Arrogance and Empire - An Alternate 7 Years' War Novel - Part 9 - 1821-1836

[Alt History Buff]

February 1828

Philadelphia

Reclining into his chair (stiff and rigid, much like its owner), President John Quincy Adams of the United States of Columbia inquired, “Are we sure this time?”

Secretary of State Henry Clay grinned, “Though I confess that we’ve been fooled before, yes, King Louis XVI has indeed died. Two separate ships arrived from Acadia bearing the same news.”

“Hmmm,” Adams murmured. “I suppose we should send a delegation to the funeral. Would they arrive in time?”

Clay nodded, “If we were to leave now. May I assume I shall lead the mission?”

“If you insist,” the chronically morose President replied. “As long as you don’t expect me to sail as well. I have too much to do here.”

Though allies, Adams and Clay were not friends. As they agreed on most matters concerning the nation, an alliance had swiftly been formed with Clay assuming he would succeed Adams into the Presidential office in 1830. Indeed, the Massachusetts man’s glacial personality turned downright sullen over the two and a half years of his Presidency. Though hard-working, intelligent, and honest, it was clear that John Quincy Adams only threw his hat into the election ring at the behest of his late father, John Adams, whose personality tended to overwhelm anyone with the misfortune of proximity to the man. His father dying shortly after the younger Adams assumed the nation’s highest office, John Quincy Adams apparently was intent to serving out the five year term to the best of his ability…and then retiring from public service.

That served Clay more than adequately.

“I fear that our foreign relations will suffer for your absence, Clay,” The President added in an unusual display of praise for his colleague and nominal subordinate. “With Burr and Jackson continuing their manic march to California, the Viceroyalty of North and South Carolina complaining of their slaves fleeing to Columbian freedom and the ongoing negotiations with China…well, I suppose it can’t be helped. Louis XVI is still viewed as a national hero for assisting in our independence from Britain. He must be properly honored.”

Adams then caught Clay’s eye, “And if any of the Bourbonists wish to debate our actions in seizing those Royalist possessions held during the late war by Britain…well, don’t get drawn into it.”

Hiding a smirk, the Secretary of State assured the President, “I would not dream of it, sir.”

After discussing a few other matters of common interest – the development of new harbors, the recent Supreme Court decision in favor of the Iroquois on their land claims and the proposed sale of the new Connecticut-class steamships to China – Clay took his leave. The coming voyage from Philadelphia to Acadia would be unpleasant. Fortunately, the Acadian harbors remained ice-free. A few days of seasickness was well worth witnessing Louis XVI put in the ground next to his wife and the formal crowning of the thirty-nine-year-old Louis XVII.

He just thanked God he wouldn’t have to share the voyage with Adams.

 

[Alt History Buff]

February, 1828

Rio de Janeiro

At the head of a parade marching through the streets of Rio de Janeiro, General John Conroy of the British Army and Governor of Bahia, passed his counterpart, Governor Stamford Raffles of Rio de Janeiro, and arrogantly cocked his cap towards his rival. For over a decade and a half of British domination of Portuguese Brazil, the two governors attempted to outdo one another in pacifying their respective Provinces, often critiquing one another in dispatches to London. As the Republic of Sao Paulo’s threat to Rio de Janeiro intensified, Conroy successfully lobbied the Secretary of War and Colonial Affairs for permission to gather British forces spread across Brazil into a single army…under his command, of course…to invade and reconquer Sao Paulo.

Raffles, thoroughly outmaneuvered, was forced to cede control over the British forces of Rio de Janeiro to Conroy and, as the Secretary of War put it, “grant General Conroy your undivided support for his campaign”. Naturally, Conroy stripped Rio de Janeiro clean of British Regiments and loyal militia for the coming battle.

To thoroughly rub salt in Raffles’ wound, Conroy even arranged this “morale-boosting” procession through the streets of Rio de Janeiro to inspire awe among the locals against the panoramic backdrop of Sugarloaf Mountain, still verdant green from the subtropical winter. The temperature made the pageant tolerable to the British soldiers and Portuguese crowds, some cheering…others staring silently through inscrutable eyes.

In total, the “Protectorate” government of Brazil was able to summon seven thousand British regulars (from ten infantry regiments and two of dragoons, plus elements of the 1st and 2nd Artillery Regiments), two thousand Colonial Regulars (of the 4th, 7th and 10th Colonial regiments) recruited from the four hundred thousand or so British migrants to Brazil over the past three decades and a further four thousand pro-British Portuguese militia units.

All told, this was the largest concentration of European soldiers in Brazilian, perhaps all of South American, history.

“And that jackass gets to lead them.”

For a long moment, Raffles thought he’d spoken aloud. Instead, the Governor turned his head and realized his comrade, Colonel Farquhar, with whom he’d dedicated a decade and a half to slowly easing Rio de Janeiro into status as a British Colony, mirrored his own thoughts.

“I’m not happy either,” Raffles returned his attention back to the passing cavalcade. “But the word came down from on high. Conroy managed to convince Castlereagh…and now so much of Britain’s might marches with him to Sao Paolo.”

Surrounded by local dignitaries, both British and Portuguese colonial, the Governor spoke quietly. Now he leaned in and inquired, “Is this a fool’s errand?”

The Scottish soldier’s face remained frozen as he narrowed his eyes, “I’m…not sure. He may brush aside the Sao Paulan forces and occupy the city…or not. If he succeeds, the rebel forces in the countryside will starve for lack of military supplies. If he fails…this may be the last time we see this army.”

Raffles grunted, accepting the answer at face value.

Britain’s domination of Brazil may indeed rest upon the shoulders of the jealous, vainglorious and scheming John Conroy.

God help the Empire.

 

[Alt History Buff]

March, 1828

Port Royal, Acadia

Secretary of State Henry Clay managed to suppress his irritation over failing to receive an invitation to the coronation of King Louis XVII of France (no formal concession of his rights to the Bonapartist regimen in Paris had ever…or WOULD ever…be made). In truth, the Columbian diplomat understood. The tiny Cathedral of Port Royal comfortably held only two hundred souls…and the French Royal Family alone accounted for a quarter of this not to mention the bulk of the Acadian Assembly, government officials and the ceremonial personnel. The best most Foreign dignitaries like Clay could expect was a select position outside the church as the newly crowned King emerged to be greeted by his people.

That the British Ambassador merited a rare seat inside made sense given the Kingdom of Great Britain was solely responsible for the Bourbonist regime’s safety in Acadia where Louis XVI’s remaining patrimony allowed the family to assert its claims across the sea. Indeed, the past war between Columbia and Britain saw the United States conquer more French Bourbonist possessions in the West Indies than British. That these possessions were defacto administered by Britain as well as protected meant little to the late King Louis XVI. Now down to governing two hundred thousand Acadias and, only with British assistance, Saint Domingue, Louis XVII’s inheritance was paltry indeed. Upon taking up residence, Louis XVI had been forced to cede far more power to the local Legislature than they’d ever considered granted to the Parliament of France.

Of course, the Acadian Legislature never threw the Bourbonists out either, Clay grinned as the elated ground shouted in unison upon Louis XVII’s exit from the church. There might be a lesson in there somewhere.

After several minutes of handwaving and the like, King Louis XVII and his wife, Maria Adelaide of Savoy (yet another exiled mediatized former Kingdom) would enter the Royal Coach and proceed through the small capital city of Acadia drawn by a pair of white draft horses (actually borrowed for the occasion from a wealthy citizen). From then on, the Royal Couple would attend a series of receptions over the afternoon and evening intended for a broader audience than could be contained by the Cathedral of Port Royal.

For his own part, Secretary Clay considered the odd travels of the House of Savoy’s descendants. Somehow all the daughters of Victor Emmanuel I married well despite having been evicted from their homeland of Savoy (absorbed by the Empire of France and Kingdom of Italy) and Sardinia (consumed by Spain). The eldest daughter, Maria Beatrice, was invited by the Irish to ascend to the long-vacant throne by virtue of her rights as the Stuart Claimant. King George IV must have been apoplectic at that! Clay smirked, watching the carriage rumble over the cobblestoned streets of Port Royal towards the “Palace” intended to host the series of gatherings that afternoon.

Two of the younger daughters of the House of Savoy married into cadet branches of the Spanish House of Bourbon while another married the Emperor of Austria. Clay was surprised that Emperor’s Joseph I and Napoleon II of France would make no protest to the wedding of their itinerant enemies (the exiled Houses of French Bourbons and Savoy and the House of Habsburg and Savoy) and with a nominal ally (Spain). Apparently, the House of Bonaparte didn’t give a damn who their friends OR enemies married.

Given the crowd milling about, Clay hadn’t bothered with his own carriage, instead opting to walk the half mile from the Cathedral to the King’s Palace (the Secretary of State was lodging with the Columbian Ambassador nearby). Most of the assembled gawkers followed the King’s route though town but Clay turned towards a narrow path through the local public park (the “Parque Royale”, naturally) only to be tapped on the shoulder.

