continuous shocks to the economy. After a decade of such upheaval, no northern trader or southern gentleman planter would ever leave their savings in the care of such institutions. With their precious currency buried in tin cans or sent to safer European banks….”

“Very little specie remained in circulation. No funds were available for local loans and the economy remained depressed.” Burr finished for him. “With the charter of the Bank of the United States, based on the Bank of Scotland, the deposits were guaranteed by the national government, and currency returned to Colombia. The resulting capital allowed for private loans that stimulated the economy. I acknowledge that my initial views on the Bank were incorrect. Hamilton was right all along.”

Barely suppressing a sigh of relief, Jay added, “Better yet, the bank provided a readily available supply of funds for the larger infrastructure projects.”

Nodding absently, Burr continued, “And for other large expenditures in the future.”

“Yes, there are always those in government.” Jay replied uncertainly. Something about Burr’s response worried him. In many ways, the man’s open ambition matched Hamilton’s. As with Hamilton, the line between personal ambition and that for his country tended to blur in Burr’s mind.

Waving the thought aside, Jay continued, “Certainly, the Federalists will be very supportive of such ideas.”

With a knowing smirk, Burr agreed, “I would certainly hope so. After the November elections, my party holds a dominant majority. And by going against their wishes of so many of them on these issues, I will require all the support I can muster if the Federalists wish the Bank’s charter to be made permanent.”

Noticing that Burr’s glass was empty, Jay quickly moved to refill it. Raising his glass in a toast, which his guest, and eventual successor, quickly matched, Jay solemnly intoned, “To freedom, democracy, and the United States.”

Before drinking, Burr added, “And the greatness that I will instill upon it.”

 

[Alt History Buff]

1802

Norfolk, VA

President Burr looked up approvingly at the tall masts being hoisted onto Columbia’s first ships of the line. Unusually thick hulls constructed from some of the sturdiest timber in the world, these ships would be able to withstand broadsides from much larger vessels. To his great satisfaction, the Norfolk Naval yard was bearing the first fruit of Burr’s new policy of military expansion. The scent of cut timber and sealant mixed with the industrious grunts of the carpenters to form a pleasant buzz of activity. Soon, the Philadelphia Ironworks would send powerful cannon to fill the menacing gunports. Naval recruiters actively scoured the port cities for experienced seamen.

Remembering the construction of his own fleet in the Colombian Revolution at Lake Champlain, Burr allowed his imagination to drift back to good memories made far better with the distortion of time. Lost in the past, he took some time to notice the gentlemen waiting patiently behind him upon his leisure. Smiling sheepishly, the President turned his back from the ongoing din to address his subordinates.

As expected, Secretary of the Navy Benjamin Stoddert and Commadore Truxton were as lost in the construction as Burr was. Both had long been advocates of an expanded navy during the previous administration and were pleasantly surprised at Burr’s offer to remain in office upon the new president’s ascension. Always willing to accept competent administrators regardless of political affiliation, Burr found the former Federalists, as most Democrats had once been, to be strong allies against a far too pacifistic Congress. Both greeted him courteously and returned their attention to the expansive drydocks.

Gazing appreciatively at the stout ships, Stoddert commented, “It would have been good to have these against the French back in 96. President Jay pounded his head against a wall for years before Congress funded a few warships. All we had to oppose the French pirates were a handful of converted merchant ships and cutters. We lost hundreds of trading ships. Nearly bankrupted the nation.”

Nodding, Truxton added, “It is surely a pity that your attempt at creating these naval yards failed back then, Mr. Secretary. Had Congress not cancelled your authorization, we would have the strongest fleet outside of Europe by now, maybe stronger than the Dutch or Spanish.”

Mentally concurring, Burr commented, “Unquestionably. However, it is not the Dutch or Spanish that is to be feared. Both nations have long been declining as naval powers and, by now, are effectively puppets of France.” Pausing a moment to think, Burr started to amble along the packed dirt road that ran along the naval yard. Occasionally a dirty, sweating worker would look up at the overdressed gentlemen, who obviously did not belong, with mild curiosity before returning to work. Burr did not know to be amused or disappointed at the lack of recognition.

Stoddert, realizing now was as good a time as any to relay the news he bore, interjected before Burr could continue, “Europe may be the least of our problems. Mr. Madison has received news from Tripoli. The Dey is demanding a sum of one million dollars per year to abstain from raiding Columbian shipping for the coming year.” Not required to elaborate, he simply waited for Burr’s reply.

It was not long in coming.

“No.”

Turning to face them, Burr spoke with a cold, pent up fury he typically took great pains to conceal in public. Today, it was released. “I will not pay a single dollar in tribute to these pirates. If this nation is to ever attain its rightful place among the world’s elite, we cannot allow a Muslim prince to demand a fifth of our nation’s tax revenue in blackmail.”

Expecting this answer, Stoddert and Truxton eagerly laid out the plans, long dormant due to Columbia’s previous weakness, to crush the North African extortionists. Throughout their service in the Jay administration, both found the tribute and ransom payments to the Muslim pirates and slavers revolting. Though Jay had done what he could to prepare for a military conflict, only now was the country prepared. France and Spain wiped most of the pirate princes of northwest Africa. From Tangiers to Tunis, the harbors were in strict European control. Only Tripoli remained a threat.

