Arrogance and Empire - An Alternate 7 Years' War Novel - Part 8 - 1809-1810

[Alt History Buff]

September 1809

North of Sheffield

Elated by the victory, Jackson's mind slipped back to the harsh and desperate days of Columbia's War for Independence. Far too often, the patriots forming the ranks in the armies of Robert Clive, George Washington and Benedict Arnold ran before the disciplined muskets of British regulators. He remembered the shame of witnessing brave men abandoning their honor and country to preserve their own wretched lives. It was these repeated humiliations in battle, not the nation's ultimate victory, which motivated Jackson to seek a military career upon reaching manhood.

Seeing the British run for their lives as his own countrymen once fled filled Jackson with an evil pleasure. Rapidly shouting orders, the Columbian General managed to maintain cohesion among his Brigade’s composite Regiments and advance in passable discipline up the hill to occupy the positions General Davout required.

Jackson doubted that the French Expeditionary Army would encounter any more resistance today.

200 yards west:

Involuntarily cringing with every enemy shot, Welsh realized that he'd become confident enough with the impending victory that he could again safely care about his own life. Blending back into his own line, he noted his Lieutenant and Sergeants gratefully mimicking his actions. Welsh always considered officers marching before their men too tempting a shot for enemy sharpshooters. Brave, perhaps, he mused, but foolhardy.

Approaching the crest of the hill, a ragged fire continued to rain down upon 1st Company from the militiamen they'd fought below. With satisfaction, Welsh noted many were already retreating anew before the advancing green tide. Almost before the grin reached his lips did Welsh wipe it completely from his face. With a flurry of movement, Welsh spotted the militia stationed behind the barricade were in the process of being supplemented by the bright red uniforms of regular British troops in a line stretching the length of the hilltop.

Frozen, Welsh considered his options. General Jackson ordered the charge anticipating little resistance upon reaching the zenith. Now, it appeared another bloody battle was in the offing. Though he longed to retreat, Welsh knew well enough what the General's orders would be. Turning to encourage his men, Welsh ordered the double step. Only a hundred feet from the enemy barrier, his unit may yet climb the breastworks before the redcoats could settle into place and fire a volley.

Rushing forward, the 1st Irish Regiment managed half the distance before a concentrated wave of fire cut down fifty of their number in a single second.

Fifty yards east:

Dismounted in ortoder to claim the honor of leading his men up the rise, the Columbian officer was nearly a hundred yards from the top of the battlefield's eastern hill. As his mind's eye remained transfixed on his role in bringing the mighty British Empire low, a huge weight interrupted Andrew Jackson's thoughts in the form of a blast into his chest. Lifted clear off his feet, the Columbian officer barely felt the impact as he landed flush upon back. Tears streaming from his eyes, Jackson attempted to regain his breath as hands frantically searched his chest for blood and gore.

Presently, his aides joined him in his labors before one cried, "General, I don't believe that the ball even broke your skin! God must be watching over you today!"

Attempting to respond, Jackson managed only a harsh grunt as he turned painfully over onto his side. While the ball's momentum may have mercifully been spent before it reached his body, the stabbing pain from his chest indicated the almighty may have determined to punish his carelessness with a broken rib or two.

Looking around, Jackson noted that his greencoats advancing up the hill without requirement of guidance. Unfortunately, the hail of musket fire continued to thin their ranks more than he'd expected at this stage of the battle.

At his superior struggled to his feet with the aid of a pair of junior officers, Colonel Devereaux inquired, "General, shall we exhange fire or continue the charge?"

Waving the thought aside, Jackson managed to growl, "Hell, no, Colonel! The faster we reach the top, the faster the war is over."

Nodding, Devereaux was about to repley when a collection of dismayed cries erupted from the right flank over the din of combat.

Sprinting up to Jackson, a painfully young Lieutenant shrieked in a Kentucky accent, "Suh, we'ase tak'in terrible fire from the hills, suh. An' now, we got hundreds of redcoats attacking from the side! Hundreds, mayhap thousands, suh!"

Heart sinking, Jackson and his entire command staff turned east to witness thousands of redcoats swinging in formation from the valleys only a few hundred yards away. As the low ground had not been a priority in Davout's (and Jackson's) plan, no allied soldiers opposed the British troops relentlessly marching straight into the flanks and rear of Jackson's troops.

With a quick look through his spyglass, Devereaux delivered the devastating news, "General, the enemy is attempting the same maneuver to the west as well."

Cursing, Jackson now remembered where he'd encountered this strategy before. At the battle of Cowpens during the War for Independence, General Daniel Morgan (or maybe it was Green?) enticed the British to attack the center of the rebel line by placing raw militia there. Obligingly, Cornwallis attacked and confidently drove the colonials back only to discover the trap Morgan had set. Their own lines extended and disorganized from the advance, the British found themselves counterattacked from the front and sides by regular army. In shame, Jackson comprehended the magnitude of the danger to his men.

"Do we continue the attack, General?" Inquired one panicked major.

"Shall we send in the reserves to counterattack?" Asked another.

Overcoming his pain, Jackson thrust away the helping hands and staggered to his feet.

"Gentlemen," He snarled through grit teeth, "The reserves won't push back a force that size and we all know it. If we don't retreat now, nothing will be left."

Hating the world, Jackson oversaw the order’s implementation. The drummers promptly signaled the retreat. In ragged disorder the junior officers leading their ranks forward halted nearly at the hilltop. Suffering from the withering defensive fire, the Columbians and Irish along the eastern flank attempted to turn while the French and Germans on the extreme west mimicked their actions.

As the mass of humanity haphazardly shifted direction, Jackson knew he was too late. At the double step, elite British soldiers smashed into the disorganized Columbian line, bayonets slashing forward to impale every invader within range. Already confused, the chaos of the dramatic shift in the fortune of war overcame the slightest scrap of military training among the Columbians and Irish. Seeking to avoid the howling redcoats, Jackson's men ignored their officers’ pleas to remain in formation and fled towards the center of Jackson's line, many throwing down their muskets in hopes of escaping the encircling redcoats.

Helpless, with no reserve of significance, Jackson and his general officers could only join in the escape, shouting threats and encouragement to their men in equal measures. A few brave souls attempted to make a stand here and there as the wave of red swept the Columbians from the field. Within moments, though, Jackson knew such an attempt was pointless. He merely directed his men to move as quickly down the slope as possible. Eventually, he gave up instructing the men to reform at their encampment. If the pickets he'd left at the bottom of the hill could not stop the routed soldiers, nothing would short of the English Channel. Privately, Jackson doubted too many of the men were thinking that far ahead.

Instead, he merely continued bellowing orders to anyone within earshot. Jackson wondered how many of the men advancing so bravely up the hills only an hour before would live to see the bottom again.

A hundred yards south and east:

Desperately swinging his sword at any flash of red in sight, Welsh damned Davout, Jackson and every other senior officer he could think off. For the past half hour, an ungainly mass of humanity exhausted their powder and stabbed awkwardly at each other across the makeshift wall along the hilltop. Though his forces occasionally managed to crawl over, under and around the wall, enemy soldiers always managed to push the Irish back. Neither side making the slightest headway, entire sections of the line fell silent at the combatants glared at one other from only yards away in sullen acknowledgement that no forward progress was to be had. In truth, Welsh could not blame either side. He knew well enough that the English had held. A quick glance east and west proved that their French, German and Columbian fellows fared little better. Already, the French to the east appeared to be retreating down the other sloping hills.

Though Jackson had not offered any communication, assuming he was even alive, Welsh opened his mouth to signal the retreat. Before the sound even reached his throat, one of his aides shouted, "Good god, Captain! To the east!"

In horror, Welsh saw hundreds of fresh troops, enemy troops, sprint out of the valley to the east of the Irish Regiment's current position. With the Irishmen pressed up against the enemy defensive wall, the redcoats swept around and began assaulting the Columbian unit east of Welsh's position. Frantic exclamations to the west proved that a second enemy counterattack had spontaneously erupted from Welsh's left, this one attacking the French and Germans assaulting the extreme left of the enemy position.

