Marche Consulaire: A Napoleonic Timeline

[TRH]

I've been a little stricken with writer's block lately, and need more time to figure out material concerning the Ottomans. As such, we're getting a shorter update today that's just about Russia. The Turks and the Greeks will show up next time.

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Chapter Twenty: December Days​

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Excerpted from The Age of Revolutions by A.F. Stoddard, 2006.​

The course of the Napoleonic Wars turned on the Emperor’s ability to frustrate the repeated efforts of France’s rivals to organize coalitions against it. And the lynchpin for this strategy was the Franco-Russian relationship: the rapprochement between Napoleon and Tsar Alexander removed one potential threat to the French Empire, weakened another rival in Prussia, and diverted British attention to Scandinavia and the Balkans, exacerbating the strategic indecisiveness of post-Pitt Britain. For his part, Alexander benefited from a freer hand strategically. Freed of obligations to participate in the main theaters of the war with France, the Tsar was able to expand his rule in both Europe and Asia and to consolidate power through internal reforms.

Alexander is remembered as a cipher among more transparent kin. The impetuous fighter so easily lured into disaster at Austerlitz developed into a far cannier statesman in the wake of Tilsit. The romantic who bound Poland and Finland together with Russia through personal unions grew colder and more rigidly authoritarian in his later years. Despite these changes to his demeanor, the Tsar retained some degree of idealism, which manifested in fits and spurts for the rest of his reign.

This ideological inconsistency was on full display in Alexander’s stabs at governmental reform. Russia has always struggled to keep pace with the industry and institutions of Western Europe, and the decade following Madrid was no exception. The Reformist minister Mikhail Speransky led the charge for a Constitutional order, balancing the monarch’s power against a series of local Dumas, with the State Council acting as an intermediary body. These suggestions were calculated to shift Russia away from absolute monarchy towards a more pluralistic and federalist society. [1]

This vision was unlikely to have ever seen fruition under Alexander; even during the time when Speransky enjoyed the Tsar’s favor, his ideals drew ire from more conservative elements in the Russian aristocracy. As it was, however, Alexander opted for a scaled-back variation on his minster’s proposal, modified to suit his own needs. The Dumas were eschewed, and the Council, while initially dominated by Speransky and his allies, came to include more members from the nobility, diluting the influence of reformist voices.

These new additions expanded the Council’s total membership, which reached 60 seats in 1825. This would remain the general size of the State Council for the remainder of the 19th Century, with slight fluctuations. The Tsar retained the right to appoint or dismiss members, but as the years went by, the body managed to erode this ostensible check on their power. Alexander’s successors gave progressively greater deference to the Council’s word on many topics, and eventually, this came to include the selection of replacement members or the early dismissal of those who had alienated enough of their colleagues. Political parties remained officially verboten under the Tsarist regime, but an informal smattering of factions nevertheless emerged in the Council, with reformers, conservatives and moderates competing for the monarch’s ear. As a result, the political development of Russia from the time of Peter the Great began changing course in the 19th Century. [2]

The State Council's Iconic Meeting Place in St. Isaac's Square.

This was the backdrop against which the Empire faced its first true test since the Treaty of Tilsit. On December 16th, 1824, the Tsar succumbed to typhus at the age of 46. The crown passed to his younger brother Konstantin, a more personable figure than the increasingly mercurial Alexander, but also one without his brother’s decisiveness and resolve. [3]

As critical as this difference in personality was, one other difference stood out between the new Tsar and his brother. Unlike Alexander, Konstantin never lost his youthful admiration of Napoleon Bonaparte, whom he had fought at Austerlitz and treated with at Tilsit. As a result, when Speransky approached the new emperor to discuss secret negotiations with the French concerning Christian uprisings against the Ottomans in the Balkans, Konstantin was quick to accede to the French proposal.