Truxton stated, “While only a few of these new ships will be completed, armed, and adequately manned for a spring expedition, we have converted several large merchant ships for war. I have no doubt that they will hold their own against the Pasha’s fleet.”

“The corsairs are typically smaller eight-to-sixteen-gun ships built for running down merchantmen, not fighting pitched battles with armed opponents,” interjected Stoddert, “What we have now should be more than adequate to wipe the swine from the oceans.”

Truxton, with a gesture towards the warships being speedily assembled, finished, “In another few years, who knows what we can do?”

Smiling at his future fleet, Burr murmured, “What indeed?”

 

[Alt History Buff]

1803

Kingston, Jamaica

As the ragged cheer went up, Quartermaster’s Mate Valentine Joyce nearly broke down and sobbed. Hats flying thru the air, Joyce’s fellow able seamen danced impromptu jigs upon the news that the HMS Director had been ordered home from its current duty guarding George IV’s West Indian Colonies. Though some found the cerulean skies and azure waters of the West Indies quite heavenly, Joyce deemed the bestial heat and horrific death toll from tropical disease more than adequately overrode the area’s charms.

Though rumors flew for days the Admiralty reassigned the Director to home waters, it wasn’t until the watch officer announced it that Joyce truly believed. One sailor, who hadn’t accepted the rumors at face value, was howling out an old sea shanty, obviously having broken out a bottle of rum for the occasion in hopeful anticipation of deliverance.

In the end, Joyce could hardly blame him. Far too many of the mates sailing with Joyce from London had been lost. Yellow Fever did most of the devil’s work while the malaria, the Bleeding Death and the African Death completed the rest. Losses were so horrific that impressments were required every year to maintain manpower levels. In fact, the Admiralty spent much of its time fighting the Foreign Office for able bodied prisoners available throughout the penal system, the latter service preferring to send the condemned to the Caribbean labor plantations to get some sort of financial return. Even here, in Kingston Harbor, the British Empire’s prized jewel in the Caribbean, officers led press gangs to the prison plantations to claim warm bodies.

Not all the seamen succumbed to disease. A handful fell in skirmishes with the French as the senior service swept that country’s fading Navy from the seas. Now, with the recent collapse of French control over San Dominque (owing entirely to the slave rebellion and yellow fever, not to the British Navy’s might), France’s claims in the new world had been reduced to not much at all. Though the new “Republic” hadn’t necessarily cut ties with France, it was painfully clear the natives didn’t intend to submit.

In the end, Joyce was tired of his life at sea. As a younger man, the prospect of seeing the world in the King’s Navy enthused him. But after a decade of mistreatment, low pay and witnessing countless deaths, the prospect of acquired some minor clerk’s position in a London textile factory was sounded infinitely more pleasant than at age sixteen. With a second, five-year tour over, Joyce would return to civilian life and forget his unhappy experiences at sea.

Feeling a tap on his shoulder, Joyce turned to see his superior, Quartermaster Smith, standing behind him with an uncomfortable look on his face.

“Sir?” asked Joyce warily.

“Joyce, the Captain requested that you join him in his wardroom at once.”

Now worried, Joyce asked, “What does the Captain wish to speak to me about, Sir?”

Obviously hesitating while he searched for words, Smith gave up and stated with resignation, “I don’t know, boy. Best you go see for yourself.”

With that, Smith turned his back and returned to his duties. The transparent lie left Joyce with a sinking feeling in his stomach. The image of the harsh, cruel, and uncompromising British sea captain was occasionally inaccurate. Unfortunately, stories abounded of this Captain’s preferences for unquestioned obedience and the lash was frequently put to the test to ensure it. Worst of all were those regarding the mutineers on a previous voyage in the South Pacific. Even his first officer was not spared the rope after an unsuccessful attempt to seize control. Naturally, the Admiralty awarded him a commendation for his actions in “saving” his ship. As such, most sailors gave him a wide berth.

“What does the Bounty Bastard want with you?” Asked one sailor, overhearing the conversation. “Bounty Bastard” being the common title given to this particular Captain by enlisted seaman throughout the fleet.

With a falsely indifferent shrug, Joyce responded, “I shall have to ask Captain Bligh.”

After Joyce’s soft knock on the door, Joyce heard a gruff, “Come in.”

Entering the Captain’s dark wardroom, Joyce stood at attention before Bligh’s desk. Bligh looked up at him for a moment before motioning for Joyce to sit down in one of the sturdy chairs opposite his own. Surprised, Joyce nevertheless sat as Bligh gestured for him to wait as he concluded a letter. Fiftyish and compact of build, Bligh still exuded an air of competence.

Remaining silent, Joyce took a moment to look around the room. Unusually clean, like most of the ship, Bligh’s wardroom reflected his fastidious personality. A firm believer that filth causes disease, Bligh demanded the highest level of cleanliness on board. Though most sailors grumbled at the additional labor, Joyce had seen far too many outbreaks of the Bleeding Death and a host of other ailments on filthy ships-of-the-line to disagree with the requirement. To be fair, Bligh always made an effort to ensure the highest level of sanitization on board as well as healthy provisions.

His note apparently completed, Bligh looked up at Joyce and stated, “Quartermaster Smith has held your work in high regard. He deems you competent and a reasonably hard worker.”

Blinking, Joyce was uncertain of how to respond before simply saying, “Thank you, Captain.”

Bligh added, “I understand that you are planning to seek your pension and retire upon our return to London.” It was a statement, not a question.