An elegantly dressed Frenchmen, easily identifiable by his breeches and gaiters long out of fashion in Columbia, bowed and inquired, “Monsieur Clay, it is most pleasant to meet you again!”

For a long moment, the Secretary of State was befuddled. Finally, Clay slapped himself on his forehead. “Your Grace, please accept my apologies. I did not recognize you at first.”

The duc de Broglie, whose father served as an officer int eh Columbian Revolutionary War on Rochambeau’s staff, served as King Louis XVI’s Minister of Foreign and Colonial Affairs for the past four years. The handsome forty-something politician represented the Liberal wing of the Acadian Government. Thus far, Louis XVII expressed no interest in dissolving the coalition government and de Broglie remained in power. Twice in the past three years, de Broglie visited Philadelphia and dined with President Adams and his staff.

Laughing, the handsome Frenchman shook his head and replied in capable if heavily accented English, “Not at all, Mr. Clay. You must be overwhelmed by all the new faces. I see you plan to amble across the park to the Palace. Might I join you?”

“Of course, sir!”

At that, the diplomats passed a few minutes in companionable silence, only occasionally interrupted by an offhand comment regarding the barren park only recently starting to bud the first shoots of spring in this northern Kingdom. Clay and Broglie made an odd part: the backwoods country lawyer and the exalted French aristocrat exiled across an ocean. Slowly, the conversation expanded into more sensitive subjects. Broglie inquired as to Columbia’s reaction to the continuing agitation of former President Burr’s nascent Republic of Tejas. With the most bland and controlled of responses, Clay easily deflected Broglie’s probes with aplomb without given a firm answer.

Now on the offensive, Clay casually inquired, “And what is His Majesty’s reaction to the rebellion in Saint Domingue?”

Once again, the slaves of Saint Domingue, still the most profitable colony in the Caribbean, rose up. An odd melting pot of cultures, the colony representing the western third of Hispaniola was comprised of an astoundingly complex system of racial hierarchy comprising the French and British free planters on top followed by, in order, the free Black and Mulatto landholders, the Roma evicted generations prior from western Europe as “indentures”, the Maghreb prisoners (mostly women and children forced to marry into French or African Christian households) shipped to the Americas (also as “indentures”) in the clearing of the Barbary Coast of its Moorish Muslim population, and, finally (and inevitably), the sub-Saharan African slaves. These latter once comprised the overwhelming majority of the population. However, harsh treatment, the severance of the African slave trade more than a half century past, and the influx of these other peoples, reduced the black Africans to barely more than a quarter of the population of Saint Domingue.

“Very concerned, of course,” Broglie replied with equanimity. “Though some within Port Royal welcome the resistance as it puts slavery at the forefront of the public attention. I have pressed the late King to select a date to manumit the slaves, perhaps over a ten-year period of some sort of apprenticeship. However, the King feared this would result in the loss of his claims to the colony. I believe Louis XVII may prove more sympathetic…though, of course, he will have to consult with his brother, George IV, as Great Britain has certain interests in the region as well.”

That puts a rather fine point upon the matter, Clay fought to suppress a laugh. In all practicality, Great Britain had governed Saint Domingue for three decades. Without British naval protection, military support, investment and merchant marine, the island would have fallen to France or Spain…or the United States…long ago.

“I look forward to the day when that institution is wiped from the earth,” Clay added diplomatically, recalling his own father owned two slaves in the Secretary of State’s youth in Virginia. By the time Clay reached his majority, Virginia had already manumitted their own bonded Africans. Indeed, for many years, Clay himself supported the African Colony.

Both gentlemen tipped their hats at a gaggle of ladies pausing to sit upon a park bench. Fortunately, the March afternoon proved fair, the snow long since melted and no heavy breeze emerged from the Atlantic to chill the bones. Clay even felt a trickle of sweat down his back under his heavy coat. The Virginian come Transylvanian loathed northern winters and Acadia was as far north as he ever wished to endure. In hindsight, his decision to decline an Ambassadorship to the Empire of Russia in 1814. He probably would have been found frozen in his bed by his housekeeper. Fortunately, dear Lucretia wisely talked Clay out of accepting this “career-making” opportunity and instead remain in the relative comfort of Congress in Philadelphia.

“I must agree, Mr. Clay,” Broglie replied amicably.

Presently, the pair arrived at the entrance of the modest Acadian “Palace” where a banquet intended for foreign dignitaries was planned in an effort to make up for their exclusion from the coronation itself. Providing their credentials to an ancient Page of the Bourbon family, Clay and Broglie were ushered into an ornate dining room so crammed with tables and chairs that it would prove difficult for the King’s servants to navigate the aisles to deliver the meal.

In short order, Broglie thanked Clay for the conversation and excused himself to join the King, now consulting with his government somewhere within the Palace walls. Clay offered a polite reply and the two parted, leaving Clay to take in the hall. Portraits of living and deceased Bourbon relations blanketed the walls, though Clay could tell most were reproductions. Over the first decade or so of the Bourbon exile, Louis XVI quietly sold most of the Royal Art Collection and Crown Jewels to Columbian and European buyers in order to sustain the court. Only at length did the King and Queen learn to subsist upon the modest allowance provided by the government of Acadia and revenues from Saint Domingue’s sugar and coffee exports (further reinforcing the deep interest the Bourbon King had in that profitable island).

Still, Court Etiquette remained in force in Port Royal…just on a far, far smaller scale than Versailles. For his own part, Clay wondered if this was the fate of the House of Bourbon despite their steadfast refusal to abdicate any rights to the French throne. One never knew if the House of Bonaparte would initiate a 2nd French Revolution in the future and the Paris Parliament might recall Louis XVII from Port Royal.

Even George IV claimed the French throne in his Coronation speech despite the English having been evicted from France almost four centuries past after the Hundred Years War. He wondered if a British monarchs would continue that tradition after another four centuries.

Amused by the antics of European Royalty, Clay sought out his seat among the Columbian delegation. After a few more days of merriment, the Secretary of State would set sail for home where problems of his own nation always abounded.

 

[Alt History Buff]

March 1828

Port Burr, North Zealand

Brigadier General Philip Hamilton, commanding officer of the modest Columbian garrison on North Zealand, stumbled back into his office after yet another bloody expedition into the hinterlands, this time a two-week traipse through the southern mountains with the intent of intimidating local tribes stealing sheep or attacking isolated farmsteads. Quite certain his journey hadn’t intimidated anyone, the Columbian officer arrived dejected back into Port Burr after several attacks upon his soldiers by resentful tribes. For years, the Columbian officer expended great effort to keep the peace with the Maori, often signing alliances with certain tribes – smaller, less warlike or perhaps have suffered greater incidence of disease than their neighbors – begged for protection as the disease-inspired unrest resulted in an unfortunate explosion of inter-tribal conflict. While adding to his cares, this also provided a number of allied warriors well accustomed to regional politics.

With these tribal warriors attached to the Columbian government (usually utilizing Maunga, his faithful friend and translator), Hamilton kept the worse of the disorders to a minimum. But it was always, always necessary to remind the Maori of the Columbian Army’s power…even at this remove from North America. Still, many of his allies remained resentful at the General’s continued refusal to sell muskets and rifles to the natives, even those proven to be friendly.

Followed by Maunga, the strapping Maori guide, Hamilton collapsed into the mahogany chair gifted to the soldier by his father upon the younger man’s departure for Australasia. An adjutant, learning of Hamilton’s return, arrived with a docket of correspondence and departed after getting a whiff of Hamilton and Maunga’s stench. Only George, the General’s pet macaw, seemed grateful to see him. While Hamilton knew his staff fed the animal and cleaned out his nest, most preferred to keep out of biting distance. Hamilton found George endearing.

“Do you think the Ngapuhi and Ngati Porou will abide by their agreements?” He inquired as Maunga pulled a kernel of corn from his satchel to feed the bird. The former tribe dominated the northern peninsula of North Zealand and the former the eastern point.

Maunga thought for a long moment before replying, “No…as they know Columbia is unlikely to do the same. Too many land-hungry whites arrive with their sheep.”

Hamilton sighed, quickly reviewing his correspondence. “Hmmm, it appears that Columbia has reached an agreement with the chiefs of Tahiti and Oahu to assume a protectorate.”

“Will this…protectorate…eventually start taking land too?” the Maori asked indifferently. He couldn’t give a damn what happened in such impossibly distant places.

After a long moment, the soldier conceded, “Probably. While the harbors are most important, I understand that the Oahu and other islands may make excellent farmsteads…oh, I don’t know, I really don’t.”

Opening another letter, this one dated four months prior and delivered from a ship returning from the China Expedition, Hamilton noted, “It appears that the Emperor has agreed to grant a measure of trade to Columbia…provided we follow through upon our promises of ships and instructors to build their own steamships and weapons.”