[1] IOTL Speransky took the blame for the Franco-Russian alliance falling through. ITTL, Alexander has taken to relying on modified versions of his ideas to help govern. For him, the State Council is a tool to institutionalize that process with the help of competing voices.

[2] I thought liberalism and republicanism might have had too much success so far, so to keep things interesting, we have Russia’s first stab at a Constitutional system devolve into a self-dealing parody of an actual Parliament.

[3] Because of butterflies, Konstantin didn’t go to Poland, and remains amenable, albeit less than enthused, about succeeding his brother.

 

[TRH]

Also, I'm interested whether the French in Texas will make contact with the Acadians in Lousiana and whether they'll form a solid Francophone bloc in the South.

There will certainly be interaction between the two populations. In fact, I'm thinking the term "Tejas Cajuns" will be used to describe the French community in Texas before long. That said, in both places they'll remain minorities even at the local level, more influential for economic and cultural reasons as opposed to their own political weight by virtue of their size.

In other news, I finally figured out how I'm going to end this story. By that, I don't mean I'm ending it anytime soon, but I've decided on how I'll wrap things up in terms of arcs and narrative themes. With that in mind, the last update of this story will take place on May 8th, 2006, the bicentennial of TTL's Treaty of Tilsit. So in a few years, probably, we'll finally get to that. I have a goal! In the meantime, Chapter 21, the Greek Revolution. And the next chapter will take place in Portugal. In the meantime, enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-One: Faith and Fatherland​

Excerpted from The Age of Revolutions by A.F. Stoddard, 2006.​

The Greek Revolution is perhaps best remembered for the role the Great Powers of Europe played in its conclusion, but it obviously had its roots in local conditions. Unrest had festered in Turkish-occupied Europe for generations, and starting in the second half of the 18th Century, this discontent grew better-organized and more violent. Despite the aspirations of Selim III, the Sultan’s word meant increasingly little the farther one ventured from Constantinople. The Janissaries had been crushed, a necessary preliminary towards consolidation of the Empire, but provincial governors guarded their privileges just as jealously, and had were protected from the reach of the Nizam-i Djedid by distance.

This tension divided the Empire, and in Spring of 1822, Greek and Wallachian rebels seized the opportunity to rise against their oppressors.

This uprising stemmed from more than mere opportunism, however. Both the political and military sides of the rebellion had spent the previous decade gathering their strength for the right moment. And ironically, both wings of the Greek independence movement stem from the Porte’s own policies. Filiki Eteria, the Society of Friends, had arisen in 1810, in the hopes that the War of the Fourth Coalition would lead to Greek independence. To this end, founding member Emmanuil Xanthos wrote a series of letters to both Napoleon and Tsar Alexander soliciting assistance in their cause. These letters went unanswered, however, and with peace restored to the Ottoman Empire the following year, the Society was forced to bide its time. Membership in the secret society expanded steadily, spreading across Greece by the 1820’s.

Likewise, the military arm of the Revolution owed its existence to Ottoman governance. In this case, the Empire’s institutional weaknesses made it difficult to enforce the law in rebellious areas like Greece. To combat banditry and other forms of disorder, the Sultans had spent centuries contracting militias of Christian soldiers to keep the peace. These militias, the armatoloi, had little to distinguish them from the bandits they fought, and the leaders of powerful armatoloi effectively turned their jurisdictions into feudal fiefs. With the advent of the rebellion, it was the armatoloi who formed the basis for organized resistance against the Turks. Sultan Selim had never been so foolish as to refit the militiamen along the lines of his regular army, but these groups still offered a modicum of military discipline and cohesion that proved invaluable in the years to come. [1]

Dimitrios Makris, an Armatolos who fought for Greek independence.

By Autumn, revolutionary fervor had swept Greece, with the Morean peninsula having fallen to the rebels. Their compatriots elsewhere were less fortunate, however, with uprisings in central and northern Greece being suppressed by the Turks. The Peloponnese proved more resilient, however, and the first two years of campaigning yielded little progress for Ottoman forces.