Wary, Joyce replied simply, “Yes, Captain.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Bligh stated without preamble.

Not bothering to await a response, the officer continued, “Given the state of the Navy, the Admiralty has obtained permission to impress any required personnel into another five year term of service if the navy deems necessary to maintain its effective status. That would be you, Mr. Joyce.”

Stunned, Joyce stared at Bligh for a long moment before he could respond, “Captain”, he stated hesitantly as his emotions wrestled for control, “how did the Admiralty come to determine that I was “necessary” to the defense of the realm?”

Seeing no point in evading the obvious, Joyce asked, “Was it Spithead?”

Bligh’s face remained a mask. Joyce wondered if such an impertinent question would earn him the whip. At the moment, Joyce didn’t care. He only saw another five years of his life gone in the service he hated.

With a look bordering on kind, Bligh responded, “I don’t know, Mr. Joyce. I admit that the Admiralty kept close watch on you and your…co-conspirators …..but to my knowledge have never actually sought reprisals per the conditions of the royal pardon.”

Six years earlier, common sailors at the Spithead Naval Base at Portsmouth mutinied over inadequate pay, worse food, ridiculously long periods out of port and various other long simmering grievances. Simply refusing to work or obey orders, much of the King’s Navy was paralyzed for weeks. Given that the mutiny was so widespread, its grip reaching dozens of ships, officers could not strike back at the sailors. Instead, an absurd state of affairs ensued in which both officers and sailors remained on board but the officers could not force the sailors to obey their commands and generally did even bother to try.

As Great Britain was at war with Revolutionary France at the time, the home islands were in danger of invasion. Thus, the admiralty offered to negotiate out of necessity. The sailors selected a commission to discuss the grievances and Joyce, to his sorrow, agreed not only to join but to lead.

To the minds of Joyce and his compatriots, the mutineers’ requests were minor and reasonable. Pay was to be increased to account for the years of inflation making script nearly worthless; the increasingly long naval voyages (which were made possible by the recent process of coppering the ship’s hulls, thus making vessels more able to withstand the rigors of extended voyages) would be rotated between ships to ensure fewer sailors suffered at sea for extended periods; finally, the purser’s pound (which the ship’s purser was allowed two ounces of meat for every pound he governed) was to be abolished. Sailors had long been incensed at the idea of the purser literally taking precious food from their mouths even in times of hardship and short supply.

The sailors made no mention of whippings or impressments or even requested the removal of certain loathed officers. The mutineers vowed to immediately re-install their officers in the event of an enemy sighting and follow the chain of command in combat. In the end, the Admiralty relented. The Royal Pardon was given to all reaffirming their loyalty to King George and vowed obedience to their officers. Unfortunately for Joyce, the Admiralty never forgot, or forgave, his involvement. Promotion was impossible and promotion above Quartermaster’s Mate lay beyond reach. More than a few officers growled at the “leader of the mutiny” and Joyce became well known for good or ill. In fact, one of the Captains whom lost control of their ships at Spithead or Nore sat across from Joyce now. That could not bode well.

“Wouldn’t the admiralty just prefer me to leave the service, Captain?” Joyce asked desperately.

His voice steel, Bligh responded holding up a parchment, “Apparently not, Mr. Joyce. A list was forwarded from London. It contained names of various crewman of this fleet that are due for discharge from the service. You’ve seen the situation on board His Majesty’s ships. Too many able crewmen are dying of one illness or another. We can’t recruit or impress enough experienced sailors to replace them. There are not even enough landsmen available and you know full well they can be worthless. I sincerely doubt anyone considers you important enough to single out for reprisal.”

“It appears,” Bligh finished looking down at the list, “that Parliament has authorized the retention of any number of sailors the Admiralty deems fit in defending the realm. That includes you. As this vessel is scheduled for extensive refit once we reach London, it has been determined that a number of our sailors will be transferred immediately to another vessel.”

“As of tomorrow, you are to report to the Royal George at daybreak. I understand that she has received her own sailing orders.”

“Have you ever wished to see India?”

 

[Alt History Buff]

1803

Tripoli

Bracing himself for the next broadside, Decatur shouted encouragement to his men as the Independence heaved in the heavy seas. The Dey's flagship again shifted their sails to turn away from the Columbian guns. Moments later, the port cannons roared with another volley of steel and smoke, the shot tearing asunder hull, mast, and human flesh the length of the Tripolitanian ship. Already sagging at the waterline, the barrage staggered the enemy ship now attempting to flee towards the dubious safey of Tripoli's harbor. Unfortunately for the corsair, Decatur already sprung the trap. The Constitution and Philadelphia were waiting to cut them off to the south.

Sails shredded, decks slick with blood, Decatur knew the Paula's captain could fight no more against the surrounding Columbian vessels. Before the Barbary pirates reached the range of Constitution's guns, Decatur saw the white flag raised and sails dropping, all within sight of the safety of Tripoli's harbor.

Eminently satisfied with his latest capture, Decatur promptly ordered his signalman to instruct the Constitution to accept the enemy’s surrender and confiscate the ship. This marked the third major capture of a Barbary raiding vessel in the Columbian Navy’s short sojourn along the coast of North Africa. The vessels were all seaworthy and would prove quite useful against their previous masters. A forth corsair from the Dey's fleet now rested on the bottom of the Mediterranean with most of her crew.