“Will Columbia seek to conquer China?”

“No,” the exhausted soldier replied, “It is too big. Think of a thousand tribes of Maori…all united under one chief.”

Maunga’s eyes bulged as he imagined such a thing. “The Maori would conquer the world.”

“That they would, Maunga, that they would.”

But Hamilton’s mind did not drift to the Maori. Instead, he considered the vast population of China gaining access to modern forging techniques, steam-propulsion secrets, printing presses and other wonders of the modern age by European, Maratha and Columbian diplomats eager to feed off of China’s economic scraps. By what he read, the Emperor was NOT inclined to allow foreigners to leapfrog his nation’s defensive capability as in the past. Schools were being opened the length of China solely to absorb western wisdom and practices deemed worthy by the Mandarin.

He recalled an anecdote relating to Napoleon I. The exalted General once claimed, “Let China sleep…for when she wakes, she may shake the world.”

The soldier wondered if the rest of the world may, someday, regret slapping Cathay from its slumber.

 

[Alt History Buff]

March, 1828

Paris

“…and so, Your Majesty,” the aging soldier rambled, “it is my opinion that several tactical errors were made on the part of your esteemed uncle Napoleon I’s invasion of Great Britain which led to the failure of the expedition…”

“And I disagree!” Grumbled another. Throughout Emperor Napoleon II’s conference room, a series of maps were laid out upon tables depicting southern England and Northern France. “General Davout was forced to halt his invasion several times for lack of material: horses for his cavalry, heavy artillery, munitions, and many other necessities. Had the Navy supported his campaign logistically, then the British would have been crushed within three months…”

“Sir, I protest!” An Admiral who’d served in the French Navy as a frigate Captain during the invasion objected to this characterization. “You act as if crossing the Channel is as easy as rowing across the pond behind your Chateau in a rowboat! In truth, the winds are treacherous even WITHOUT the Royal Navy defending southern England! Often weeks, even MONTHS, go by without the proper conditions to sail…and when I say “proper conditions”, I do not refer to the miserable, unseaworthy barges built for the purpose but got so many good sailors and soldiers killed!”

Napoleon II paced about his conference room, assimilating the contrasting opinions. “So, Admiral, you say the key failure of the French Navy, even taking into account the good fortune of several dozen ships being lured away to Columbia, to the West Indies and even into the North Sea, was an incapacity to sail in poorly constructed ships in the slightest adverse weather?”

With a sigh of relief, the sailor leaned back and glared at the soldiers in triumph. “Yes, sir! The ships were too flimsy to sail in anything but ideal conditions, the cargo holds too small and poorly laid out for ease of transferring heavy artillery, draft horses and the like. Weeks, even months, were wasted during our own tenuous control over the Channel. Often, by the time the supply ships were ready to sail, light and agile British Frigates and Sloops would fall upon them, too quick for our heavy ships to catch.”

“So…what you are saying, Admiral,” the handsome young Emperor inquired slowly, “is that…should another war with Britain be waged…the key to supporting the army is not necessarily controlling the Channel for long periods, but transferring supplies in vessels capable of sailing regardless of weather and specifically designed to load and unload heavy equipment which often takes days or weeks of arduous work at the ports?”

“Yes, sir, I would characterize that as correct. Had the French Navy possessed, for example, a dozen of these huge new Brunel-class iron-hulled propeller-driven steamships, we would have been able to sail under all but the worst conditions, deliver more supplies in one voyage than a dozen of those cursed Dutch-built flat-bottomed boats…and increased the frequency by at least a factor of ten as those massive holds are designed for ease of loading and unloading even the most cumbersome of equipment. And without having to worry about weather, the ships could sail…of, I’d say, nine days out of ten.”

“And because, the ships sail so quickly,” the Emperor elaborated, “and in virtually all weather, they would be safe from all but the most modern of British Warships as they could simply steam past them?”

The Admiral frowned, uncertain how to respond to such a pointed question. But one did not refuse an Emperor, “Yes, sir, though they would naturally be vulnerable at port so the Channel must be generally under our control.”

“Hmm,” Napoleon II murmured, scribbling some numbers upon a parchment. “So, if I have this right, even in times of French domination of the Channel, the conditions for sailing prevented our transports and cargo ships from raising anchor…roughly eighty percent of the time. And when they arrived, these barges often took days to unload equipment. With modern steamships like the Brunel-class, loading and unloading of goods would take a tenth of the time given the elder Mr. Brunel’s remarkable design innovations in improving efficiency with larger cargo holds, standardized crates sizes and gantries permanently attached to ships.”

“And, because,” he continued, catching the sailor’s eye, “the vessels take a fraction of the time to sail back and forth to southern England…and would be capable of sailing under all but the worst of circumstances, it may be reasonable…with practice…for a ship to be loaded in two days, sail to England in one, unload in two days and return to France in one more to be reloaded. That means each vessel may carry…1300 tons back and forth in less than a week?”

“Roughly, sir,” the sailor replied, scowling once more upon the Generals denigrating his Service’s performance in the past war. “Of course, only a few of the Brunel-class cargo ships are scheduled to be completed this year…”

“Very well, Admiral, I understand your point,” Napoleon II interrupted. “Now…what about horses and other…difficult…cargo? Is there a solution to that problem?”

“Yes, sir,” the sailor straightened in pride, pleased once again to have a ready answer. “Our shipwrights have arrived upon a novel solution to the age-old problem of shipping horses and other animals across water. It involves modifying a Brunel-class moderately to include protective measures but, more importantly, the handlers will have multiple options of driving the beasts from the ship to the docks or even to shore via some remarkably clever alterations. Of course, the most important measure of safely transporting horses is the considerably more stable glide through the water of these mammoth new ships. Experienced sailors state the rocking of the vessels even in storms is smoother than a sailing ship on the most placid day!”

“Remarkable, indeed, Admiral.” At that Napoleon II’s gaze returned to his Generals and commanded, “While I loathe the prospect of war, we must be prepared. I would like you, gentlemen, to prepare a plan to conquer Britain once and for all on the assumption of the navy…oh…being able to ship twenty thousand tons of war material, excluding men and horses, per week.”

“Per WEEK?” The Admiral and one of the Generals replied in comical unison.

“Yes, gentlemen….per WEEK. That will be all.”

At that, Napoleon II’s mind returned to other matters, including his proposed alliance to build a canal across the Russian-dominated Sinai. Assuming the Czar…or the trio of sons actually running Russia while Paul drools and mumbles under the care of his retainers…continues along the path of instigating conflict in the Caucasus, with Persia, with the Ottoman, in the Levant and with the Khedive, the Russians were unlikely to do anything to threaten his proposed economic union across Europe…or at least northern Europe.

The Dutch Republic, the Kingdom of Westphalia under Uncle Jerome, Baden, Wurttemberg, Hanover, Saxony, Poland under King Jozev II, Bohemia under Uncle Eugene and possibly even Brandenburg and Hungary have expressed interest in a custom’s union led by the Empire of France and Kingdom of Italy. If it worked…well, the Bourbons of Spain-Naples and the Habsburgs of Austria-Bavaria would be forced to either join the union as junior partners or fall further and further behind economically.

Either was acceptable to the Emperor.

However, Great Britain, still seething with resentment over the savaging of Southern England and…perhaps to an even greater extent…the significant reduction of their influence over the Continent, would no doubt oppose such a concept as defacto economic warfare, forever binding Europe closer to France.

Uncle Napoleon nearly succeeded in reforming Europe prior to his death. Perhaps his nephew would succeed where my illustrious kinsman failed.

 

[Alt History Buff]

April, 1828

Amman

“You six men!” Newly promoted Captain Alexander Pushkin pointed towards a half dozen Russian soldiers sullenly resting under a barren tree. “Stop lounging and help these people with their baggage! Their wagon broke an axle. I expect you back here in twenty minutes!”

With a somewhat unmanly whimper, one complained, “Sir, why are we expected to help Jews…?” Fortunately, the man had enough sense to shut up and quickly went about his task without further resistance. Pushkin’s glare was enough.

The patriarch of the Coptic family (most of the previous migrants had been Jews but Copts had been assigned plots in Amman as well) expressed his gratitude, almost genuflecting, in his native Arabic. Egyptians may have their own alphabet, but they shared a common tongue with the Arabians…though obviously with some differences in dialect. Pushkin had an ear for language and swiftly learned enough to communicate. The Copt gathered up an old woman, probably his mother, upon his back and followed the soldiers along with his wife and children towards a series of stone homes hastily constructed by the army, gangs of prisoners and salaried workmen paid by the Czar over the past weeks to give the settlers some hope of proper establishment. Ancient streets were being leveled and wells dug.