Instantly, the truth became clear, and Welsh nearly wept with frustration. Knowing Davout and Jackson would consider the English placing militia in their path to be an act of weakness, the enemy commanders lured the French Expeditionary Army into close quarters and counterattacked from the valleys between the three hills. Though Welsh could not see what occurred to the east, he was certain their sister regiments’ predicament was similar in that direction as well. Anyone could see Davout threw the flower of the army into the hilltop assault, yet no one raised objections to his failure to maintain a reserve. Utterly outflanked, the seasoned veterans, regardless of national origin, began to flee down the hill in the same panicked manner in which the English militia had retreated earlier to the open scorn of their adversaries. No one in the French Expeditionary Army was laughing now.

Though the extent of the disaster was obvious, Welsh did not fail to act. Screaming orders to his officers, the sergeants, anyone that would listen, Welsh pulled his army back from the barricade. Fortunately, their central position on the hill protected the Irish from the ruthless counterattacks that the cold-blooded English redcoats were inflicting on the French and Columbians manning the flanks. Though some of the hilltop defenders moved to join the route, the Irish maintained enough discipline to offer another united volley to dissuade the exhausted defenders to joining the rout. Step by step, Welsh's 1st Company of the 1st Irish Regiment retreated in moderately good order, occasionally aiding their fellows fleeing before the redcoats.

Heart breaking, Welsh saw dozens, perhaps of hundreds of French, German, Columbian and Irish soldiers throw down their weapons and raise their hands in surrender. Occasionally the savage redcoats even accepted it. Largely, the helpless men were run through without receiving the slightest trace of mercy.

As the shocked men of the 1st stumbled back to their own lines, Welsh looked east and west and estimated barely half of his own regiment returned with him. Bearing the brunt of the counterattack, he knew that the Columbians and French probably suffered worse.

Despondent, Welsh clenched his hands so tightly his fingernails drew blood.

The Western flank of the French Expeditionary Army had been mauled and mauled badly. Along the hilltop, English soldiers taunted their foes with a joy unheard in their camps since the dawn of the war.

The advance north had just abruptly ended.

 

[Alt History Buff]

September, 1809

North of Sheffield

As the final redcoats retreated before them, the remnants of Jackson's Brigade offered a half-hearted cheer. Through sheer force of will, the Columbian gather and reformed his command from the previous afternoon's calamitous rout. By providence, or perhaps lack of ammunition, the British had not counterattacked that evening. Had they done so, Jackson knew the Columbian Brigade could not offer the slightest defense.

Fortunately, the British offered a twenty-four-hour respite before renewing their advance. Hastily reorganizing his men, sometimes merging units too heavily mauled to be functional on his own, Jackson managed to form a defensive line at the base of the hill. Communicating with Davout, Jackson learned that the rest of the army faired little better assaulting the other two hills. As couriers delivered contradictory reports and orders back and forth, Jackson finally mounted his charger in frustration and galloped to Marshal Davout's headquarters.

The chaos present shocked the Columbian whom had become accustomed to the aura of smooth competence surrounding the French General. Instead, Davout appeared completely lost to explain or react to the heavy defeat. Finally gaining his superior’s attention, Jackson assured Davout that his division was in no shape to advance and would not be capable of doing so for some time. Emerging from his cocoon, Davout ordered the fuming Jackson to hold his position and await the resupply of powder, shot and shell the Columbian so fervently demanded.

Seeing the overwhelmed Davout occupied with reforming his own lines, Jackson took his leave to find the commissary. Jackson was in the midst of utilizing the full force of his personality on the unfortunate supply officer when word of the English counterattack reached him. Issuing one final threat over his shoulder, Jackson rode back to his line to discover the British engaging in a general assault along the length of Davout's position. Certain no reinforcements would be forthcoming, Jackson hastily ordered every able-bodied man to the new defensive line and awaited the enemy.

Marching down the western hill with newfound confidence, the bright red jackets of the British regulars soon slipped out of range of their own handful of artillery pieces mounted on the hilltop.

"Rather arrogant, wouldn't you say, General? Marching without artillery?" Inquired Devereaux acerbically.

Eyes burning with hatred, Jackson inspected the approaching British force through his spyglass, "I reckon I agree, Colonel, though we have precious few here as well. Kruger has most of our artillery to the east. I estimate four thousand regulars and an equal number of militia."

Gaging the enemy force from a distance, Devereaux nodded slightly in agreement before adding, "They have numbers now, General."

"Yes, Devereaux," Countered Jackson savagely, "But we have the position, we have our own defensive wall and we have the artillery, if Kruger gets back in time. If the damned British think they can shift us, let them damn well try!"

Though his tone harbored no doubt, Jackson's innards privately churned beneath the constant pain in his ribs. Distracted by his arduous tasks, the soldier had almost forgotten his injury. In truth, he wondered if his Brigade would still fight after the dreadful thrashing the Columbians and Irish suffered the previous two days. Bearings little option, Jackson ordered his men to hold.

The ensuing battle was brutal, as most battles are. The two armies exchanged volley after volley with both sides enduring further casualties. Much as Jackson had the day before, the British commander made the dreadful error of assuming his enemy was finished. Grimly, the Columbians, Irish and French whittled the enemy numbers down from their hastily built defenses until the British commander was forced to cede the blood-soaked field to Jackson's army in a general withdrawal. Retreating towards their original positions on the high ground, the British troops collapsed into their trenches to wait.

Privately, Jackson suspected Davout's offensive had concluded prematurely, and the thought griped his heart with despair.

 

[Alt History Buff]

October, 1809

Unnamed village south of Sheffield

Sickened, Captain Cillian Welsh turned his back on the anguished wails of the villagers as soldiers of the 1st Irish Regiment methodically torched every building within sight. With the cool of the late English fall already in the air, the Irish officer wondered his orders doomed the hundreds of citizens inhabiting what was only that morning a modest village. After confiscated every morsal of food his men could root out, Welsh reluctantly followed General Jackson's orders to leave nothing to the enemy. Unfortunately, he could not shield his eyes from the sight of dozens of children, their bodies already painfully thin from malnutrition, weeping as everything they knew went up in flames.

Welsh had seen far too much devastation in these lands. Even his ancient, ingrained loathing of the English failed to offer any satisfaction at the wanton destruction of life and property he'd encountered since the invasion. Ceding any pretence of civilization or gentlemanly conduct, Marshal Davout and General Jackson ordered his army to set the countryside alight to ensure no sustenance or aid reached the newly emboldened British army to the north. Instead of food and manufactures, only desperate refugees made their way north to British lines. Despite his coldness, Welsh believed Davout did not glory in the destruction nearly as much as his Columbian subordinate. While the Frenchman merely sought military advantage, Andrew Jackson reveled in every savaged village and scorched farmstead.

Riding up to Welsh at the gallop, Colonel O'Mulraian took a moment to take in the devastation in his typical detached manner before saying, "Well, Captain, it appears this village will not be troubling us."

"Aye, Colonel," Replied Welsh, "though I doubt it would have troubled us before."

Fully understanding Welsh's comment but declined to lecture, O'Mulraian stated, "No enemy units of import have been reported in the area. We should have a clear path to retreat back to Birmingham."

Raising his eyebrows, Welsh asked, "So the entire army is falling back?"

Welsh had thought Davout would refuse to commit to such an path.

"We have no choice really," explained the Colonel. "It will take weeks for additional supply to be brought forward and we have precious little to sustain us. That English counterattack nearly wiped out the army's powder and shot stores on hand. We may not have enough provisions for more than another battle, maybe two, not in the whole of England."

Leaning forward, O'Mulraian lowered his voice and whispered, "The defeat in the English Channel was far worse than originally believed. While a few supply ships have continued to reach these shores, that will likely soon change. We may be cut off, perhaps for good."

Aghast, Welsh's mouth dropped, "Can we…can we retreat?"

Shaking his head, O’Mulraian said, "I don't know, Captain. Let us hope it doesn't come to that. We may yet bring Albion to its knees in battle. We're bringing forward what reinforcements we have from the south. If we can force another engagement…"

Looking around at the destroyed village, Welsh exclaimed, "Then what the hell are we doing this for? Shouldn't we be reforming and marching again on Manchester?"