Though masterful pirates and raiders, the North Africans proved incapable of standing before an armed and incensed Columbian warship. Glancing towards Tripoli's harbor, Decatur wondered what prizes lay within. Four enemy vessels taken and sunk before his country’s final ultimatum was even delivered, all without a single casualty to his squadron. Admiral Truxton would be pleased. Taking the time to inspect the ship and offer his heartiest thanks to his brave sailors, Decatur returned to his cabin to prepare the blockade of Tripoli and end the raids on Columbian shipping once and for all.

 

[Alt History Buff]

1804

Paris

“You mean to…sell… Lousiana?!”

Tallyrand was utterly incredulous. For God’s sake, the North American territory had just been returned to France in 1785 after a twenty-year hiatus in Spanish hands and Bonaparte intended to simply sell it?

Comfortably ensconced in his private office, holding off the biting January wind with a nip of brandy, the First Council of France did not appear inclined to offer his Foreign Minister a seat or a glass.

“Yes, yes. Columbia’s President Burr sent his representative with an offer. Since the Columbians paid off their last debt to France a year ago, I imagine their credit to be fairly good. You recall Burr, don’t you, Tallyrand? Tall, lean fellow who helped settle down that idiotic half-war we were fighting with Columbia over the last few million francs of their debt. Just oozed of calculated ambition and cold-blooded intellect. Not unlike you, eh, Tallyrand?”

The diplomat recalled the fellow well enough. He was merely surprised Bonaparte reached such an erudite opinion of the man.

“But to sell such a bountiful land…”

The First Council interrupted in atypical mildness, “What would you have me do with it, sir? Colonize? Did you not swear that British domination of the seas would make any such an effort untenable? That once Spain officially turns the land over, Britain will simply march in with impunity?”

The First Consul’s lucid logic made the scene ever more surreal. For near half a decade, Tallyrand served the uncouth Corsican brute (certain never too publicly, or even privately, ascribe the General as such given the multitude of spies infesting Paris these day), cringing whenever the Bonaparte’s unsteady compass swung from one fixation to the next.

War or peace.

Extending liberty or suffocating it.

Bullying the neighbors or shamelessly flattering them.

Conquering a colony or selling it on a whim.

It all made little difference to the First Consul. But selling a national asset such the vast, unpopulated Louisiana territory so soon after acquiring it struck the Foreign Minister as astonishing. Granted to the Spanish in 1760 as recompense for that nation losing Florida in the 5 Years’ War…and returned by Spain in exchange for Minorca in 1785, the plague-infested territory stagnated under French rule for lack of settlers and slaves to tend the fields.

“Peace is among us,” Tallyrand reminded, “Britain has stopped seizing our ships on the high seas, Spain is an ally…”

“War will return presently,” the First Consul interrupted, his irritation starting to show. “Britain, and certainly Austria, intend a resumption of hostilities should a favorable coalition congregate. These reactionary powers fully intend to smother our Revolution in its crib. A few defeats on the battlefield will hardly reconcile our enemies to the fact of our existence, not with our idiot King across the ocean, anyway.”

“And what is to stop King Louis from sailing to Louisiana at the head of a British convoy to reclaim the territory?” Bonaparte shook his head. “No, better to get what we can now. Besides, our finances are in disorder, or so the Finance Minister assures me, what with the campaign in Africa going as it is.”

Oh, god, Tallyrand thought, managing not to slap himself on the forehead, not Africa again!

The “Hero of Marrakech and Safi” never tired of the accolades for “extirpating the Moorish devils from Africa”. Even the Russian Tsarevich turned sentimental fool when confronted with Bonaparte’s “great crusade” against the infidels who caused Christian Europe such agony over the centuries. Upon the end of the “Great Terror” as the Revolution’s maddest moments were now known, a period of religious revival emerged. The long held resentments against the Musselmen were exacerbated by the dreaded new diseases rampaging across the world for the past half-century like the wrath of god. Informing the population that Europe’s toll in lives was a fraction to many other areas of the world did precious little to mollify the frightened and angry population.

From the end of the 5 Years’ War and even through the French Revolutionary War, the conquest of North Africa continued unabated, often in the form of grand coalitions of southern European nations, and the brutal massacre and expulsion of the last King of Morocco’s countrymen along the southeastern extreme of that now-dead nation proved a short respite from reality. With most of coastal North Africa in French or Spanish hands, tens of thousands of European soldiers scoured the lands to the south for insurgent Musselmen wasting (in Tallyrand’s opinion) precious coin and resources better used solidifying France’s position in Europe. Even the army under command of the First Council’s brother-in-law, General Leclerc, ironically assembled to reestablish control over the revolutionary government in San Dominique, was redirected to Africa.

Damn you, Bonaparte, Tallyrand cursed silently. Don’t your recall that the expense of the African Campaign is what led to Louis XVI’s downfall? Do you want to take up residence in America too? Perhaps you think San Dominique wants you?

Oblivious to Tallyrand’s vitriolic thoughts, the First Consul continued, “Every expert on the colony I have consulted repeated the same opinion, that San Dominque, having freed the slaves, shall not return to the economy of old. Even if I send an army, the freedmen will flee to the hills, much like the Moors fester in the Atlas Mountains.

“Worse, the doctors assure me that disease will fell much of any French army in swift order. It is far better to accept the Colony’s loyalty on their terms, at least for now. Besides, if war does come with Britain again, and all intelligence from London assures me that time is nigh, our Navy is in no shape to supply a campaign across the ocean. In truth, only the colonists can protect San Dominque, anyway.”