The six soldiers collected the belongings of the Coptic family and carried them up the road towards the ancient town of Amman, apparently abandoned for two or three hundred years. But the area possessed had a few springs, received more rainfall than much of the southern Levant and could theoretically bear the weight of a reasonable sized town. Selected by engineers and surveyors hired en masse by the Russian Army as a good candidate for settlement for some of the ten to fifteen thousand exiles arriving from Russia and Egypt.

The surveyor and engineer for this settlement, also helping to oversee the development of the town, was a sixty-one-year-old Frenchman by the name of Antoine de Philippeaux. Rumored to have attended military college with Napoleon I (and engaged in a feud with the Corsican), Major Philippeaux stood with the Royalists and served decades among the British Army who welcomed a man of his skill. Unfortunately, discontent with British policy towards the defacto annexation of the Portuguese Colonies led to Philippeaux’ resignation and the engineer took up service for the Czar in the Holy Lands.

The aging Frenchman was found, as he often was, staring through his theodolite, a tool intended to measure angles along the horizontal and vertical plane and often utilized for accurately partitioning plots. Turning to acknowledge the Russian officer’s approach, Philippeaux nodded and called out, “I heard your promotion came through, Pushkin. My congratulations. You are young for such responsibility.”

“I would prefer to be writing in Moscow, Philippeaux,” The Russian replied. Pushkin had taken to the Frenchman as someone to whom he may confide. The engineer knew damned well the circumstances of Pushkin’s “enlistment” in the army. Only the fear of what the Czar would do to his family kept Pushkin from deserting. But, like the Frenchman, Pushkin at least took satisfaction that his efforts were at least intended to help people like these miserable Jewish, Coptic and Old Believer banished from their homelands by a cruel monarch. That the Czar provided grain, housing materials, land grants (without taxes for ten years) and various other assistance did little to ameliorate Paul’s many crimes.

“General Ochterlony is a wise man,” Philippeaux gestured towards the plots being divided among the hillsides divided by wadies, “he knows talent you have a gift for organization even if you resent the requirement. Our work gangs have built dozens of homes, offering sanctuary to hundreds, perhaps thousands of…”

The Frenchman’s oratory was promptly interrupted by a smattering of musket fire emerging from over the next hill, 1808 Russian Pattern by the sound of it.

“Damn!” Pushkin cursed, racing forward. Almost immediately, he noticed the half-dozen men assigned to escort the Copts to their new home also sprinting towards the conflagration. Passing through a grove of sickly trees atop a local hill, the soldiers were dismayed to witness a dozen or so Arab cavalry racing about the settlement’s freshly cordoned off main road, the plots small to reflect their intent as urban dwellings for craftsmen and merchants. Already the homes and workshops of vital skilled workers hummed with activity: a blacksmith, cooper and a brickmaker had been hard at work providing building materials for the rapidly growing community.

The Russian witnessed the Arabs sabering two fleeing peasants, from this distance it was impossible to know if they were Copts or Jews, and several Russian soldiers firing from cover. One of the Arab tribesmen was flung from his horse in a scream.

“Bayonets!” Pushkin yelled to his command. “Gut the horses if necessary!”

Drawing his saber, the officer led his men down the slope into the town. To his surprise, the aging Frenchman somehow managed to keep up, even loading his pistol as he ran. An Arab horseman turned about; eyes fixed upon the approaching Russian. Even from a distance, Pushkin bore witness to the seething within the man’s twisted visage. Leveling his sword towards the officer, a kick to the ribs of his mount sent the beast in motion…only for the Arab to cartwheel backward in his saddle as the village smithy unleashed a blast from a shotgun (probably refurbished from an old musket into a fowling piece) from his doorway.

Charging forward in the form of a “V”, bayonets glinting in the midday sun, the Russians targeting another mounted Arab who happened to gallop before them. Eyes widening, the Arab wisely turned about before a half-dozen blades punctured his horse’s innards. As quickly as the mayhem commenced, it appeared to end as a cloud of dust followed their retreat eastwards.

Panting, Philippeaux caught up with the younger men and groaned as he witnessed at least half a dozen bodies littering his newly laid-out streets of the ancient city of Amman.

Pushkin looked on, wondering how the settling of the eastern Levant by hundreds of thousands of refugees and settlers could proceed in the case of tribal resistance, especially mounted cavalry.

Who the hell else would suffer such a miserable task?

 

[Alt History Buff]

April, 1828

Tubac, Upper California

Who the hell else would suffer such a miserable task? Wondered General Zebulon Pike as yet another wave of Apache tribesmen raced past the tiny adobe Presidio, within which fifty Tejian soldiers and twice that number of civilians huddled.

Throughout the tiny town, possessing perhaps a hundred and fifty souls upon Pike’s “Conquest”, the Tejian soldiers sought to fortify the town as best they could. The six Spanish soldiers, the raving mad Alcalde, four priests, twenty Indians and fourteen Spanish settlers opted to withdraw south back toward New Spain. The remainder of the population felt no obligation to leave their homes and Pike did his best to ensure they were treated fairly. Yes, weapons were confiscated but the officer promised it was only for the immediate future. If no problems arose, the residents may have them back.

The central town, comprising of perhaps twenty buildings adjacent the Presidio, was fortified as best the soldiers could in the short term. Alleyways were blocked with adobe bricks and stones while the primary street was cordoned off by overturned wagons and “borrowed” fenceposts from nearby sheep and pig pens.

At the time, Pike smirked, finding his own precautions silly. Shortly thereafter, he was grateful for the measures.

It was not the Spanish, though, that arose to threaten the Tejian soldiers and wave of several hundred settlers…it was the Apache nation which apparently resented the Tejian intrusion into their territory. Partially Christianized by the Spanish missions, the Apache tolerated the Spanish settlement…but had no inclination of putting up with a far more numerous and dangerous invader as these newcomers appeared.

Never showing their true numbers, the Apache soon put the Tejians and civilians under siege. After the initial cavalry raids, the Indians seemed to amuse themselves testing one another’s daring in leaping over the brittle wooden barriers at the ends of town and racing through the streets even as inaccurate musket fire trailed.

Sometimes the Apache survived…sometimes they didn’t.

Eventually, the war chief in command tired of losing brave men and called for his warriors to taking the matter seriously. Despite taking the precaution of placing several dozen soldiers and civilians upon the rooftops of the adobe homes and studios, as well as in the alley ways, the Apache continued to slip in through the barren fields at night to wreak havoc among the terrified residents.

However, each raid exacted a toll upon the Apache. Braves could not be easily replaced and war chiefs who cost their allies their lives seldom remained war chiefs for long. Blunt Knife, the primary war chief of the Coyotero branch of the Apache claiming the region, was appalled at the loss of over a dozen young men, a terrible blow given the tribes possessed less than eight hundred members…and the whites seemed not inclined to break.

With the Navaho nation to the north and the Tohono O’odham to the south always hungry for the Coyotero land…not to mention other Apache bands…Blunt Knife knew he must not bleed his people any further lest they prove weakened against their age-old rivals.

Let this miserable band of whites live…for now. He could always come back later and wipe them out.

 

[Alt History Buff]

April, 1828

Ferdinand City

Viceroy Juan O’Donoju grimly slipped through the streets of “Ferdinand City”, the former Ciudad de Mexico, examining the catastrophic destruction of the downtown and any portion of the Valley of Mexico below the floodwaters. Urban Palaces and humble peasant huts shared the same fate as churches, merchant warehouses and craftsmen’s workshops. The annual deluge, perhaps the worst in fifty years, combined with the near-universal destruction of the ancient system of dykes, canals and tunnels created by the Aztec and expanded upon by the Spanish, to wipe out the capital of New Spain.

Nearly four hundred thousand people were homeless and the fertile Valley of Mexico, with the gradual cessation of the continuous rain, witness a sight not beheld for nearly three centuries: the return of Lake Tenochtitlan.

While the Viceroy was assured the complex system of water management could be recreated…in time…O’Donoju could not spare a single soldier to initiate the arduous task of repairing the canals and drainage tunnels as the rebels remained in command of Oaxaca and parts of several other southern provinces…and a new Junta of radicals in the northeastern provinces of Tamaulipas, Neuvo Leon and Coahuila apparently declared themselves something called “the Republic of the Rio Grande”.

Already struggling to suppress these insurrections and keep the rebellion regional, O’Donoju could not even think to redirect soldiers or funds towards the devastated capital. Ferdinand VII’s missives from Madrid had grown increasingly impatient, his commands crystal clear: crush the rebellion at all costs. Any level of violence and repression was acceptable.

Having arrived on these shores in hopes of negotiating a peaceful return to Crown authority with rebels, even to the point of acceding to reasonable demands, the Viceroy now realized negotiation was impossible. Too much blood had been shed, too much treasure exhausted, far too many lives ruined.