"Davout has his reasons, Captain Welsh," replied O'Mulraian wearily, "I suspect that, if we are defeated and the French Expeditionary Army is destroyed, Emperor Bonaparte wishes Britain wounded badly in return. I believe that means every city, town, factory, and farmhouse in Southern Britain is to be leveled. England will never be strong enough to maintain its fleets or financially support France's enemies if half its population is homeless."

"Or dead, you mean?" Asked Welsh bitterly, "I spent my life loathing the English but never wished to be complicit to mass-murder."

Sighing, O'Mulraian agreed, "General Jackson does seem to take great pleasure in this…..strategy. Even Marshal Davout has had to reign him in at times."

The thought of the savage Columbian brought a shiver up Welsh's spine. Never before had he encountered a man so enamored with annihilating an enemy. Momentarily, Welsh formed a more disturbing thought.

"Colonel," he inquired urgently, "What of Ireland? If we fail to conquer England, will the rebellion succeed at home? Will the Emperor help our people?"

Staring into the ground, O'Mulraian thought for a moment before replying, "The French fight this war for themselves, not for Ireland. If they feel a free Ireland is in their best interests, they will support the rebellion. If Bonaparte decides peace with England is preferable? I imagine he'd sacrifice the Emerald Isle without a thought."

Glumly, Welsh looked around at the surrounding holocaust before speaking, "And the English will never forget this, will they? Thousands of Irish soldiers mutinying from their sovereign’s army and navy to aid their historical enemies in murdering good Englishmen. The lot of our people will be worse off than ever should the full might of Britain descend on Ireland."

O'Mulraian's silence was all the answer Welsh needed.

 

[Alt History Buff]

October, 1809

Philadelphia

Eminently satisfied, President Aaron Burr of the United States of Columbia thanked General Jacob Brown, the Commanding General of Columbian forces, for his report and bid the soldier return to his duties. Much needed to be done to keep the gears of war spinning.

Turning back to the two remaining men in his staffroom, his Secretaries of War and State, Burr stated, "Well, it appears our war effort could be approaching its conclusion."

Shaking his head, Hale answered, "I find it nigh unbelievable that France's forces continue to advance after a full year. Who could have guessed Emperor Napoleon could maintain a supply line across the English Channel and continue feeding men and material into Britain?"

"Certainly not I." Added Madison, "Even with the loss of so much of their empire in the preceding decades, I would have considered the idea laughable a few years ago. Now with Ireland effectively lost and Davout reportedly marching on the midlands….." the short Virginian trailed off.

"Fortunately for Columbia, Emperor Napoleon does not follow conventional doctrine. With the two-month delay in communications, its possible that the war may even be over by now. Certainly Columbia is free to maintain the initiative in the Americas," mused Burr.

Since the moment he'd received word of France's invasion of the British Isles, Burr pleaded, bullied and bribed Columbia's Congress into taking advantage of the situation. After a few months of vicious fighting in the Caribbean, dozens of British capital ships were recalled to defend their homeland, effectively giving Columbia carte blanche to invade the valuable sugar islands. Burr's years of careful military buildup and strategic preparation have finally come to fruition as one British possession after another fell to the Columbian Navy. After sweeping away the British presence on St. Kitts, Martinique, Dominica, Guadeloupe, Guyana, Trinidad, Tobago and now St. Lucia, Burr surprisingly shifted focus towards the southern islands of the Antilles, nominally the fief of Louis XVI in Acadia but, in all reality, British on administration. Taking advantage of negro and prisoner uprisings in the valuable sugar islands, the Columbian army and navy conquered everything in its path.

"Mr. President," inquired Madison, "Have you given further consideration to the legal status of the inhabitants of those islands? Most are slaves or prisoners. However, a minority are planters or representatives of the British government…or French Royalists as the case may be."

Nodding, Burr replied, "The latter are easy. The British landowners and aristocrats will be expelled." Anticipating the arguments, he added, "I do not care about whatever terms were offered on their surrender. The fact is the British landowners on those islands had no choice but to surrender so I feel little guilt about hastening their return to England. It is the former which we must decide upon. The lives of the negro slaves and the British prisoners, effectively slaves themselves, revolve around our whims. Despite our nation's long association with that contemptible practice finally stamped out years ago, there will be no shortage of august personages demanding the institution be maintained in the islands to squeeze whatever profit possible out of the sugar and rum trade."

Burr saw Madison stir uncomfortably and recalled large portions of the Virginia aristocracy still harbored strongly pro-slavery views despite the horrific slave rebellions ravaging the southern colonies during the War for Independence. Had it not been for Thomas Jefferson's urging, it was quite possible the Virginia Commonwealth would have voted along with the Carolinas to return to King George's domains. Fortunately, hatred for the British who fermented the uprisings overcame the desire to maintain their peculiar institution.

Standing momentarily to stretch his legs, Burr walked over to the panoramic view from his office window. He could hear the birds chirping among the rapidly turning leaves of the oak trees on the Presidential Mansion’s sprawling lawn.

Still looking out onto the pleasant fall afternoon, he said absently, "I have given this matter much thought for the futures of the thousands of inhabitants of those islands are directly tied to a few words written on treaties between people like us whom are far removed from the realities of West Indian life. I have gazed into the future to estimate how our descendants…and theirs…would view our actions. Do we merely attempt to take the place of the British and inflict the same indignities upon the natives so we might sustain the world's sweet tooth? Do we begin to ship any unwanted persons we deem useless within our borders to our new "work colonies" in the West Indies as the British do?"

Turning, Burr returned to his favorite divan and elaborated, "Further, how would we maintain order? Great Britain, at its height, had been capable of dispatching far larger army and naval units to the Indies that Columbia could ever realistically hope to match. And look at the result. Even before the current war, Imperial France watched a massive army dissolve under the power of Yellow Fever, Malaria and the Bleeding Death while attempting control Santa Domingo. Britain temperarily lost control over Jamaica. I find it difficult to believe we would have been able to pacify the slaves and prisoners on Guadeloupe and Martinique should that day come.”

"In the end, gentleman, the days have long passed since societies such as ancient Greece and Rome were capable of controlling a slave majority. No nation on Earth can hope to retain those islands in the face of local opposition. We can hurt them, burn their towns, cut off their trade. But I suspect any slave would hardly consider that reason enough to find a return to slavery appealing. Therefore, we shall pursue another path. We shall attempt not to oppress them but to gain their true loyalty by appealing to their interests. We shall offer them full citizenship with all rights and privileges entailed. Many will unquestionably and rightfully wish to return to their homelands whether it be Ireland, England or Africa, but given some incentives, many will remain and sustain the sugar trade."

"Exactly what "incentives" do you propose, Mr. President?" inquired Madison. Though hardly the most bigoted Virginian alive, the Secretary of State understood the southern mind well enough that allowing primarily black islands full rights would be poorly received in some quarters.

"First and foremost, the great plantations will be divided up equitably between those who toiled on them. Even smaller plots can be profitable and that will ensure that some of these of these poor souls remain and tend to the sugarcane. We shall encourage immigration from any quarter we can to find hands willing to work the fields." Turning to Gallatin, "Yes, Alfred, I do acknowledge the sums involved so I do not need a lecture."

At the short burst of laughter, Burr inserted the more controversial proposal, "Secondly, it is vital that these people feel properly enfranchised. As such, we shall create a system of locally government along the lines of our own towns. Policies such as tariff and trade will of course remain in the federal government. Unlike Ohio or Tennessee, these Islands will likely never reach appropriate populations for statehood or election of Senators. Therefore, we must come up with a system to guarantee some sort of federal representation. Perhaps we could band all of the West Indies together to form a state or give any Island over 25,000 persons a congressman."

Ever the Lawyer, Madison cleared his throat and began, "Mr. President, the constitution clearly states…."

Anticipating his argument and knowing the real reason behind Madison's objection, Burr cut in, "The constitution clearly states the method to changing the constitution. It also states that all men are created equal and this republic must expend any effort to achieve that goal. If certain congressmen are upset by being seated next to a negro, then they may resign at their leisure."

"This nation expended far too much blood and iron to win an empire to allow it to be lost under the weight of its own injustice." Looking around, Burr spoke with firm conviction. "I declare this now unequivocally. The inhabitants of those islands will fight any nation that attempts to re-enslave them. Unless you plan on permanently docking a dozen warships and ten thousand soldiers on each island in perpetuity, and then replacing it each year as the army dies of tropical disease, then I suggest we come up with a method to gain the native's loyalties. If treated with honor, the West Indians, regardless of race, will fight to the death for our colors."

