Prologue
February 11, 1801
It was a cold February day in the young city of Washington. The winds of a brutal Nor’easter howled through the streets, which were empty though it was just noon. Wisps of cold air, like the tendrils of a clambering vine, twisted their way through cracks in the Capitol building, chilling the band of men seated around a table stacked with envelopes. A man with red hair, now greying a bit at the temples, sat at the head of this table, turning the pages of a somewhat ragged book of Roman philosophy. He shivered as a burst of cold air touched the nape of his neck, his fingers spasming ever so slightly on the page.
Further down the table from this man sat a younger man, dark of hair with a solid build and a prominent nose. He was clad in a long, black coat which added a certain thuggish air. He was obviously bored, staring at the ceiling while twisting his beaver-felt tricorn in endless circles. He yawned, doing little to hide it, and smacked his lips afterwards in a way that drew annoyed glances from his neighbors at the table. He met their gazes and smiled back with a grin reminiscent of the cat that ate the canary. The tablemates, both older and feebler of body than this younger man, turned quickly away.
A black slave in servant’s livery trundled into the room with a stack of firewood, which he quickly added to the meagre coals smoldering in the hearth. With his attentions, life returned to the fire, and soon warmth began to radiate once again through the room. This brought life back into the men, and soon they began to speak in quiet tones, where before there had been naught but silence. Another black brought in a tray loaded with tea, coffee, and small finger foods, which the men began to pick at in a somewhat distracted manner.
Somewhere in the building a clock tolled one, sending a single echoing bell through the half-finished Capitol building. Taking this as his que, the red-headed man at the head of the table snapped his book shut, the sound of which brought him the full attention of the assembled group. The dark-haired man poured himself a cup of dark coffee, the only one daring to move. The red-headed man frowned a bit at this, but soon recovered.
“Gentlemen,” he began in the sonorous tones of the academic, “Congressmen, Senators, others- we are here today to tally the votes cast by the Electors of the respective states. Now, I hope that all of us can put whatever petty disagreements we may have aside, to ensure that the votes are counted correctly and that our Republic is guided aright for the next four years. This is a solemn duty, and it is a duty of great honor.”
He smiled briefly before continuing.
“I know that some of you may have… doubts regarding my bias in this matter, as I myself am a candidate for the office of President. I intend, however, to put your doubts at ease- I promise you that I will do what I can to ensure that this process is done fairly and by the Constitution which we have worked so hard to create and live by. I will perform my duty- nothing more, nothing less.”
He paused here, almost as if he expected someone to disagree. Instead, there was no sound aside from the wailing of the wind and the crackling of the wood on the hearth. The red-headed man smiled.
“Well then, let us begin. Mister Root,” he looked at the big man in the black coat, “would you care to begin?”
Erastus Root, a member of the New York State Assembly and an associate of many higher powers within the Democratic-Republican organization, found himself with a mouth full of coffee. He nodded, swallowed, and picked up the first envelope. He slit it open, and pulled out a packet of papers wrapped with twine. With a deft slash from his letter-opener, he broke the twine and began to distribute the papers around the table. The men at the table glanced over their pages, and, glancing at each other, nodded and passed them down to the red-headed man. He gathered the papers, gave them a cursory glance, and nodded.
“The Electors of the State of Virginia cast their votes as follows- Twenty-One for Thomas Jefferson, Twenty-One for Aaron Burr.” Picking up a quill pen, Vice-President Thomas Jefferson made a notation on a page in front of him.
“The next packet, if you please, Mister Root.”
This process was repeated some five more times. Erastus would pick up an envelope, slit it open, and distribute the papers in the packet contained within. The tellers, as they were called, would pore over each ballot for any sort of irregularities, and pass it along. Vice-President Jefferson would give a cursory glance at the ballots, announce the results, and mark them down. As the process continued, Jefferson was visibly becoming more and more animated and excited. Aaron Burr and himself were leading, and they were nearly halfway done.
Erastus was getting bored, however. His job was fairly boring- he was a teller, but he had been put in at the last moment as a replacement for another New Yorker, who had fallen ill. Younger than everyone else in the room, Root felt that they did not trust him to actually count the ballots. This left him with the bone-boring job of cutting open packet after packet. He practically devoured half of the platter singlehandedly while the older men stared at the pages.
“The next packet, if you please, Mister Root.”
Erastus picked up the next envelope, which was… blank, which was extremely irregular. He blinked, and furrowed his brow. He turned it over a few times to see if he had missed any writing, but still saw nothing. Frowning deeply, Erastus opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper from the envelope. His neighbor reached to take the paper from him...
“Wait.” Erastus pulled the paper away from his neighbor, who shot him a confused look. Erastus stared hard and the paper in his hand. He blinked, shook his head, and stared again. He turned the paper over again and again checking to see if he had missed something. A polite cough sounded from further down the table, followed by an impatient cough a few moments later. But Erastus continued to stare, hardly believing his own eyes.
“Is there a problem, Mister Root?” Jefferson cocked an eyebrow quizzically, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. Erastus looked up at the Vice-President, a cloud passing over his face as he did so.
“Mister Vice President, this… ballot… This ballot is completely invalid." A rumbling of disbelief and confusion came from the assembled tellers. Jefferson blanched momentarily, but recovered quickly. He leaned forward.
“What do you mean by that, Mister Root?” Erastus stared at the Vice President before waving the single sheet of paper around like a flag.
“This… I can honestly barely even call it a ballot, sir, this… paper bears no seal. The envelope bore no official seal, nor even a label. This… paper simply says that the votes of the State of Georgia” (the rumblings grew slightly louder, as Georgia had a reputation for corrupt dealings) “are four for Thomas Jefferson, four for Aaron Burr. No signatures of the electors. No authentication of any kind. It’s completely irregular.” Accusations began to fly across the table, with tellers from the South leaping to defend their Georgian associates, while Northerners railed against them. Jefferson sat there stunned before arising. The sound of his chair scratching against the floor brought silence to the room.
“Mister Root,” he said in a voice that sounded like defeat, “please hand me the… ballot.” Erastus stood up, and walked the distance to the Vice President, his heavy boots sounding loud against the floor. Jefferson meekly took the paper from his hand, and stared at it. The assembled tellers held their breath. The Vice President stared at them all before sinking to his chair.
“The… the vote of the State of Georgia is invalid.” He weakly scribbled the note onto the page in front of him. He glanced up again at Erastus.
“The next packet, Mister Root.”
By the end of the session, the delegates would be shocked- none of the candidates had accomplished a majority in the electoral college, with Jefferson and Burr tied at 69- a single vote short of a majority. The news spread like wildfire from Washington, as the lame-duck Congress hastened back to decide the outcome of this highly contested election…