Gazing around at his retinue, O’Donoju’s fears were plainly laid out for all to see. Even after the retreat of the rebel army from the Valley of Mexico, the Viceroy dared not walk through the remnant of the city without at least twenty guards present. For not only the lowlands of the Valley had suffered, but the back-and-forth ebb of the months-long battle resulted in the destruction of villages beyond the reach of the flood. Believed to be hotbeds of sedition, the Criollo elite comprising the bulk of the Royalist Army officer corps would viciously gather entire communities together to torture helpless rural peasants for information. Having seen their opulent urban homes destroyed due to rebel sabotage of the lock system and country estates burned to the ground by partisans, no mercy was spared in the expansion of the war down to the most humble mestizo or Indian dwelling. Any resistance resulted in the wholesale destruction of the village. For all the injury inflicted upon the Valley of Mexico by the Wrath of God, some bureaucrats and officers estimated that more people were left homeless by the razing of their villages, haciendas and farmsteads than by increasingly vicious armies.

Looting every local peasant pantry down to the last morsel of food, the fortunate survivors of the deluge faced inevitable starvation. Naturally, hunger and exposure to the elements swiftly brought upon such a procession of disease – Typhoid, Bleeding Death, Influenza, Diphtheria and others – that illness easily exceeded the human cost of both the inundation and direct casualties to war.

“Mary, Mother of God, preserve us,” exclaimed one of the Royal Functionaries attending O’Donoju.

The Viceroy turned to his fellow Peninsular of Irish ancestry, the nominal Governor Jose Coppinger of Tejas. The man visibly paled at the desolation of the once-verdant and bountiful Valley. Expelled long ago from his Province, Coppinger served as a member of O’Donoju’s staff…which naturally gave the man ample opportunity to pester O’Donoju to prioritize the reconquest of Tejas and Nuevo Mexico.

“Yes, indeed, Coppinger,” O’Donoju murmured, his eyes magnetically fixed upon the ruins of the Ciudad de Ferdinand.

“What…how long…what is necessary to repair this…?” Coppinger wondered.

“It doesn’t matter,” O’Donoju shrugged. “Our coffers are empty, the army is immediately granted any taxes taken in food and textiles…and I rather doubt King Ferdinand possesses the funds to even begin rebuilding his namesake city if the reports of His Majesty defaulting on his debts to the Dutch and French bankers is true. The Ciudad de Ferdinand is gone…we must continue as we have from Puebla, Guadalajara and Valladolid. The people of this tragic place…are on their own…”

The Governor trailed his superior, protesting, “On their own?! Sir…this is inhuman…”

Without bothering to slow his stride, the Viceroy waded through the guards assigned to protect his person, and replied archly, momentarily catching Coppinger’s eye, “Governor…if these traitors and Protestant invaders successful and expel the Royal forces from New Spain…then King Ferdinand won’t give a damn what happens to this city, this Valley and these people…”

“That does not abrogate our responsibility to these people!”

“Actually, Governor, I fear that it does.” The mournful tone of the cold statement somehow chilled even the steaming spring afternoon.

Like Coppinger, O’Donoju sailed for New Spain full of ideals hoping to improve the lives of its inhabitants as well as his station at court. Years of defeat and disappointment slowly bled the Viceroy’s empathy until there was nothing left than a cold equation of the “Greater Good” of the Empire, without which God only knew what these Protestant Democratic ideas might do to this region. O’Donoju imagined centuries of military dictators, coups, fratricidal wars, graft and negligence heaped upon the colonial shoulders from California to Chile. Did this not justify a bit of repression? What was the loss of one city compared to the chaos sure to follow a successful rebellion in New Spain?

For to lose New Spain, the Viceroy was quite certain, would lead to the loss of the rest of the Spanish Empire. King Ferdinand was correct…cruel and harsh…but correct. This rebellion must be broken at any cost else generations of American colonials would suffer in an attempt to mimic the Protestant to the north.

At that, O’Donoju turned his back upon the city representing the elite of New Spain for three centuries as if it were nothing more than an unhappy memory, for the Viceroy understood the primary concerns of the Spanish Court. King Ferdinand required money to suppress rebellions in Spain, New Spain, Rio Plata and Nueva Granada. The Ciudad de Ferdinand, for all its historical importance, was not the home of New Spain’s silver production or valuable exports to Spain or the rest of the world.

New Spain could exist without the Ciudad de Ferdinand, the capital easily enough moved to Puebla.

Or at least the Royal Authority could exist without it. These pitiful peasants of the Valley of Mexico, the very seat of the Aztec Empire, stricken by war, flood, hunger and now disease, were left to their own devices as the Royalist Criollo Generals prepared for the summer offensive both north and south.

Mercy and chivalry were quaint concepts best left in the past. For the betterment of all, a lesson must be taught to these Republican traitors.

 

[Alt History Buff]

May, 1828

Madrid

“Bastards!” King Ferdinand fumed, casting the formal report of the incident from his desktop in a fit of grief. Fearing for their monarch’s sanity (and their own safety), several of Ferdinand VII’s retainers and adjutants fled his office (no doubt to seek out the Queen in hopes Maria Josepha may salve the monarch’s rage and anguish.

If there was one person on earth which Ferdinand could count upon, it was his beloved brother Carlos. As the rebellions sprung up in Navarre, Catalonia and Andalusia, Infante Carlos had been ever present to stiffen Ferdinand’s spine and offer advice upon administering the complex machinery of the state intelligence service created to seek out and immolate discontent throughout Iberia. The Prince stood at Ferdinand’s side many times as the King burst into the homes of once-trusted nobles to personally produce an arrest warrant upon evidence of rebel sympathies.

“Carlos!” The King wailed as his hands covered his face, sinking back into his plush office chair, tears streaming through his fingers. “God, no! Not you!”

After attending the trials of several supporters of political “reform”, Carlos’ carriage was ambushed by several dozen partisans. Two of his quartet of bodyguards were killed on the spot, the others forced to flee (this pair would be shortly put to death for their cowardice) leaving the Infante and his driver to be slowly tortured and finally disemboweled along some deserted country road by Spanish traitors.

Slowly, Ferdinand sunk to the floor, suddenly aged another decade. Years of insurrection led to outright rebellion. Most battles were won by the Royalists…but discontent continued unabated, and the Iberian Peninsula reduced to a simmering cauldron of paranoia and fear. Only a reinforcement via tough and experienced Spanish forces long stationed in the western Maghreb allowed the latest revolts to be brutally put down. This came at great cost as it forced King Ferdinand to grant his “ally”, France, military control over the nominally Spanish half of North Africa. Once in place, the King feared Napoleon II would never willingly release his dominion.

“Ferdinand?!” Emerged a soft voice from the doorway. “Are you ill?!”

The King looked up. As expected, his aides, terrified of his wrath, summoned the Queen. A beautiful young woman barely half Ferdinand’s forty-three years, Maria Josepha’s beauty, gentle good nature and piety left Ferdinand instantly besotted upon meeting the Saxon Princess. Married and widowed twice before, and still bearing no surviving legitimate issue, Ferdinand’s hopes for a son had yet to bear fruit. Raised in a convent, the wedding night proved a fiasco. Upon entering the Royal Bedroom naked, Ferdinand suffered the horror of his young wife (to whom no one ever explained the mechanics of marital relations) screaming and fleeing in terror. Only a letter written by the Pope himself explaining that sex between married partners is both divine and biologically necessary to create the next generation prevailed upon the young Queen to consummate the marriage months later. Unfortunately, the marriage remained childless.

“It is Carlos, my love,” Ferdinand wailed pitifully from the floor. “The rebels…have murdered him…butchered him in the streets like a common swine.”

Raising her hand to her lips, the Queen stumbled forward, struggling through the massive skirts now in fashion among the aristocracy, and collapsed next to her husband. Weeping bitterly, Maria Josepha cried, “Oh, those poor boys! First their mother last year…now this!”

The kind-hearted Queen had struck up a friendship with the Infante and his late wife, a Portuguese princess granted leave from French imprisonment among the other Braganza family to marry Carlos. Maria Francesca took to her sister-in-law as well…only to be called to God last year of a fever. Since then, Maria Josepha acted almost as a second mother to the widowed Infante’s three young sons.

“Orphans…” The Queen wept into a handkerchief.

Faced with his wife’s grief, the King pulled himself together enough to comfort Maria Josepha. “Their father shall be avenged, my wife. You have my word of it.”

“You have my word on it,” He repeated to himself, embracing his wife, still shuddering in her lamentations.

 

[A Random Man]

Nice chapters, Spain and New Spain are facing major problems. I think Ferdinand can keep Spain together, I'm not so sure about royal power being held in New Spain. I'd say Ferdinand needs to cut his losses and negotiate with the rebels (however much that can help). Keep up the good work.

 

[Alt History Buff]

June, 1828

Paris

Knowing it was all coming to a head soon, Emperor Napoleon II of France and King of Italy demanded almost daily updates to the plan for the invasion of Great Britain…should it come to that, of course.