"If treated with cruelty, they shall drag this nation into an expensive quagmire of which we have no hope of winning. Far better that we humbly beg our British friends to take back these islands and let it rest on their consciences."

Having made his point, Burr sat back to elaborate on his plan. Miffed at the reprimand, Madison sulked for a long moment before realizing that Burr was right. The West Indians, be they black or white, would die before being re-enslaved. And Madison saw no other way to encourage sufficient settlement on the "living death" of the West Indies when Columbia's borders offered far better prospects for a longer and more prosperous life. Though Burr had long been a legitimate abolitionist, Madison knew cold politics drove this decision.

Unfortunately, the Virginian could never fully entice his President to appreciate the number of enemies he was making. Throughout New England, riots were taking place over loss of trade from the ongoing conflicts with Britain. The New York and Baltimore banks were reeling under the cost of the government's debt load. Now, the centuries old racism of the southern states of Virginia, Maryland and Kentucky were about to be inflamed by the idea of negros serving in Congress.

Certain of his path and the people's love, nothing seemed to dent Burr's increasing self-confidence. Madison worried that his leader would someday find himself following the path of Julius Caesar on the Ides of March.

 

[Alt History Buff]

November 1809

Birmingham

Nodding in satisfaction, Andrew Jackson accepted the report presented by Captain Lebeau on behalf of General Davout. Surrounded by his regimental commanders, Jackson's mind raced.

"So, Captain, you say they are dying by the thousand, eh?"

"Oui, General, without shelter from the early English winter, the people of England are suffering mightily."

Lebeau was an able officer, one of the few truly experienced cavalrymen in the French Expeditionary Army. As such, he'd been honored by being selected by the Emperor himself to command a battalion of horsemen. Though the idea of serving directly under a mere Columbian ruffled his feathers a bit, at least Jackson allowed him a free hand. He didn't have to serve closely with the Irish officers whispering to one another in the corner. The drunken ill-discipline of those troops was staggering given the fact most had served at some point in the British Army itself.

"General," interrupted Devereaux mildly, recently promoted to Colonel by Davout, "Marshal Davout's intelligence has divined thousands of starving peasants have been laying waste to the northern countryside laying waste to the farmsteads in search of food. Interviews with captured soldiers confirm that food supplies dwindle even in the country. It is possible that the British Empire may die of starvation."

Grunting, Jackson replied, "Better by my bullets but I'll accept either option well enough."

Turning back to his ever-reliable aide-de-camp, he inquired, "Colonel Devereaux, have you received word as to Davout's intentions? Will he attempt another decisive engagement or go into winter quarters?"

Jackson long ago accepted even an inferior French officer would rate a more honest response for the French Marshal. Devereaux was especially good at wheedling information out of the general staff. Yet another reason why Jackson found the man so useful.

"He is still undecided, General," replied the Colonel at length. Admitting than a Marshal of France could ever be stymied was difficult for the career officer, "The general staff has failed to offer a unified recommendation. Some see our desperate supply situation and prefer to wait out the winter in hopes of an English peace offer or the resumption of war material from France."

"Unlikely, lad," muttered O'Mulraian under his breathe. He and Welsh stood back with the other Irish officers. After a nearly a year of combat, O'Mulraian still felt the contempt in the eyes of the arrogant French officers.

"Aye," agreed Welsh in a whisper, "Rather difficult to protect convoys when the entire French fleet is at the bottom of the channel. The British Navy could protect the Isles with a rowboat."

Oblivious to the Irishmen, Devereaux continued, "Others insist that the English defenses south of Manchester are as weak as a house of cards. One more good shot…"

With that, Devereaux made a motion as if knocking the imaginary house down.

As typical, a raucous debate erupted between Jackson's officers which the General swiftly ended.

"Gentlemen," He started, "we can discuss this all night. Only Davout's opinion will matter in the end. I reckon he will decide his course soon enough."

Returning to the business as hand, he returned to the French Cavalryman and asked, "Captain Lebeau, what other effects do you see from your raids?"

What little cavalry the French Expeditionary Army possessed had been occupied with the earnest business of punitive raids since the day French troops alighted England’s shores. As much of England's land was not suited for large mounted maneuvers, striking deep into enemy territory to attack enemy supply depots was a common use of horsemens’ talents. As the war ground on, Davout commanded thousands of cavalry burn every field, orchard, farmhouse and factory they could find in order to fully enlighten the common Briton of the ramifications to defying the Emperor of France.

Almost giddily, Lebeau responded, "Barely two stones remain together between here and Manchester. Our raids have even reached leads. Nearly two hundred cavalry in the 4th Marseille Regiment rode down the main avenue of Leeds last week. They torched dozens of textile factories and even a major gunpowder mill exploded."

Pleased, Jackson counted the cost of such raids to the enemy, "Now hundreds, perhaps thousands more Englishmen retain no livelihood and the British position is weaker."

Looking around at the assembled officers, Jackson reminded, "Remember, gentlemen. Every English farmer feeds the war effort against us. Every poor weaver clothes the soldiers that advance upon us. Every log cutter provides timber for their ships. Every miner is responsible for the redcoats’ bullets. We must not pretend that we war only on the British Army and their King. We must defeat the British NATION!"

As his officers mused his words, a courier entered Jackson's command tent. Taken aback by the quantity of officers present, the young Frenchman bore on to Jackson and presented him with a package before swiftly departing with a sharp salute. Jackson turned to sit behind a small table bearing his map collection.

"Orders from Marshal Davout," he explained. Jackson's hands shook slightly as he opened the packet and began to read. Most of the officers in the room quieted to respectful silence as the General's face slowly turned an ugly shade of crimson.

"I imagine it will be retreat and not advance," muttered O'Mulraian to his subordinate.

Noting Jackson's fist smash down upon the table, Welsh agreed, "Aye, it will be retreat."

 

[HonestAbe1809]

Even with the French-Columbia army retreating in England the British aren’t going to get a treaty they’re going to like. Ireland is gone. The Caribbean colonies are gone. The sun has set on the British Empire.

And while I enjoyed every update I hope we have a lengthy period of peacetime before the next war.

 

[PGSBHurricane]

Even with the French-Columbia army retreating in England the British aren’t going to get a treaty they’re going to like. Ireland is gone. The Caribbean colonies are gone. The sun has set on the British Empire.

And while I enjoyed every update I hope we have a lengthy period of peacetime before the next war.

I mean there's India and Australia still but yes the British Empire won't be what it was IOTL.

 

[happy neurodivergent papa]

Even with the French-Columbia army retreating in England the British aren’t going to get a treaty they’re going to like. Ireland is gone. The Caribbean colonies are gone. The sun has set on the British Empire.

And while I enjoyed every update I hope we have a lengthy period of peacetime before the next war.

I know the British have made up some of that lost territory in South America and it seems like they might be poised to take a bit of East Africa, the Arabian peninsula and some of India. But unquestioned British dominance on the world stage is done.

@Alt History Buff Are Australia and New Zealand staying in British hands? I know that President Burr seemed to have an eye on them in an earlier chapter

 

[HonestAbe1809]

I mean there's India and Australia still but yes the British Empire won't be what it was IOTL.

But, as far as I can tell, the idea of a subcontinent-spanning British Raj is highly unlikely. The British are barely clinging in to the coasts.

The OTL British Empire that was arguably the first global superpower is well and truly snuffed in its cradle.

I know the British have made up some of that lost territory in South America and it seems like they might be poised to take a bit of East Africa, the Arabian peninsula and some of India. But unquestioned British dominance on the world stage is done.

@Alt History Buff Are Australia and New Zealand staying in British hands? I know that President Burr seemed to have an eye on them in an earlier chapter

It would be interesting to see what Britain does with “the Brazils” and the rest of the territory they’ve gained in peacetime.

 

[happy neurodivergent papa]

This is definitely an Ame

But, as far as I can tell, the idea of a subcontinent-spanning British Raj is highly unlikely. The British are barely clinging in to the coasts.

The OTL British Empire that was arguably the first global superpower is well and truly snuffed in its cradle.