In this latest Bonapartian rant, the Foreign Minister conceded an unexpected kernel of truth. San Dominique, known for so long as the wealthiest colony in the new world, was unrecognizable from its past glory. Long victims of Yellow Fever and Malaria, the tortured slaves of the colony succumbed at astonishing rates, and that was before the Bleeding Death and the African Death. With the slave trade effectively destroyed along with the sub-Saharan African Kingdoms historically providing the human merchandise, San Dominique’s population plummeted for decades. Upon the slaves of that island “joining” the Revolution from Bourbon tyranny by emancipating themselves, the lucrative sugar trade evaporated, the colony’s tangible value going with it.

“Who knows,” the vulgar Corsican snorted, “perhaps George IV will waste an army attempting to conquer the place himself?”

“I suppose,” the Foreign Minister conceded, abruptly realizing his superior still hadn’t invited him to sit. The winter cold was starting to chill his bones, even in the heart of Bonaparte’s office, “if Louisiana’s only value was to supply the West Indies colonies with victuals, most of these colonies France no longer possesses anyway, then there is no obvious reason to defend the Louisiana Territory at all.”

Conceding a square inch of French soil grated on Tallyrand, though he knew better to show his hand to the Corsican. Having assumed virtually unlimited power in the face of the Republic’s ideals, no one dared speak against Bonaparte directly. Certainly not a survivor like the Foreign Minister.

“Besides, Great Britain’s conduct at sea is proving as offensive to Columbia as the idiotic attack on Denmark two years back. King George is readily making enemies with every neutral power. How shall Britain react when Columbian coin starts arriving in France? Some fools in Parliament still believe the Americas might be reconquered. Let this divide the Protestant nations further.”

Astounded that such subtle dogmatic thought emerged from the First Consul, Tallyrand simply stared. Though an obviously brilliant general, Bonaparte’s political and personal skills were somewhat lacking, taking more the form of animal cunning. But, in one fell swoop, the last grievances between Columbia and France might be swept away, with new ones inevitably created between the former colonies and their mother country. In the end, the Frenchman could find no flaw in the Bonaparte’s logic, though he searched hard for one out of spite.

Of course, not all is lost, Tallyrand perked up. He was quite certain a “negotiation fee” of some sort might be arranged with the United States representative for the transaction to be completed. Several European nations found greasing the Foreign Minister’s palms expedited swift resolution of diplomatic problems in their favor. As large a nation as the United States of Columbia might pay handsomely for Tallyrand’s acquiesce.

And the construction costs of my new country retreat is rising by the day, he speculated silently.

“Very well, First Consul, I shall meet with the Columbian representative…”

“No need, Tallyrand,” Bonaparte interrupted, a wry smile etched across his face. “President Burr evidently recalled that an early attempt to resolve our late conflict with Columbia had been forestalled by an odious demand for bribes by certain French diplomats. On this occasion, he sent the missive directly to me. I have already agreed to the price.”

Spying the shocked and humiliated expression on the Foreign Minister’s face, Napoleon Bonaparte burst out laughing.

 

[Alt History Buff]

1804

Paris

The Emperor of the French (God, how Bonaparte enjoyed the sound of that) leaned back onto his heels and stretched his neck, his hands grasping the elongated table before him for balance. Hours of intensive discussions with assorted Generals and Admirals had reassured their new Emperor (Sigh!) of France’s advantageous position in Europe. One by one, Bonaparte dismissed them until only the Foreign Minister was left in the extended conference room the Emperor typically used as an office. Still a soldier to the heart, Bonaparte wondered how anything got done in a throne room.

Tallyrand, spare and thin, ostentatiously grimaced through more than a few of the reports.

“Not so pleased with our position, eh, Tallyrand?” Bonaparte’s wretched French, a horrendous amalgamation of Corsica’s native dialect and standard Parisian, never failed to startle and repulse the diplomat.

“No, Emperor, I am not.” The Foreign Minister knew better to directly contradict the Emperor but held no qualms about skewering other opinions. “I see your Generals still refuse to tell you anything you don’t wish to hear.”

Bonaparte chuckled, ambling over to a nearby divan. Lowering his bulk, the Corsican mildly inquired, “What, pray tell, so disturbed the Foreign Minister?”

The winter had been harsh, but peaceful, a welcome change over the preceding decades of strife. Europe appeared to have finally accepted the new balance of power…well, not particularly balanced with France’s astonishing victories over the past years.

The newfound Kings in Germany, their once-petty Duchies and Principalities now engorged by the relics of the Holy Roman Empire, failed to complain nor did the freshly autonomous peoples of Poland, Hungary and Bohemia bemoan their liberation from age-old foreign domination. For all the bewailed remonstrances against the Revolution, many, many nations tangibly benefited from it. The Russian Czarina, arguably the only force left to challenge the Emperor’s sweeping reforms, if anything, preferred the new Bonapartian autocracy over the untidiness and insecurity of the Republic. Even now, Czarina Catherine’s attention turned towards the rotting corpse of the Ottoman for conquest (with Bonaparte’s full blessing).

“Your Generals tend to leave out the unrest across a number of locales, Emperor,” Tallyrand reminded, not having been invited to sit himself. “Surely, that must carry some weight given Austria and Great Britain’s perpetual enmity.”