But it will come to that, the young man was certain.

The public reaction in London to the proposed economic union even now being negotiated in Strasbourg bordered on the apoplectic. The British government, naturally, protested that the Custom’s Union would exclude their own trade from the Continent. Worse, the agreement between France and Russia to construct a canal across the Sinai Peninsula would, almost by definition, ensure those two nations would dominate European trade with Asia. Having already lost so much over the past seven decades, from a point when Great Britain once aspired to dominating global trade.

Though any of these remarkable social and engineering projects were years away from implementation, the inexorable movement towards an integrated Europe (under French leadership) plainly terrified Great Britain. However, an unexpected development in northern Europe threatened to initiate conflict years before Napoleon II expected.

After years of simmering tension, Norwegian nationalism, fired by generations of discontent regarding Danish rule, erupted into violence against the government of King Frederick VI of Denmark and Norway. Demands for a Norwegian Parliament were rejected…and the aging King was growing ever more authoritarian, akin to his ally Emperor Napoleon I after taking the crown.

Great Britain, now heavily dependent upon Norway for timber, copper and other goods, instinctively expressed sympathy for the plight of the Norwegians. Peter II of Sweden, Prussia, Pomerania, Schleswig and Holstein (the half-brother of Paul I of Russia) had long coveted separating Norway from Sweden. The respective nations’ uneasy alliance in the League of Armed Neutrality for several years during the Napoleonic Wars was long a thing of the past. Ancient rivalries reemerged among the Danish, Swedish and Russian monarchies dwarfing any considerations as paltry as French or British sentiments.

As the Norwegians rose in rebellion, five powers of Europe turned their attention almost entirely towards this unlikely, lightly populated outpost in the north of Europe.

Reminding himself that opportunity could arise from chaos, Napoleon II rapidly reviewed, redefined and redesigned his plan to succeed where his uncle failed.

Napoleon II would conquer Britain no matter the cost.

 

[Alt History Buff]

May, 1828

Sao Paulo

Having bypassed the Ribeira River two weeks prior, General Paget, Commander-in-Chief of the Forces in the Banda Oriental, begrudgingly turned eastward, not north towards the city but along the coast of the “Republic of Sao Paulo”, cutting off the city of Sao Paulo from its coastal brethren of Santos and Sao Vicente. Even from ten miles south of Sao Paulo, reverberating artillery fire reached the ears of the British and Colonial regulars.

Major Lord George Byron rode atop his brown nag (he considered himself lucky he could even outfit himself as a gentleman officer given his perilous financial straits) shouting orders towards the men of the 3rd Colonial Regiment. The Colonel, unfortunately, fell ill with a fever days before the commencement of the expedition from the British colony of the Banda Oriental. A week later, well into the march, a rider arrived from the south announcing Colonel Mathews’ death. To his horror, this left Byron in command of a full Regiment of five hundred and fifty-six Colonial soldiers.

Over three months prior, an army under General John Conroy attacked westwards from Rio de Janeiro into the still-unconquered Republic of Sao Paulo. The Paulans reportedly fought viciously as the British and Brazilian auxiliaries marched through the lowlands along the coast, skirting the rougher mountainous terrain to the north. Unfortunately for Conroy…and more so his command…the narrow path along the coast allowed the Paulan resistance to strike again and again from ambush, emerging from the lush and verdant forests without warning and escaping without a trace. Apparently expecting a triumphant procession as the inevitability of fate, Conroy’s expedition bogged down along three hundred miles of ramshackle country lanes separating the two cities.

Conroy’s response proved entirely predictable and General Paget was ready. Familiar with his counterpart’s reputation, Paget quietly prepared his more modest army south of the Paranapanema River to march. As expected, a panicked dispatch from Conroy demanded Paget “open a second front” with the Paulans to allow his own army to reach the Portuguese colonial city. Leading a force of two thousand British and Colonial Army regulars and another five hundred picked militia, Paget wasted no time in crossing the Ribeiro River, taking the direct path to Sao Paulo. Having denuded their southern defenses to challenge Conroy, the British forces under Paget encountered little organized resistance until nearing the environs of Sao Paulo.

Again, entirely predictably, the somewhat embarrassed General Conroy managed to communicate with his southern colleague and ordered him to “cut of the enemy’s line of communication with Santos and Sao Vicente”. Every man in the army could read between those lines: Conroy did not want cede the glory of conquering Sao Paulo to his nominal subordinate. Thus, the southern British forces, instead of acting as a pincer to trap the Paulan Army in the city, instead turned south to ”cut off Paulan communication” to their coastal towns. As the Royal Navy completely blockaded these same coastal towns, “cutting them off” accomplished very little.

Presently, the 3rd Regiment marched past an open meadow, now occupied by Paget’s command tent. Byron gazed west and realized that night would soon be upon them. Paget must mean to halt for the evening.

Nudging his horse into the clearing, Bryon dismounted to make his report. An adjutant barely old enough to shave sprinted forward with an offer to water and feed the beast and “rub her down”.

I’d like to “rub down” that boy, Byron thought briefly before handing over the reins. However, the Englishman had long since learned to keep such thoughts private. He’d managed to flee the consequences of his…predilections…in England. Being caught in a compromising position here may prove fatal and not just for is career.

Entering the command tent, the officer immediately noted Paget’s staff had already set up a foldable table and the General grimaced looking down upon a regional map.

“This is disgusting,” muttered Colonel Blake, a longtime staff officer. “There is no utility in seizing Santos! We should be cutting off western Sao Paulo so the Republican Army may be trapped captured in the city!”

“Damn Conroy,” agreed a young Captain Byron didn’t immediately recognize. “His petty jealously and stupidity are going to allow the Paulans to escape and prolong this war by years!”

“Enough!” The commander near-shouted, obviously exhausted with the sniping. “We have our orders…no matter how much we may disagree. I believe the question I posed was “Do we besiege the island of Sao Vicente or attempt to seize it?”

Only then did the General acknowledge Byron’s arrival and salute, “Byron, how goes your Regiment?”

“Quite well, sir,” he replied evenly. “Morale is high.”

“Good, good,” Paget mumbled absently, his mind still upon the map. Gesturing towards the island of Sao Vicente, which included the towns of Sao Vicente and Santos, he inquired, “What is your opinion, Major? Do we attempt to ford the island?”

Eyes narrowing, Byron thought for a moment and inquired, “Sir, why hasn’t this already occurred? Has not the Royal Navy been blockading the island for years?”

“Only from the south,” the young Captain shook his head. “In the Bay of Santos. These lagoons to the north, east and west have long remained in Paulan possession.”

Perhaps irritated at the junior officer speaking out of turn, Paget scowled at his subordinate before returning his gaze to Byron, “The Royal Navy would be at risk of becoming lodged in sandbars. Besides, the ships would be vulnerable to artillery fire by land.”

“Then it is a matter of crossing one of these lagoons at a narrow position…or finding a bridge?”

“Any bridges have been destroyed,” the General shook his head.

“Do we have access to barges in large numbers?”

“No.”

“Then I would not waste my time, sir, on a task beyond our material capacity now, especially given the dubious strategic benefit of conquering the island,” Byron confirmed. The other officers present seemed to conquer.

Paget sighed, “Then this army will sit along the lagoons doing nothing.”

“No, sir, I don’t think so,” Byron surprised even himself with his own boldness. “Conroy has mucked up his own campaign to the point he called upon us to distract and divide the Paulan defenders. Sooner or later, we’ll receive a request to march north to pull his irons out of the fire. We need only wait.”

At that, Paget leaned back and laughed before thanking Byron for his opinion and dismissing him after detailing a position up the road for the 3rd Regiment to billet for the night.

By happenstance, that very evening, another panicked message from Conroy reached Paget’s command, this time demanding his march northwards towards Sao Paulo without delay.

 

[Alt History Buff]

July, 1828

Tucson, Upper California

Had General Zebulon Pike been forced to gamble his non-existent weekly wage, he most certainly would have put it against President Burr and General Jackson actually following through upon their promise to visit the newly claimed western outposts of Tucson, Tubac, Pike City (minor settlement to the west) and Fort Young (to the north).

As thousands of Anglo and Spanish rebel settlers entered the arid region, Pike meticulously surveyed the region with the aid of Yavapai and Hohokam allies eager to gain lands long contested with the Apache. Mere months after suffering an Apache siege in Tubac, the Tejian army drove the militant tribe northward with the aid of these native auxiliaries. Now entrenched in four towns, the Tejian President and Commanding General plainly intended to stay.

“Mr. President!” Pike emerged from the town on horseback to greet Aaron Burr along the dusty Indian trail passing as a road east. With a quick salute, the soldiers similarly greeted the grinning General Jackson.

“General,” Burr nodded. The old man was plainly exhausted by the trek. Pike remained astonished he even attempted it.