It does seem that Britain’s presence in India will be much reduced and it seems the Indonesian islands are going to stay out of their empire as well.

I do wonder if they’ll be to have a presence in Southeast Asia.

It would be interesting to see what Britain does with “the Brazils” and the rest of the territory they’ve gained in peacetime.

I am really wanting to see that as well! It will be interesting to see how that will affect the development of nationhood in Latin America as a whole.

this is definitely an American wank timeline but it is very well made series. I definitely can see how African descendant Columbians are starting to be included in the national belonging of Columbia already.

Although I am wondering when that expanded belonging will extend to the peoples of the Caribbean and South America Columbia has claimed

 

[Alt History Buff]

I know the British have made up some of that lost territory in South America and it seems like they might be poised to take a bit of East Africa, the Arabian peninsula and some of India. But unquestioned British dominance on the world stage is done.

@Alt History Buff Are Australia and New Zealand staying in British hands? I know that President Burr seemed to have an eye on them in an earlier chapter

No, Britain will not be taking Australia and New Zealand in this TL. The US is setting up whaling stations throughout 1808 and 1809. I just realized that I failed to mention that.

 

[Alt History Buff]

Yea

But, as far as I can tell, the idea of a subcontinent-spanning British Raj is highly unlikely. The British are barely clinging in to the coasts.

The OTL British Empire that was arguably the first global superpower is well and truly snuffed in its cradle.



It would be interesting to see what Britain does with “the Brazils” and the rest of the territory they’ve gained in peacetime.

Yeah, there will be no British Raj as the East India Company (though a nominal British government entity since the bankruptcy in the 1760's) only controls a few isolated portions of Eastern India under close supervision of an ascendant Mughal Empire. The Company is still fairly, by requirements of geography, autonomous.

The British influence in Brazil and south America (the Banda Oriental, AKA Uruguay, has been a British colony for thirty years) will be a recurring theme in future chapters and future books.

 

[happy neurodivergent papa]

No, Britain will not be taking Australia and New Zealand in this TL. The US is setting up whaling stations throughout 1808 and 1809. I just realized that I failed to mention that.

How are the indigenous peoples of Australia and New Zealand going to be treated by Columbia?

I know that the plan is to give full voting rights to the people of the Caribbean. But so far it seems that African descendants are being slowly included in Colombian national identity.

It doesn’t look like so far that many indigenous groups are being included
In Columbian national identity. Those that are tend to be the ones that have somewhat assimilated to Colombian cultural norms

 

[happy neurodivergent papa]

The British influence in Brazil and south America (the Banda Oriental, AKA Uruguay, has been a British colony for thirty years) will be a recurring theme in future chapters and future books.

Will there be a political map to show how the political boundaries have changed in this timeline?

 

[Alt History Buff]

October, 1809

Rio de Janeiro

Stamford Raffles, British Consul to Rio de Janeiro, groaned internally as his colleagues droned on about the petty problems incurred from their own Consulates throughout the Portuguese colony of Brazil.

And this was MY DAMN IDEA! Raffles thought incredulously. What was I thinking?!

Though still only “spring” in Rio de Janeiro, the stifling heat generated among the largely unwashed British bodies forced the Consul to open a window to the street below where the wafting stench of refuse suddenly contested with squalid flesh. It was difficult to gage which was worse. After the latest Bleeding Death outbreak, Rio de Janeiro implemented a system of fines for throwing rubbish onto the streets as well as limited garbage pickup services…but the system collapsed for lack of funding after the capture of the Portuguese Court.

“…and despite the fact that the local police of Salvador cannot possibly maintain order without British or British-funded auxiliaries,” George Chad, the British Consul to Bahia, was complaining, “they steadfastly refuse to accept our advice!”

As news of the shocking invasion of England and Ireland reached the southern hemisphere after a lag of several months, the suddenly isolated Consuls installed throughout the important cities and colonies of Brazil were left to their own devices, often seeking to expand British influence among Portuguese colonies hardly famous for good governance in the best of times. Most local governments collapsed, and the entire sprawling series of colonies may prove entirely vulnerable to Spanish or French attack.

For that matter, the Americans…or Columbians I guess they are called now…have conquered Guyana, Raffles thought. It is not impossible that our own nation’s former colonials might seek to carve out its own Empire here in the Americas South.

“Riots remain a daily occurrence,” Chad was still whining, “And British-owned businesses are common targets for looting.”

Though Britain had long been granted preferred access to the Portuguese Empire, only recently had the Foreign Office determined to formalize Consulates in the larger cities of Brazil. Formerly, Consuls were selected on an ad hoc basis, usually a locally based businessman of British origin. Now, ambitious young Britons in their twenties like Stamford Raffles, George Chad and others volunteered for duty in these remote outposts hoping to make a name for themselves. Like Raffles in Rio de Janeiro, the diplomats tended to be paired with a military officer like William Farquhar.

"We may reach the day in which we must assume responsibility over Salvador…in the interests of public safety,” John Conroy, Chad’s military counterpart in Salvador, nodded in support. “Without the active participation of my hundred British troops, whatever I can borrow from any Royal Navy vessels or British traders in port and among the Colonial Regulars we’ve been training and paying, I fear the entire colony of Bahia should collapse within a fortnight.”

Regaining his seat, slightly dizzy with the gagging aroma of stale sweat, Raffles nodded, “Then I am pleased to have called for this conclave if the situation in other Portuguese colonies are as dire as here in Rio de Janeiro.”

“What of this proposal to provide military support among ourselves?” Major William Howe de Lancey, the scion of a vanquished clan of American Loyalists, demanded. De Lancey commanded two hundred British regulars, fifty Royal Marines and three hundred Royal Navy sailors currently assigned to the city of Sao Paulo and its environs. The civilian Consul for Sao Paulo never arrived in 1808, leaving de Lancey with double duty. “I fear that unrest in Sao Paulo will continue for the near future despite British trade being the only thing keeping the local economy afloat.” Only thirty, the youthful officer was the elder among the gathered Consuls.

William Farquhar slammed his fist down upon the table, “The locals don’t even feign interest in governing themselves,” The Scot asserted, “If the Brazilians are unwilling to protect their shores from Spain and France, it is incumbent upon us at this table to formulate a plan to effect control over the whole of Brazil…before Spain or France or Columbia or God only knows who else does in our place…”

Pleased that the gathering finally circled around to the obvious, Raffles leaned in. “Now is the time for boldness, gentlemen. We need not affect control over the hinterlands, those hardly matter, at least in the short term. But absolute hegemony over the coasts will ensure we can control…and tax…all Brazilian trade while preventing any incursion by the enemy upon these shores.”

Leaning back in his chair, Raffles took the measure of his counterparts and proclaimed, “I suggest we bury this pretense of “helpful advisors” of these wretched shores and commence wielding REAL power!”

De Lancey nodded slowly, “The urban merchants will be with us, I am sure. Too much of the Brazilian economy is based upon British trade. As for the elites…”

“The country elites are in a tizzy over the Columbian practice of liberating slaves in the West Indies,” Chad smirked. “If we can assure the leading citizens that British protection will extend to maintaining this institution, I believe that the northern colonies like Bahia and her neighbors will at least remain passive as we take over what passes for local governance on these shores since the Viceroy expired.”

De Lancey shook his head, “The southern colonies like Sao Paulo and Minos Gerais are not so simply. Their economies are politics are much more diverse and complex…”

“But we cannot proceed without them!” Farquhar objected politely, though with force. The Captain had no desire to offend his nominal superior and the former colonial’s reputation for keeping Sao Paulo from overflowing into chaos by sheer force of personality. “Do not the mines and coffee plantations utilize slave labor?”

“Yes,” de Lancey conceded, “But not to the extent of the northern sugar plantations. Free labor is more common and there is no shortage of Portuguese patriotism. I fear any attempt at achieving ascendancy over these peoples…”

A long silence descended. It would be impossible to suppress a full-scale rebellion with the modest British forces at hand, even if one took for granted the fealty of the Brazilian regulars in British pay, something plainly in doubt.

Raffles, though, saw that he’d brought his fellows around. “I believe we are in agreement that Britain must assume political control over Brazil. The matter is how. I fully support my counterparts’ comments on building rapport with the urban merchants and rural plantation owners to form the base of a local alliance. However, I believe we must do more. The Catholic Church, though obviously unpopular in Britain, remains a vital political role in Brazil.”