The Emperor waved this off with a grunt of annoyance. “Hapsburg power is but a shell of its old self. Shorn of the eastern hereditary territories and of no influence now in Germany, the remaining Duchies are of no threat to a France with most of Europe at my side. As for Britain…”

Bonaparte paused to shout for wine. In the background, a servant audibly scurried to obey. “As for Britain, George IV has no allies left to pay to fight his battles for him.”

Tallyrand knew not to argue directly. As the premier diplomat in the Empire, his opinion carried weight but a Foreign Minister could hardly quarrel with an Emperor. Not one whom wished his services to be retained, anyway. And Tallyrand was having a fine time collecting “gifts” from grateful heads of state for his services to forfeit this plum position.

Taking another tact, Tallyrand waved towards the expansive map adorning the conference table, bearing the portrait of Europe, the Mediterranean, North Africa and the Near East. Small figurines represented allied divisions. Over the previous hours, the Generals had obsequiously reported on assorted troop distribution throughout Europe, all “in perfect form”, naturally. Tallyrand saw only an overtaxed war machine inciting resentment at home and among France’s new “allies” to the east.

“Surely, the riots in Amsterdam, Turin and Dresden…”

“People would not be people without complaints,” The Emperor hissed, showing his first sign of irritation. The unseen servant nearly sprinted forward with a bottle of Bordeaux. “For god’s sake, I’ve lowered the levies, both monetary and military, by ten percent! What more should you have me do?!”

"I mean no disrespect, sir,” Tallyrand knew he was on shaky ground, but maintained his aura of calm detachment. “I merely remind that, as you previously stated, no barbarians are currently approaching the gates. Perhaps scaling the back the army might allow France and our newfound allies to return to sound financial footing and…er….rebuild the Navy….construct the Paris which you’ve always dreamed…”

“War is coming, Tallyrand,” the Emperor interrupted. With a disappointed grunt, Bonaparte turned up his nose at the wine’s bouquet and ponderously rose to his feet and strode back to the table. He pointed towards Africa. “The fucking Brits are funding and arming the Moors again, not to mention the negotiations with the Egyptions.”

It took all the Foreign Minister’s willpower to restrain his sigh.

Why did it always come back to Africa?

The Emperor had been fixated on the northern coast ever since returning as a hero from Morocco, his task of wiping out the Barbary states complete (with the obvious exeption of Tripoli and Egypt, but why split hairs?). Tallyrand suspected his master’s preoccupation with Africa stemmed from Marrakech being the site of his greatest deeds. Much like the girl to whom you lost your virginity, she never leaves your mind no matter the quality or quantity of female flesh you later experience.

Not that the conquest wasn’t an impressive feat, certainly. The Barbary pirates had been the scourge of the Mediterranean for centuries, preying upon shipping and enslaving hundreds of thousands of Christians. Much of Europe’s southern coast bore the indelible mark of constant Muslim predation.

After the destruction of Frederick the Mad’s Prussian Kingdom and the expulsion of Great Britain from the Mediterranean after the 5 Years’ War, the Bourbon Kings, newly confident, began assaulting the Islamic coast with a vengeance. City by city fell until every major coastal town hosted a swaying Bourbon flag. Spain held the lands of Morocco, from the western outpost of Safi, past the old Portuguese fort of Casablanca, up North to Tangiers at the Pillars of Hercules, stretching all the way to walled city Melilla. King Louis, the idiot King Across the Water, held Oran and Algiers, the inland town of Constantine, to the eastern borders of the Dey of Tunis…until the King was forced to flee France for his life.

With much of the world in turmoil at the hands of the Bleeding Death epidemic (and the African Death, of course), the wounded and angry Catholic world united as never before in the form of a new crusade against the infidel. Old grievances renewed, the Moorish peoples were blamed for spreading the hideous pox upon Christian Europe. French, Spanish, Neapolitan and Parmese Bourbons joined forces. The lesser Catholic nations, Tuscany, Sardinia, Venice, even Portugal, enthousiastically supported this new Christian campaign, glad for the distraction and opportunity to right centuries of wrongs.

Tens of thousands of soldiers assaulted North Africa in a war spanning nearly half a century now, slaughtering en masse, seizing the men for transport to the Americas as slaves, turning over the women and children to soldiers and unmarried European settlers. Momentarily interrupted by the War for Columbian Independence, Bourbon resolve to expunge the Moors from the earth only intensified as the British, desperate for allies, any allies, armed the Islamics. The act did little to affect the outcome of that war beyond irritating the Bourbons and utterly outraging southern Europe. Upon the peace of 1781, the allied Kings ordered every Muslim north of the Atlas Mountains slaughtered or enslaved, dispatching great armies south to enforce this decree. With the forced closure of black Africa’s slave trade, the value of North African slaves rose precipitously. French and Spanish colonies – Santo Domingo, San Dominque, Cuba, Martinique and a few others – received the bulk of this bounty of Maghreb labor and the French and Spanish islands continued delivering desperately needed profits and taxable income to the home nations.

French history conveniently recorded costs incurred during War for Columbian Independence was the defining factor in the impoverishment of France, thus leading to the Revolution. Tallyrand suspected that an audit of the finances might reveal the four decades long crusade against the Muslims actually played a larger part. By the 1790’s, France and Spain had wiped out the Moorish population (or bred with it) in these new colonies. The “Sultan” of Marrakech (one of the old King of Morocco’s sons…or cousins…or something who managed to seize southern Morocco), far too late to make a difference, believed that the Coalitions against the Republic might prove decisive and tardily got involved, spurring the new French Republic to dispatch a talented Corsican General to rescue their North African colonies.