To ensure victory, the Sultan ultimately decided to call upon one of the very provincial leaders he had previously butted heads with. Muhammad Ali, the self-proclaimed Khedive of Egypt, was a kindred spirit to Selim in many ways. The two men both recognized the need to bring their subjects into the modern era, and had common enemies in the more conservative elements of the Empire. Ali’s desire for Egyptian autonomy was a sticking point, however, and when Selim approached him for aid against the Greeks, the Khedive replied that such aid would come with a price.

And so it was that Selim found himself reluctantly agreeing to recognize Egyptian autonomy, acknowledging Ali and his descendants as the Khedives of Egypt. As an added inducement, he promised to cede Crete as soon as the Greek rebels were defeated. [2] With these promises in hand, Egyptian forces made ready to sail to Greece in the Summer of 1824, ready to settle accounts with the rebels once and for all.

In the West, news of the conflict divided the public. Popular sympathies in Britain, France, Russia, and the United States lay with the Greeks, but leadership in these countries was often more skeptical. For them, the specter of civil unrest struck too close to home, especially in light of the tumultuous events of the past decade. Nevertheless, these governments ultimately did little to discourage Philhellenic elements from aiding the Greek cause on their own, and young men across Europe arrived in Greece to bolster the Revolution’s ranks.

Napoleon, for his part, took a different view of the crisis. For him, the war presented an opportunity to solidify French dominance of the eastern Mediterranean. From the early stages of the conflict, the Emperor had been sounding out Tsar Alexander on the possibility of using the Greek revolt to advance the two countries’ interests in the Near East. Alexander was wary of these plans, especially in light of sermons from Greek Patriarch Gregory V, who condemned the rebels and pleaded for peace. The arrival of Egyptian forces in mid-1824 also gave Alexander pause, as Muhammad Ali’s forces expelled the Greeks from Attica. The rebellion seemed to be on its last legs.

It’s unclear whether Alexander’s untimely death in late 1824 was the salvation of the Revolution, as it seemed at the time. Napoleon certainly had the necessary strength to pursue his agenda alone, but what he wanted from Russia was political cover for his own agenda, rather than military assistance. Regardless, Konstantin Pavlovich proved more receptive to French overtures, and agreed to play along. On February 16th, the French and Russian governments agreed to mediate a peace deal between the Turks and the Greeks. And should either party prove unreceptive, then a joint military intervention would force the issue.

The Greeks were quick to take up the proffered mediation as soon as it was offered to them. By March 1825, the war was going poorly, with Turkish and Egyptian troops advancing into the Peloponnese from Attica and the coasts. Selim, for his part, also acquiesced to the French offer, albeit with great reluctance. The Sultan knew that much of his hard-won progress against the rebels would likely be erased at the conference table, but he also understood that French intervention on the side of the Greeks would have the same effect. To forestall that threat, he needed to at least give due consideration to Napoleon’s proposals. Unfortunately, not everyone in the Empire understood the stakes so clearly.

The Greek Revolution had brought centuries of animosity between Turks and Greeks into the forefront of popular discourse, and this enmity led to atrocities against Greeks throughout the Ottoman Empire. Riots and massacres targeting Greeks became commonplace, despite the Sultan’s fatwas encouraging his subjects to focus their ire only on those Greeks in rebellion. Selim’s desire for an even-handed approach was best exemplified by his public dialogues with Gregory V, as well as his use of soldiers to maintain order in Constantinople, even to the point of protecting Greek businesses and churches from rioters. [3]

This stance reinforced the longstanding resentment conservative elements had for the Sultan, with many arguing that the troops he was assigning to keep the peace would be better used against the rebels directly. Selim ignored these charges, apparently believing that his defeat of the Janissaries fifteen years earlier had secured his position in Constantinople. This overconfidence proved to be his undoing.