Looking about, Raffles eyed his fellows and suggested, “Perhaps we may court the support of the local bishops, many of whom are concerned with the local republican affection for “Separation of Church and State”?”

Amused, Chad inquired, “You think Catholic priests will suppress local democratic leanings and ally with a protestant overlord?”

“To keep their own privileges intact?” Raffles nodded. “Of course!”

“Mmmm,” mumbled de Lancey, “I have my doubts about the church but I cannot see any manner of maintaining power in Sao Paulo without occasional military assistance from the other colonies. I am willing to follow your lead, Raffles. I seem to have little choice.”

“I as well,” Chad murmured. His military counterpart, John Conroy, nodded in support as did Farquhar.

“Very well, gentlemen,” Raffles grinned. “Though the odds may not favor our gamble, let us hope fate looks kindly upon us. I shall communicate with the Consuls not present…quietly, of course…and prepare for a total takeover of Brazilian government.”

 

[Alt History Buff]

October, 1809

Bombay

General David Ochterlony, having returned from Aden to the East India Company capital of Bombay less than twenty-four hours earlier, received a blunt summons to what was apparently the “new” Company headquarters down the street from Ochterlony’s residence. Exactly how the Directors managed to find funds to build a new “Administrative” Building was quite beyond the soldier. The British East India Company had been nominally bankrupt for two generations, its formal dissolution and probably annexation by the British Empire postponed only by political considerations in London.

With the Home Isles bafflingly under attack by the Corsican Ogre…well, Ochterlony wondered if the Directors (often the descendants of the leaders of the once-viable East India Company) believed the situation in England meant renewed self-determination and autonomy for the Company once more. Certainly, the governmental trustees nominally directing the Company from London had never willingly parted with funds for superfluous expenses like the sprawling behemoth bearing a Georgian edifice which somehow cropped up in the past ten months.

How did they do this in such a short period? Ochterlony marveled, taking in the structure. Bearing a fascia of local Indian marble and Georgian columns, the ten thousand or so square feet building stood upon a patch of vacant Bombay land long disputed between the Company Army (which wanted to utilize it for a barracks) and a developer who bid to expand the nearby bazaar into the prime real estate.

Apparently, the Directors took that decision into their own hands, Ochterlony smirked though his mirth soon evaporated as he wondered what the suddenly confident Directors might have in store for him now.

The past weeks proved a succession of euphoric moments. First, his mistress Bidar announced her pregnancy…and that she’d never considered abandoning him despite the desolation of Aden. Even better, Ochterlony’s Arabian exile concluded less than a month into his residence when a transport bound from Bombay arrived, requested the soldier’s return to the capital. Elated, Ochterlony packed his mistress upon the same vessel and fled east with the dying winds of the monsoon billowing the sails home.

The sounds, smells and frenetic activity of the Bombay Islands remained consistent from the day he’d first alighted upon these shores as a raw eighteen-year-old youth fresh from Boston in the days before the War of Columbian Independence. Finding the subcontinent fascinating, terrifying, baffling and intimidating, the diversity of culture, religion and language kept the young “gentleman-volunteer” enraptured for the past thirty years. Never once had the soldier seriously considered returning to Boston (now part of “Columbia”) or London. Even after the death of his beloved Bibi, Lila, and the departure of his four children with her to their adult lives, little prompted Ochterlony to embark upon the six-to-nine-month journey “home”.

Bombay was the place David Ochterlony hoped to breath his last under the bustling activity of the offshore islands…and be buried to await the resurrection.

His homecoming to Bombay featured a short reunion with his sole remaining child residing on the islands, his youngest daughter, and her merchant husband, before the awkward introduction of his pregnant mistress. Fortunately, both women proved adequately courteous, if guarded, around one another.

Bidar found the Commanding-General’s quarters adequate though Ochterlony knew it had nothing on the Sultan’s Palace of Zanzibar. With only two servants (the soldier seldom employed more than a few at a time, deeming superfluous servants an unnecessary expense and somewhat pretentious), Bidar assumed command of the house, leaving the soldier nothing better to do than review mounds of paperwork his subordinates completed in his absence. The soldier was considering invited his mistress for a walk through the bazaar when the “request” for the soldier’s presence arrived at his office.

Entering the new two-story “Headquarters” building, the soldier immediately recognized how the structure was constructed in such a short period of time. Unlike the outer edifice, the interior remained unfinished. The walls lacked paint, the floors remained unpolished and little to no semblance of further lay in evidence among the echoing labyrinth of vacant first floor rooms. The only artificial illumination lay along a cheap wooden desk manned by a junior functionary, presumably a greeter.

The youth looked up, his eyes momentarily widened and jumped to his feet, nearly knocking over the desk, lamp and all.

“General Ochterlony!”

“Yes, that is me, lad,” the soldier replied with a sigh, reminding himself patience was a virtue. “The Directors wished to speak to me…”

“Of course, sir!” the youth interrupted again. “Please follow me!”

The boy practically tripped over his own feet leading Ochterlony deeper into the building, much to the General’s amusement. The secretary…or clerk or whatever the youth may be…was no older and scarcely more mature than Ochterlony himself had been so many years ago upon alighting these shores.

I like to think I was more coordinated, at least! The aging soldier smirked.

Presently, the lad reached an ornate and aged wooden door pocketed with weather marks, no doubt cannibalized from some other location, and hesitantly knocked. A muffled response encouraged the clerk to enter and Ochterlony followed the youth into an expansive circular room encased in marble from floor to twenty-foot-high domed ceilings.

How the hell did they build this in less than a year?!


The five-man Director’s Council delegated by the British government to oversee the company in Bombay sat comfortably behind a semi-circular table. No doubt the intent was to force visitors to stand within this arc and face questions from left to right, an obvious intimidation tactic.

“General Ochterlony, thank you for joining us!” The thirtyish Charles Grant, the scion of another leader of the Director’s Council of the same name, rose to greet the soldiers with false familiarity and good cheer. Once bearing a trim figure, the past years had seen his waistline expand.

Seeing no reason to initiate an argument unnecessarily, Ochterlony nodded, “Mr. Grant, a pleasure as always. And Mr. Smith, Mr….” Ochterlony went on to recognize the other Council members.

Inquiries of his health, surprisingly broad questions regarding the conquest of Isle-de-France, Zanzibar, Mombasa and Aden, and of the general state of the Army. At no time was Ochterlony offered a chair. The soldier grew increasingly irritated by the transparent power games playing out before him by men twenty years his junior.

“…due to the shocking events at home,” Grant was explaining, “Naturally the Directors’ Council has been forced to accept the full responsibility over the East India Company. Fortunately, trade within Asia remains good in this times of uncertainty.”

“Your own conquests along Africa and Arabia, and the seizures of French and slaver property,” Grant added wryly. “Have been most helpful indeed to our ledgers.”

Already fatigued with the audience, Ochterlony replied, “I’m pleased, gentlemen.”

“And, as our prayers for Britain’s deliverance from the Corsican Ogre are repeated every night,” Grant continued. “We have been forced to take steps to preserve the Company in the face of this danger. We have determined to remove the Company from bankruptcy and place its ownership in the hands of men worthy of its trust whose means allow an investment of capital, much needed as we have identified numerous avenues to further increase Company influence throughout Asia and Africa.”

For a long moment, Ochterlony allowed those words to sink in.

“You…have assumed…ownership of the Company?” the Soldier repeated dimly.

Grant waved this off, “No exactly, General. As I said, the Company has been sold to various investors…yes, including myself and my colleagues…but this has been necessary to maintain the integrity of the Company without British support.”

“And you must be quite certain that no British…support…will be available anytime in the near future to make such a pronouncement without the King in Parliament’s approval.”

Grant, apparently the only Director inclined to speak such obvious treason, sadly shook his head, “Britain’s situation appears desperate. We must do what we have to so the Company may survive.”

“Naturally,” one of the other Directors finally inserted, “The contributions of yourself and other key officers has not been forgotten. The investors have agreed to provide ten percent of the newly chartered Company stock to high-ranking officers who have so greatly expanded the Company reach in the past year.”