“Pike!” Jackson rode forward to extend his hand. “Good to see you, my friend.”

“And you, sir!”

At that moment, Pike looked eastwards along the trail and belatedly realized the two were not merely travelling with Tejian cavalry escort. Dozens of wagons emerged from the east, obviously another wave of settlers.

“Yes, General,” Burr answered the unasked question. “Another five hundred settlers bound for Tucson or those new towns you’ve industriously founded to the north and west!”

“You travelled with a wagon train, sir?” Pike inquired incredulously.

Burr laughed, the first time Pike had seen merriment reach the politician’s face in years, “Of course not! My escort just happened to catch up with this group a few days ago and decided to offer them a bit of extra protection for the final leg of their journey. A remarkable group, this. Travelling through the summer heat!”

“Well, they will be welcomed no matter where they choose to settle.”

“Very good, General,” Jackson nodded. “May we ride ahead and give President Burr a few hours of rest, preferably away from the saddle?”

Embarrassed, Pike hurriedly nodded and spurred his own mount westwards. Jackson and Burr, followed by some two dozen watchful cavalry, followed through the sparse woods. Evidently, they had heard the tales of the Apache.

“May I ask how things are in Bexar?”

Jackson grinned, his cadaverous face lighting up, “No longer the Capital, I’m afraid. We’ve moved the government north to Austin.”

“Away from the border?”

“Indeed, General,” the politician added. “With the Spanish invasion last year, it was determined to move the government to a more protected position, a hundred miles north of Bexar. Besides, Austin is closer to the trail west to California.”

“Austin?”

“The town is named after Moses Austin, of course. If you didn’t know, old Moses died three months ago.’

Pike frowned. He’d liked Moses Austin, who had been instrumental in gaining approval from the government of New Spain for Protestant Anglos to settle Tejas. “A shame, sir, a great man.”

“Who will not be forgotten,” Burr promised. Presently, the procession reached Tucson, the primary settlement in Alta California. Burr was extended use of Pike’s own quarters to freshen up while Jackson was invited to satiate his thirst in the local tavern, hastily constructed and serving a hideous local whiskey distilled weeks ago.

Nearly gagging at the harsh flavor provided by the bartender, a remarkable achievement given Jackson’s tolerance for drink, the senior inquired, “How is Captain Young?”

“Commanding Fort Young to the north, General. An exceptional officer, though I fear this expedition has forced him to reconsider returning to Hawaii.”

The pair spoke freely. No one else was present in the shabby saloon so early in the afternoon but the half-asleep bartender.

Jackson nodded, again sampling his whiskey. The burn outshined the flavor, that was certain.

“You are wondering why two old men spent two weeks riding west through the prairie and mountains?”

“The thought crossed my mind, sir,” Pike confessed. “Is the situation in Tejas so secure that the President and Commanding General are free to wander the desert for a month?”

Jackson sighed, “Tejas, for now, seems secure. The Spanish remain hard-pressed to put down their own rebellion…and you heard that Mexico City…or whatever they call it…has been destroyed by flood?”

Pike nodded and Jackson continued, “President Burr…who has been planning this moment for over a decade…has determined the Republic must reach the Pacific and establish control at San Diego before New Spain regains its feet. With Columbian settlers still flooding across the border…some estimate eighty thousand Anglos and thirty thousand Spanish now reside in Tejas and Mexico…and what we control in California…”

Shocked, Pike leaned forward and objected, “Control?! General, I should consider us lucky to have survived against the Indian raids. If the Spanish ever dispatch a few hundred experienced soldiers north…and the COAST?! I cannot imagine even getting to the Pacific through that desert and mountains, much less maintain a supply line of for munitions, powder and settlers!”

To his credit, Jackson did not take umbrage at the tone. He’d feared the same and conceded, “I understand…however, the President and I believe that the long-term survival of Tejas and Mexico centers around extending to the sea. Otherwise, Columbia will do it in our place!”

“Would that really be so bad, General Jackson?” The junior officer asked quietly. “The only reason Tejas exists is because Columbia declined to contest her claims to the region with New Spain. Half the nation, as I understand it, as much as assumes Tejas and Mexico will someday take their place among the Columbian states…”

“Best you not let President Burr hear that,” Jackson cautioned. “He is determined to make Tejas a beacon of hope…unattached to Columbia.” Both men knew of rumors that President Burr of Tejas, while serving as President of Columbia, may have plotted some sort of Coup to remain in power. Jackson rather doubted such a scheme would work. In the end, Burr was simply never so personally popular that he could emerge as the Napoleon of Columbia…but rumors persisted.

“Our President’s desires not-withstanding, I fear the matter will be out of his hands.”

“Either way,” Jackson retorted, taking another sip. “An expedition to California is being planned. Burr only agreed to weeks in the saddle to better understand the challenges of crossing Indian-infested deserts, mountains and prairie.”

“Let me guess…he doesn’t care about the challenges.”

“Quite right, Pike, quite right indeed.”

 

[Alt History Buff]

August, 1828

Toulon

Napoleon II hadn’t visited Toulon since prior to his coronation. Condemning his laxity, the Emperor of France vowed to make an effort to visit the provinces…though perhaps he’d wait until winter to see the Riviera again.

August is too damned hot for this uniform! The Emperor fidgeted under the ridiculous military-style garments, utterly unsuited for subtropical weather. Napoleon made a mental note to review the standard attire for French soldiers in North Africa. If the common soldiers had to put up with half this misery, it is a miracle they haven’t revolted.

An atonal of “music” courtesy of the local Naval band brought Napoleon II back to the present and he stepped forward to wave graciously from the podium from which Mr. Brunel and other luminaries waxed about the remarkable capabilities of this new naval craft. The French warship Loire (of the Seine-class) was the second of her kind to pass the trials. So impressive had been the Seine that Napoleon II (at the Admiralty’s urging) ordered three more despite the next generation (Pyrenees-class) already on the drawing board and due to commence construction in Brest by fall. Two more of the Seine-class hulls had been laid in Toulon, with outfitting expected by spring.

Quietly, Napoleon II reallocated any funds available to the navy while urging the shipyards to expedite construction whenever possible. With the British government formally protesting the Franco-Russian canal being mapped out in the Sinai, Napoleon’s European Custom’s Union and now the matter with Norway…war may not be far off.

And Napoleon II’s for the conquest of Great Britain, the first since William the Bastard (a good Norman), could not succeed without these vessels. Already, the Emperor’s staff laid a cunning disinformation campaign. The four vessels of the “Emperor Joseph” class, utilized entirely for commercial purposes, received a healthy dose of publicity when it was stated that they massive iron-hulled, propellor-driven steamships could not be utilized for military purposes. While never outfitted with armor and guns, the weaponry had been allocated to a warehouse in Toulon for easy access and quick arming.

Of course, the “announcement” was a lie. The Emperor Joseph-class certainly was more than capable of warfare after a few months of conversion. Reports that the armor had been sold for scrap were…exaggerated. Now, the Seine and Gloire-class ships were preparing for launch. A dozen other warships of sail had already been converted to steam power (or were in the process). By spring, France may have as many as twenty steam-ships of various destructive capacity…including four of the Emperor Joseph-class, four of the Seine and one or two of the Pyrenees.

To compete with these three largest classes of French warships, Great Britain might be able to field…two or three of comparable capacity.

Maybe not even that.

The single greatest hindrance to a successful French invasion of Britain was well on its way to elimination.

Waving his hand once again to the crowd, Emperor Napoleon II knew the moment was coming.

 

[A Random Man]

Nice chapter, Napoleon II wants Britain dismantled after invading them. Nice naval development. Keep up the good work man.

 

[Alt History Buff]

Nice chapter, Napoleon II wants Britain dismantled after invading them. Nice naval development. Keep up the good work man.

Thanks.

Unlike most of my previous books in the "Arrogance and Empire" series, this particular book is being written as I go. The others (and following novels) are already half or three-quarters written. This one will take a while. I see on my word file that I'm only on page ninety-four. But I have my outline put together than meshes with past and future books so there should be no discontinuity with what is coming.

 

[Alt History Buff]

September, 1828

Republic of Sao Paulo

Slowly, Major Lord George Byron picked this way through the stone and stucco buildings of Sao Paulo, long since pockmarked by stray bullets. A handsome city by any estimate, the capital of the Republic of Sao Paulo lay fifty miles inland from the coast upon a plain of mildly rolling hills. To the north lay a modest mountain range, the Serra da Cantareira, and her majestic verdant peaks.

Sao Paulo appeared a modest-sized town. Even accounting for a large assortment of local towns as part of the Municipality, the population was unlikely to exceed fifty thousand…and a fraction of that in the city itself. Like so much of Brazil, the bulk of Sao Paulo’s population lived in rural villages well removed from the capital. This made conquest of the cities easy…and the countryside hard.