And thus, the Emperor’s stunning rise to power commenced with the destruction of a petty Moor potentate, Tallyrand mused.

“Do you truly believe that a few muskets, rifles and powder barrels will make a difference? Surely, the massive quantity of Europeans settling, at great expense,” Tallyrand mumbled discontently, “in Africa must by now outnumber the Moors by three or four to one?”

“Of course,” the Emperor spat impatiently, his Corsican manners returning. “God knows, though, I heard enough complaints as the cost. All I asked was thirty thousand citizens a year to migrate, transportation paid, to Africa with land title guaranteed! Less than one in a thousand Frenchman! Is this so damn much to protect all of Europe?”

This was an old argument. Belatedly recognizing he’d lost his focus, Bonaparte gestured towards the map, continuing acerbically, “My point, my dear Foreign Minister, is that this proves the buffoon on the English throne intends to fight us at every opportunity, even ones where there is no clear benefit to Britain beyond antagonizing me.”

“God knows what will happen if and when the Hapsburgs summon their testicles for another round.”

“As I’ve recommended before, perhaps a marriage might be arranged unifying Bonaparte and Hapsbu…”

“Oh, shut up about that!”

For a long moment, the Emperor gazed at the map, concentrating intently on the section bearing the images of Britain and Ireland. Gradually, Bonaparte’s bemused expression, an odd mix of incredulous rage and painful constipation, eased into a devious grin.

“Of course, I’m hardly the first French potentate to find the little island vexing.”

Tallyrand had known the man long enough to fear his master’s next words. Whenever Napoleon Bonaparte got an idea into his head, no matter how trifling or outlandish, he tended to bull forward without hesitation. The Emperor bellowed over his shoulder for his adjutant to summon the Admiralty without delay.

Turning his gaze back upon the increasingly apprehensive Foreign Minister, Bonaparte casually inquired, “Tell me, Tallyrand, do you recall the tale of our countryman, William the Bastard?”

“I believe he was later renamed…William the Conqueror.”

 

[Alt History Buff]

February 1805

Bombay Archipelago

Quartermaster's Mate Valentine Joyce watched the Marathas skitter through along the Indian coast like ants. Apparently building fortifications to resist further incursion, Joyce thought. He believed he saw the glint of cannon on one redoubt. Though the seven islands of the Bombay archipelago remained in British control, every attempt to project that power inland by the army had failed. No individual battle had ever been lost to the natives, but every expedition sent inland invariably was cut off and surrounded by the insolent Indians. The result was always the same. Lacking supplies and wracked by illnesses endemic to the hideous tropical climate, a hasty retreat to the safety of the naval guns was ordered. The result was a pointless stalemate.

While the Indians building their fortifications on shore were no threat to the fleet, certainly no trade could occur either. The other British factories elsewhere along the Indian subcontinent were, if anything, in more dire straights. The local peoples had long since tired of His Majesty’s forces and the ubiquitous British traders. This sort of siege was becoming common as European power waned.

This was hardly the naval career that Joyce envisioned when he fell for the recruiter’s pitch so many years ago. Charmed by stories of life at sea and the glory of the Royal Navy, Joyce eagerly sought his fortune. Blessed with a moderate education granting a privileged life maintaining the navigational charts as a Quartermaster's Mate, his illusions were soon torn asunder by the rampant disease, hunger, and mistreatment endemic to a military career. The result was Spithead, his forced reenlistment and reassignment to this hellhole.

Shaking his head to clear the unpleasant memories, Joyce turned his back to the Indian's poorly conceived defense preparations. I don't know why they bother anyway. The Navy can clear any fortifications they build in no time at all. Their real defense lay in their near complete intransigence to taking direction. Pausing, he admitted to himself, Not that I have the most admired reputation in that regard, either.

The opposing view of the harbor was hardly better. The dock on which Joyce currently stood opened to one of the dingy island towns nobody ever bothered to name. Uglier and smellier than the worst slum of London, even the liberal sprinkling of Georgian merchant buildings did little to commend the place. Largely, the buildings were deserted anyway. Either empty or laden with unsold goods, they projected a desperate air.

"Wonderful to finally be given leave, eh, Valentine?"

Turning to his sole companion, Joyce bite down a harsh reply and stated evenly, "Quite nice to stretch the legs. Been on board too long."

Michael Bates was, in a way, Joyce's best friend on board the HMS Royal George. Though exactly how that happened was beyond the older man. Naturally gregarious, the tall, gangly seventeen-year-old tended to chat up anyone he met, including Valentine, typically a solitary individual these days. As Bates was a landsman entering the navy as part of the quota system, many of the career sailors tended to resent the boy. Upon learning of Joyce's rumored involvement in the Spithead mutiny, the younger man became fascinated and began trailing the older, more experienced sailor around like a puppy. In truth, Joyce did not mind the companionship as much as he let on. As master’s mate, Bates was of similar rank and education. The son of a clerk, Bates was literate enough to keep the books. Not connected enough to be offered a commission as a midshipman, Bates held hope of receiving one with a few years of loyal duty. If only the boy would stop constantly bringing up the mutiny, Joyce might have enjoyed the companionship more.