Ah, I get a rope as well should the King emerge victorious over the French and take exception to this daring gambit. How convenient.

“And what do the hundreds of British regulars currently loaned out to the Company have to say about this, Mr. Grant?”

Grant frowned, no doubt considering his words, before plunging in, “Lacking any communication of substance with London, I don’t believe the handful of surviving regulars in Bombay are likely to raise any objections over economic policy of the Company. If they do…well, the survivors of the failed Java campaign, having lost so many officers already, are now scattered throughout the Company’s assets…and only being paid from our ledgers. We shall cross THAT bridge when we come to it.”

Daring, indeed. But Ochterlony’s thoughts raced. Now firmly in middle age, with few ties to Britain itself, the General’s children were now married off into the Maratha merchant aristocracy and well out of British reach. However, Ochterlony would have little to bequeath his mistress and unborn child should he die tomorrow. It was plain that the Directors feared that the soldier may militarily overthrow their leadership and sought to pay the General off.

Am I inclined to oblige?

Perhaps to Ochterlony’s surprise, the answer was yes. Lacking any inclination to return to Massachusetts or Britain, his own ties to the King were surprisingly loose.

He was being presented with an opportunity to guarantee his child’s future…

“Gentlemen, pray tell, you mentioned “seeking to expand Company influence throughout Asia and Africa”, what precisely does this mean?”

Grant grinned, realized the Directors had their man. “Well, General, you know of the failed invasion of Java. But, really, the true profit makers of the Dutch East Indies have long been the smaller, less populated spice islands of the south. We have been preparing an expedition to the Maluku Islands and seize control over the nutmeg, mace and clove production…as well as potentially offering a naval base for the China trade.”

Ochterlony remained silent as the Directors listed the resources painstakingly gathered for yet another strike at the Dutch East Indies, only occasionally offering a salient point or two.

The soldier marched heedlessly forward knowing that London would deem their actions tantamount to treason.

 

[Alt History Buff]

November 1809

Waters off Sao Paulo

Bearing a growing reputation for leadership, Captain William Brown served as effective Commodore for a trio of Columbian privateer vessels operating from Buenos Aires against largely unprotected British shipping along the coast of the Banda Oriental (effectively British South America) and the expansive British-controlled Portuguese Colony of Brazil). Over the course of several months, prize crews composed of hastily hired Spanish colonial sailors returned from the Rio Plata to Buenos Aires in command of over a dozen British merchant vessels, ships and cargo to be sold at auction by the prize courts.

William Brown was making both his backer, Consul to the Captaincy of Chile Joel Poinsett, and crews very, very wealthy. Fat merchantmen bearing holds of manufactured products from Britain or hides, wool, beeswax and other goods from the Banda Oriental were nice…but the latest conquest seemed likely to exceed many of the others combined.

Scouring the coasts of Brazil like a pack of wolves, the trio of privateers fell upon three merchant ships sailing unescorted north. At this region of the Atlantic, the natural currents actually ran south, often prompting ships bound for Europe to sail directly across to southern Africa and then northwards along the coast towards Europe.

However, the British vessels plainly intended to fight the currents directly north until passing Salvador at which point the waters once again prevailed in a northerly direction. This was rather dangerous as the course would force the British traders through the Columbian-infested West Indies and then along the Columbian coast itself, making the ships easy prey for privateers. Unfortunately for the captains of those vessels, the British failed to even reach Salvador before Brown’s flotilla fell upon them.

All three merchant ships were seized without a fight, the lightly armed civilian vessels (armed only with swivel guns on deck) unwilling to risk an engagement with twenty-four cannon. The bounty discovered by Brown and his crews included large quantities of iron mined from Minas Gerais as well as quantities of gold, diamonds, sapphires, bauxite, zinc and other rare materials. Also in abundance was coffee, hides, wool and even cheese.

As Commander, Brown’s take would be ten percent, this haul along making the Irishman a rich man. Unwilling to trust such a bounty to the prize crews alone, Brown ordered the Morning Glory’s Revenge and her sister ships to shadow the captured vessels back to Buenos Aires.

It would be a very merry Christmas indeed.

 

[Alt History Buff]

December, 1809

North of Birmingham

His hands clasped against the cold, Captain Cillian Welsh sighed as he came to the last picket manned by his men. Though a sergeant or lieutenant could have done the job just as well, Welsh preferred to know exactly what his men were enduring under the cold English night sky. Situated along a few hundred yards along a trail into the woods, the guards were to ensure no sharpshooters managed to reach the edge of the forest where the French Expeditionary Army currently rested in an open field.

The mild English winter he'd expected had devolved into one of the coldest in recent memory. Fortunately, his men still maintained their threadbare, but still functional, winter coats distributed the previous summer in France. Seeing their officer's arrival, the guards promptly jumped to their feet away from the fire they'd been huddling miserably around. After serving many years in the ranks, Welsh didn't begrudge the men for their efforts to stay warm.

Acknowledging their salutes, Welsh stated kindly, "As you were, boys. This is not a night to be away from the fire."

"However," he continued more sternly, "Do not let me catch you with your backs to the woods again. You remember what happened of Sergeant O'Toole and his men last week."

Bobbing their heads, the men assured the Irish officer that they had not. As the winter bore on, even simple guard duty was becoming hazardous. Previously accustomed to being fired upon only at the battlefield, now English militia skulked through the woods like angels of death, killing any unwary Frenchman or Irishman unwisely straying from his lines. Stories abounded of soldiers entering the woods to relieve themselves only to be found in a gruesome state hours later. O'Toole and his men provided an even more telling object lesson. Deciding to lighten their spirits while on patrol, the Irish soldiers drank themselves into a stupor. The following morning, they were found with their throats slit and their weapons purloined.

Welsh vowed that he would not allow his own men to meet such an end. With hordes of hate-filled civilians wandering the midlands clinging to life, Welsh's men were a target every hour of the day. As such, he routinely inspected the pickets. Given the lack of anything better to do, he'd even stood a few. The boredom of life in winter quarters never changed the world over.

Satisfied that the men had been properly chastened to be on guard, Welsh finally asked, "Any trouble tonight, men?"

"Nae, sir. A few children begging for food. We told them to be on their way, that there was none here for them," Replied one.

"Far too true," Responded Welsh sadly.

Seeing all in order, Welsh bid the men to stay warm and returned to the rickety house he shared with a half dozen officers. As he walked past the fires and noise endemic to any military encampment the world over, Welsh thought about those English who were to survive this war. Would the hatred forged in this invasion remain in the English character for generations much as the conquest of Ireland was permanently etched on the Irish soul? How long would their desire for revenge outlast the war, regardless of outcome?

These thoughts plagued Welsh's mind as he steered around the snoring forms of his brother officers and made ready his own bed. He rather doubted he would sleep easily. Winter brought a brief reprieve from the fury of Great Britain's armies but the crushing defeat reported along the Channel ensured the Emperor was unlikely to provide any provisions or reinforcements in quantity.

The French Expeditionary Army was cut off.

 

[Alt History Buff]

December 1809

Paris

“What do you mean “they refuse”?” Emperor Napoleon I bellowed, outraged that anyone may defy his imperious commands. He jumped to his feet, pushing back the chair from behind his desk. Naturally, his Foreign Minister rose as well. One could hardly remained seated while one’s Emperor stood. “If the King of Denmark fails to…”

Irritation fueling his boldness, Tallyrand interrupted the Emperor, calmly replying, “Shall we consolidate what is left of the French, Spanish and Dutch fleets to attack Denmark? Would that not only force the King into the arms of Great Britain but risk the remainder of the League of Armed Neutrality into the enemy camp?”

“And really, Emperor,” the diplomat added, “Would not the French force assembled to crush the Danes be better used against the British?”

Face reddened to the color of a particularly truculent lobster, the Emperor struggled to find his tongue so Tallyrand, already committed, ploughed ahead.

“Though military matters are not my forte, sir, may I point out that the nation of shopkeepers to the north are currently suffering from a pronounced dearth of trade. At least a million merchants and laborers are likely unemployed, the banking and great trading houses of London are destroyed along with their stock market, the vital harvest of the Midlands has failed, no doubt bringing famine,” Tallyrand ticked off another series of truths upon his fingers, “Hundreds of thousands if not millions of Englishmen, women and children are homeless, hungry and weakened. Famine brings disease, further withering the British state.”