Fortunately, as General John Conway’s larger “Army of Rio” marched from the east and Paget’s “Army of the Banda Oriental” arrived from the south, the British forces were augmented by a rather obvious demographic: runaway slaves.

While Sao Paulo lacked the numbers of slaves as in the northern sugar plantations, there were no shortage serving the coffee plantations of the south…or even from the mines of Minas Gerais, nominally under British “protection”. Desperate for any assistance in crushing this impudent Republic of Sao Paulo, the British forces happily accepted any and all volunteers with the promise of manumission. Naturally, the slaveholders of the north, Britain’s primary base of support, would prove displeased by this policy, the increasingly panicked General Conroy was happy enough to deal with the political repercussions later.

Assigned a hundred runaway slaves as guides and translators, Major Byron of the 3rd Colonial Regiment happily accepted their service. He’d come to abhor the institution anyway and had been delighted that King George, near a half century after professing his intention of abolishing the institution among British possessions, was following through in Jamaica and Barbados. Scouts were sent out among this group, some never returning. Presently, two young slaves sprinted across an open plaza towards the safety of the British lines.

Fortunately, no shots follow their steps. This time.

“Major!” An ancient negro leading his command deeper into the city uttered in a thick Portuguese accent, “The Paulans…they…” A burble of Portuguese followed from the youths before the withered old man continued. “They say many Paulan troops on other side of plaza…in all those buildings…they hide and wait…”

Byron groaned. After days of bloody urban skirmishes, the 3rd Colonial had taken dozens of casualties. Peeking his head around the corner, he noted several overturned wagons and carts forming a barricade. Alleyways were completely blocked. While few signs of movement were apparent, the officer was certain the Paulans waited in ambush.

“To hell with his,” Byron murmured. Turning to his staff officers and several Captains commanding his advance Companies, the Major announced, “Let us call up some artillery. I’m not marching our men out into that square until those barricades are clear…”

Captain Bates, a particularly impudent son of a Banda Oriental merchant granted a commission to command the 4th Company, snidely retorted, “Sir! No artillery is reaching so deep into the city!”

Peeking his head about the corner, the Captain continued, “I see no reason to halt our momentum to…”

The sharp report of a rifle, probably a Baker, echoed throughout the alleyway as Bates suddenly stiffened…before falling limp onto his back. A neat hole tunneled into the imprudent youth’s forehead.

Several officers yelped in shock but Byron had seen enough of this over the past few years to let the sight of an unfavored officer’s death bother him.

“Anyone else wish to contest my orders?” the Englishman demanded acerbically. None dared respond.

“Very well,” he announced. “Send a runner back to Paget. We need a pair one-pounders dragged up. Let’s shift the Paulans with cannonballs, not our bayonets.” Eyeing the open plaza, Byron was certain the gunners had enough cover to do their jobs from the alleyway.

Again, no complaints were voiced by the suddenly pliant junior officers, several seeing their first action in this campaign.

With a sigh, Byron ordered two enlisted men to carry Bates’ body out of the city. His father was probably wealthy and important enough to demand the return of his son’s corpse if he had the influence to gain the idiot a Captain’s commission.

Calling for his lunch, Byron saw to the dispersal of his command among the interiors and rooftops of nearby buildings along the western extreme of Sao Paulo proper and set in to wait.

 

[Alt History Buff]

September 1828

Jaffa

General David Ochterlony grumbled as yet another cargo of Jews arrived upon the shores in longboats (the port was a notoriously difficult place to land goods) of the coastal town of Jaffa. Fortunately, no incidence of disease emerged from the passengers or crew. Only one elderly woman expired during the voyage just a few days shy of the Holy Lands. The Captain wanted to “bury her at sea”, i.e. throw her over the rails, but hesitantly agreed to allow the lady to be wrapped in several sheets to avoid the flies and let the woman be buried in the lands of her ancestors.

Typically, the Boston-born Russian General would remain in Jerusalem as his lower back presented ever more complaints to taking the saddle. However, Ochterlony knew he must see the truth state of the migrants…and natives…of the southern Levant to assist them as best he could. On more than one occasion, the General personally intervened in resettlements. For example, a group of Jewish tradesmen from Kiev were nearly established on one of the newly plotted “towns” prepared by Russian surveyors. Ochterlony promptly adjusted the orders to divert the Jewish weavers, goldsmiths, silversmiths, blacksmiths, coopers, cobblers, and other artisans to Acre where their skills may be properly utilized. Tradesmen should not be forced into farming.

By happenstance, Ochterlony came across Captain Alexander Pushkin along the docks. Surprised, the General demanded, “Pushkin? What are you doing here?!” Pushkin remained assigned to the eastern reaches.

The young officer’s eyes widened at the unexpected sight of his commander. Belatedly, the Captain saluted and explained, “A consignment of weapons, settlement tools, seed and other goods arrived a week ago for my command, sir. I’ve brought some drivers and cavalry to escort them east.”

“Mmm,” Ochterlony nodded, doubting the officer was shirking his duty. Deciding to take the statement at face value, the older man nodded for Pushkin to follow him along the cluster of warehouse opposite shore. “How is the resettlement going?”

“Where, sir?” Pushkin almost snapped before moderating. “What I mean is, which settlements? We have a dozen new villages under construction right now…and many more to come.”

As the September sun beat down upon his head, the senior officer nodded, “Very well. How are THOSE settlements proceeding?”

“We run short of all possible materials,” the Captain complained. “Stone and mortar for walls, thatch for rooftops, farming implements, animals to plough fields…the Czar’s gift of grain and various materials has certainly helped…but it seems impossible that we can support the construction of homes for fifteen thousand people per month…even with your generous orders to allocate soldiers, prisoners and whoever else into work brigades…”

Ochterlony held up his hand and Pushkin prudently silenced, “Captain,” he demanded. “How many souls do you believe lived throughout the northern and southern Levant upon its conquest?”

Confused, Pushkin took the question literally, “I believe I heard something less than two million, sir.”

“Yes, about that, especially after the plagues. And, of that two million, how many do you think were building a home at any given month?”

“Sir?”

“At any given month, how many men, women and children…out of two million…were in the process of building a home?”

Pushkin had no idea how to respond. People tended to remain in their ancestral homes in the Holy Lands for generations. But the General plainly expected an answer. “Errr…maybe one in a hundred? One in two hundred?” The Captain confessed, “I really have no idea. People move about for any number of reasons and often build new homes.”

“Mmmm, let us say one in a hundred. One percent. What is one percent of two million, Captain?”

Sums having never been his strongpoint, Pushkin nevertheless managed to calculate, “Twenty thousand, sir.”

“So, prior to the Czar’s conquest of the Levant, it was customary for houses to be under construction for twenty thousand souls in any given month,” Ochterlony fixed his subordinate with a glare. “Well, Captain, that is good news…as we only want to help build homes for fifteen thousand. And our settlers have the gift of materials, grain and money to assist. The Czar may cut that off at any moment so let us simply be grateful and do what we can with what we have.”

Chagrined, Pushkin nodded, seeing no sane reason to irritate his commander, “Yes, sir. With your permission, I shall see to the loading of our wagons. I believe the consignment includes a large number of nails, grain and weapons for the militia.”

Almost ready to dismiss the young officer, this last caught Ochterlony’s attention. As the soldiers nimbly dodged a pair of braying donkeys pulling a cart of hay, the elder man’s boot fell directly into fresh manure coating the cobblestone street. With a grimace, the General halted and scraped the offal from his soles.

“How are those settlement militias doing?” He demanded, his temper rising. It was too hot and he was too damned old to be traipsing throughout the Holy Lands. “Can they protect themselves?”

“Yes, sir,” Pushkin immediately replied, eager to avoid offending his superior again. “Though some, like the Jews, Copts and Old Believers, are shocked when informed they are to be armed, I’ve seen few eligible able-bodied men refuse. Even that Shi’a group from Egypt settled south of Amman have proven useful as auxiliaries.”

“Good,” Ochterlony nodded. “What we need more than anything is reliable militia wherever the army wanders.”

“I’ve been pleasantly surprised, sir.”

The General took Pushkin’s measure and began to see him in a new light. “Captain, I may have some assistance for you, a young officer, well educated, knows Arabic, French and Russian, and would be, I think, a fine addition to your staff.”

“I…would be grateful for any assistance, sir,” Pushkin replied instantly, not exaggerating. Merely keeping control over inventory was a full-time job.

“Good, good,” Ochterlony nodded. “Then it is settled. My eldest son has been granted a commission. I’d like him to get some exposure to the frontier. I’ll have him reassigned to your staff.”

Heart sinking, Pushkin managed to weakly thank the General for his generosity. Of course, the last thing the Russian wanted was to babysit some General’s spoiled brat.

 

[Alt History Buff]

 

[A Random Man]

Nice map, will the Texas be annexed by the US or stay independent? Good work