Though this sort of assignment was nothing new for Joyce, Bates was fresh enough to the Navy to consider trudging seedy oriental streets in inhuman heat as an adventure. Waving off hawkers desperate to sell their wares, Joyce dragged his friend towards the bars. Remembering one on the next lane, the two turned north into an open plaza.

Seeing an open courtyard on their right, Bates quietly breathed, "Oh god, another one."

In what was probably an abandoned merchant house, the navy set up yet another infirmary. Sitting in the garden were a couple of dozen silent, gaunt figures. A hollow-eyed nurse with a native orderly swept through, probably checking if any required nourishment or water. None the men exchanged jokes or appeared interested in doing anything. Noting Bates’ attention, most just turned away in shame. Given the lack of obvious wounds or symptoms of tropical fever, the cause of their medical internment was obvious. The African Death.

Recognizing no one from his ship, Joyce felt relieved at having no obligation to stop and make conversation. Unsurprisingly, Bates openly stared at the poor souls, until Joyce simply grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him toward the bar at the opposite end of the plaza. Pleased to leave the ghastly scene behind, the two sailors entered the dimly lit tavern commonly frequented by sailors on leave. Stepping up to the bar, Joyce grimaced as he plunked down the coin for the first round of warm ale. Due to the siege, virtually every crew in the fleet was months in arrears. Exactly when their back pay would arrive was always an exciting topic in the galleys. A veteran of many years' service in the Royal Navy, Joyce knew enough not to hold his breath.

Taking his first sip, a disappointing experience, he noticed his friend's head craned upward. On the second-floor landing, several Indian prostitutes were half-heartedly gesturing potential customers up to private rooms to sample their wares. Taking a closer look, Joyce found no obvious signs of disease but that meant little. Seeing his friend's interest, Joyce simply jabbed his thumb back in the direction of the doomed hospital occupants across the plaza.

Frustrated, Bates whined plaintively, "For god's sake, we haven't left the ship in a month."

Anticipated Joyce's argument, Bates didn't even wait to hear it before continuing, "And yes, I've sat through the same lectures as you have from the chaplain and the doctors." Mimicking Chaplain Parker's nasally voice, he leaned back with finger raised, "For those who cavort with whores, this plague is god's wrath." "

Taking a moment to swallow his last sip, Joyce replied evenly, "I would have thought the doctor's words would be more influential, god having little authority here. Doc says the disease is passed through sexual congress with an infected woman. Even if she looks healthy, you may end up just as dead. Nothing I have seen in my years lends me reason to contradict him. I have yet to see a man who avoided the brothels get the African Death. Perhaps the chaplain is right. Those that avoid that particular sin do seem to avoid an unpleasant end."

Petulantly, Bates took another drink and spat back, "We all die."

Looking up at the youth, Joyce wondered if he had ever been this young and stupid. Finally, Joyce stated, "We don't all die of disease in a shitty hospital in this hellhole because the Navy won't transport us home. We don't get shunned by our shipmates and friends in our final hours. Nor do our families get a note stating they will receive no pension because we died of an illness picked up in our whoring." Turning back to the bar, Joyce finished his drink and signaled for another. Belching loudly, he added, "But you are a grown man and I'm not your mother or your priest. Do what you will. Remember what the doctor said, though. Let her jerk you off. If you don't stick it in her, you should be fine."

Feeling a jostling at his elbow, Joyce nodded at the Royal Marine that joined them at the bar and greeted, "Evening, Turner."

Short and stout, Private Damien Turner was grisled veteran of some two decades in the Royal Marines. Though not a bad fellow, no one would ever accuse him of being overly cerebral, hence still being a private. Turner smiled and whistled back through the gaping hole where his front teeth had once been, "Quite a while, eh, Joyce?"

Joyce had always found the man's slobbering speech amusing….when he wasn't trying to avoid flying spittle, that is. In fact, it had been nearly a week since Private Turner had been spotted gracing the presence of the sailors on the Royal George. Like most of the Marines, he'd been reassigned to more pressing duties.

"Found any lately?" the sailor asked absently wondering where his next round was. The bartender instead brought the first draft to Turner. It wasn't a good idea to keep marines waiting.

"Every time. Even after a year of this siege, there are still enough trading vessels around for one of His Majesty's sailors to sneak aboard. If the admiral hadn't ordered every scow searched for deserters before departing local waters, our squadron would be in mothballs." Pausing to take a drink, Turner finished, "Of course, the traders aren't exactly helpful. They're as hard up for sailors as the fleet. Some of the bribes the captains offered our Leftenant to look the other way were quite impressive. As are the wages the traders are offering. Rumor has it, the Admiral is threatening a few weeks in the stockade for any merchantman caught trying to hire one of our sailors in the bars or streets."

"Yes, months without pay would make any sailor consider the idea," Joyce agreed. Finally getting his ale, the sailor noted for the first time that Bates disappeared. Looking up, one of the prostitutes had vanished as well. Joyce wondered if the idiot would follow his advice.

Raising his glass as a couple of sailors at a nearby table loudly toasted the King, Joyce dutifully drank to George IV’s health. Perhaps with a bit more of this swill, he might forget the ring of hostile natives circles the Islands of the Bombay archipelago and the trap within which Valentine Joyce found himself.

Not only Marathas, but British kept the sailor imprisoned upon the HMS Royal George.