Seeing the Emperor finally paying some semblance of attention to his words, Tallyrand went in for the kill, “Recall, sir, that Britain’s greatest suppliers of grain and other foodstuffs has traditionally been Ireland, Columbia and France itself. At war with all three of these nations, it is unlikely that the mass hunger of the countryside can be avoided by His Majesty King George IV. Even should Davout’s entire force surrender or retreat to the Continent tomorrow, it would take at least a generation before Britain could recover economically, militarily and, dare I say, demographically. There will be no more underwriting the war efforts of France’s enemies. The capacity of Britain to resist France in any way has been drastically reduced.”

“Can we not call that a victory?” Tallyrand opined.

Unsurprisingly, the coarse Corsican shook his head, “NO! An example must be made!”

“Then may I propose an alternate strategy to forcing the Admiralty into a battle they universally believe we shall lose?”

Upon the defeat and death of Admiral Denis Decres in the third Battle of the Channel, the allied navies were decimated. Morale among the survivors to limp their way into the northern ports plummeted, few of the ships were deemed seaworthy much less ready for battle and desertion proved rife, particularly among the Dutch. The Spanish were already threatening to simply sail home regardless of French threats. Though the British suffered mightily in that battle as well, there was no question which side controlled the English Channel. The hard-conquered southeastern English ports now saw their French occupiers besieged by the battered Royal Navy.

“And what do you propose, Tallyrand?” The Emperor demanded with more than a trace of sarcasm. The Foreign Minister wisely ignored this.

“If breaking the Royal Navy hold on the Channel is impossible, I fear Davout cannot achieve victory in the long run,” The diplomat nodded, more to himself than to the Emperor. “In such a case, I propose doing anything possible to extend the conflict. Every year, month, week and day in which our army occupies British soil further runs the enemy’s economy into the ground, prevents a bountiful and necessary harvest, precludes taking even the first steps in rebuilding their economy and military and extends the tide of hunger and disease further into the British population.”

Napoleon frowned, “But large-scale reinforcement is impossible…”

“I’m not talking about reinforcement, sir,” Tallyrand assured him. “But surely supplying Davout and his forces with…say…powder, shot and shell…would keep his army in the field for an extended period. Every week of contending with an invading army may postpose the British recovery another year…or two years… or three. You get the idea, sir.”

For once, the Emperor seemed inclined to listen to reason.

“And if Davout and his men,” the Corsican continued in his ghastly command of French, “were to level every home, field, bridge, canal, shop… as he retreats…right down to the last outhouse….” Napoleon plopped back down into his chair, a grin slowly crossing his features.

Gratified, the Foreign Minister concluded, “The British capacity to fight in the future will be reduced correspondingly!”

“Hmmmm,” Napoleon grunted. “I was planning on relieving Davout for his failure to take Manchester…but this would put his skills to good use, I suppose, in atoning for his crimes.” With the Emperor, “failure” and “crimes” were synonymous concepts. “Though I hate the idea of losing an entire army, I suppose if their presence savages Britain’s capacity to fight for a decade or two…it will be a good trade.”

Only Napoleon I could so coldly write off over a hundred thousand loyal men. But at least the Foreign Minister prevented the Emperor from compounding his error by forcing friends and neutrals into alliance against France. Now dominating western and central Europe, and the Czar’s attention turning towards the Near East, no conceivable coalition could be formed by insidious British diplomats. France would reign supreme.

 

[Alt History Buff]

January 1810

St. Lucia

Private James King desperately wished his Lieutenant weren't so damnably strict in the dress codes. While the woolen blue coats of the 1st West Florida had not bothered the soldiers during their ascent over the pleasingly cool mountainous terrain blocking Saint Lucia's administrative and military stronghold of Castries from the Columbian landing point, the descent into the lowlands heralded a return to the hideous heat of the Caribbean Island. The pleasant stroll away from the hated seasickness endemic to most landsmen on the transports became a forced march, the awesome beauty of the surroundings lost in the hardships of the soldier's labors.

Though a few enemy scouts were sighted at the peripheries of the forests, not a single musket fired in response to the intrusion. Unopposed, the Columbian forces marched overland and invested the “walls” of the tiny town of Soufriere. Hardly a metropolis, this western-facing town represented arguably the last holdout of British power on St. Lucia. Whatever support King George IV possessed on the remote island hid among the inland mountains, hunted through the verdant forests like runaway slaves.

General Harrison, in command of the expedition, dispatched a messenger to the British garrison under a flag of truce. A short, thin British Colonel whose immaculate uniform put the Virginian officer's unkempt appearance to shame, appeared under his own flag and marched halfway between the two forces to await his opposite number. A short conversation ensued after which the two men saluted and withdrew to their lines.

Unlike Guadeloupe and Martinique, King was not selected to stand honor guard but a couple of soldiers from the 2nd Georgia related the news spreading like wildfire throughout the two regiments.

One of the men, a squinty-eyed portly fellow of the 3rd Massachusetts Regiment recently arrived in the West Indies, spoke in his almost incomprehensible eastern accent, "See, the General says to the Englishman, a tiny little fellow, mind you. He says that the British fleet has been defeated an' the harbor is blockaded. He says that the town is besieged by superior forces from land too now."

Pulling out a pair of scratched spectacles, he continued, "He's real polite and all and says that there is no point resisting. He'd give the Brits all the provisions they need and treat 'em all real well. Then the other fellow, the Brit, he says, polite as can be, mind you, I usually find that the Brits are a pretty snide bunch."

Affecting a British accent, the private continued, "He says, "Thank you, sir, but I must decline. It is impossible to give up such an important post to an enemy. We shall fight to the last man rather than surrender."

"Sure as day, his common soldier men may dispute that, eh?" inserted the other Massachusetts-man facetiously. He was a little rat-faced youth of about eighteen.

"Right, too right," said the other, "Anyway, the General try to tell him it is hopeless, yes? But the Brit don't listen at all. Then the General tells him of those two islands of Guadeloupe and Martinique and the sufferings of the people. The Englishmen just say that, unlike those other places, Saint Lucia is not just slaves and prisoners waiting to rebel on them big plantations. Sure, they are here but that's not all there is. There's all sort of people here. Small farmers who came freely, free negros and lots of those Indian laborers, the ones from all the way in India, not the ones in the West."

"Seem kind of strange, though, to sail all around the world just to cut cane and raise pigs," added the youth.

"He sure is right, though," Inserted Louis White, the negro towering over the shorter New Englanders. "I sees all kinds of folk hereabouts. Poor white men on little farms, those Asians, even some of free negros that don't want to talk to us. Not like Guadeloupe or Martinique at all."

"Still, the prisoners and slaves do seem real interested in enlisting. Back in Guadeloupe, when the Brits were seeing us invade, they kill a lot of the prisoners and some of the slaves to keep 'em from helping us." Said the rat-faced youth. "They all seemed to know that and many headed for the hills once word spread of us coming. Soon as they see the 3rd Massachusetts marching by, they come out of the woods and volunteered to fight."

"Course they did. Why wouldn't they?" Interjected King for the first time. "Hard thing is, many of the farmers took their guns and headed for the hills too. The rebels and loyal Brits have been killing each other up there."

The older New Englander, leaning on his rifle as sweat beaded down his corpulent frame, concluded, "What I mean is we don't have most of the island on our side this time. Maybe the Brits think they can hold on to this…Soufriere. Or that the British Navy is on its way."

Nodding, King conceded the point, "That town is much better fortified than the others my regiment took. They have the high ground, at least the uptown section. Even though our fleet drove off those five Brit ships, the harbor cannons kept our ships at bay. If they have lots of volunteers to support them…."

"Might get bloody," the New Englander finished, "Besides, ma regiment is on swampy ground. We did that in Guyana and lost a third of our army in two months to Malaria an' the Bleeding Death. Mayhap that is what the Brits are counting on. Wait for the enemy to sicken and die. Been done a lot around these islands."

No one had a response to that. Instead, the assortment of soldiers, drawn the width and breadth of Columbia stared uneasily west towards the town of Soufriere, St. Lucia.