Selim’s greatest contribution to the Empire, the Nizam-i Djedid, had fought for the Sultan against common enemies in the Janissaries and the French. Now, however, they saw their ruler abandoning a hard-fought but successful campaign, and submitting the Empire’s internal affairs to arbitration by the hated French and Russians. This was more than they could allow. On April 4th, 1825, a palace coup deposed the 63-year-old Sultan, bringing his opportunistic cousin Mustafa to power. Mustafa wasted no time in securing his new regime, executing both Selim and his brother Mahmud, making himself the last male heir to the Osman dynasty. [4]

Mustafa soon reversed course on his brother’s more tolerant initiatives. Gregory V was placed under house arrest, and the garrison in Constantinople received new orders to disregard anti-Greek pogroms in the capital. More importantly, the new Sultan withdrew from negotiations with Napoleon and Tsar Konstantin, intent on finishing the Greek rebels before foreign intercession could turn the tide.

This proved a foolhardy notion, even disregarding the secret preparations that France and Russia had undergone for this eventuality. Napoleon had retained control of the Ionian islands in the Treaty of Madrid, and had both army and navy units stationed in southern Italy in case of an emergency. Once word came of renewed hostilities, these forces moved into action. The French navy bested the Turks in engagements off of Navarino and Aegina, while an army under Marshal Lannes landed in Messenia. Meanwhile, a smaller French force landed in Crete, and the Russian army advanced into Moldova and Wallachia.

The French navy confronting the Turkish and Egyptian fleets at Navarino.

Mustafa no doubt saw the writing on the wall by this point. However, given the circumstances of his coup, he felt obligated to maintain hostilities for a while longer, to show that he’d prosecuted the war effort as best he could. By early October, after Thebes had fallen to Franco-Greek forces, the Sultan finally sued for peace. The Peace of Naxos established Greece and Wallachia as autonomous kingdoms within the Empire, while reaffirming this same status for Serbia, which had been also been a point of contention for several years. For its part, France would annex Crete, which apparently had been Napoleon’s goal from the outset. In exchange for supporting this ambition, Konstantin was allowed to select the new King of Greece. [5]

Alexander I, King of the Greeks.

It likely speaks to Konstantin’s strong idealism that his nomination for King of the Greeks was not one of the noblemen who dominated his State Council, but a soldier instead. Alexey Melissino, son of a renowned artillery commander, had served against the Turks in several wars, eventually rising to the rank of major general. Significantly, Melissino claimed descent from a line of Byzantine aristocrats – this, along with his military experience, gave him a degree of legitimacy among the Greek public that most French or Russian nobles could not match. And as the first King of the Greeks, he would do his utmost to lead his subjects toward a brighter day. [6]

[1] The presence of groups like these and independent-minded governors like Muhammad Ali are a big reason Selim uses the Nizam-i Djedid more as an elite fighting force, rather than overhaul the entire army along similar lines. He doesn’t want that kind of training and armament to be in the hands of disloyal minority populations or ambitious local leaders.

[2] The invalidation of this promise at Naxos is also going to be a sticking point between Ali and Mustafa in the coming years. Ali sacrificed a lot of troops and ships to not get the goodies he’d been promised.

[3] IOTL, Sultan Mahmud was not nearly so circumspect about Greek civilians. Commendable as Selim’s efforts are, though, they’re a bad look when combined with his immediate backing down when confronted by the French.

[4] Mustafa tried to do this IOTL after the Janissary coup. ITTL, he wasn’t implicated in conspiring with the Janissaries on account of Selim taking the initiative against them; Mustafa heard about the plans to bring in anti-Janissary soldiers along with a British expedition, and realized Selim was likely to win the day. He never let go of his ambition to take the throne himself, though, and latches onto the anti-Greek backlash as his ticket to power.

[5] This latest move from Napoleon is one I'd characterize as clever, but ultimately short-sighted. On the one hand, it strengthens his already considerable reach in the Mediterranean even further. But on the other, it throws a wrench into the previously warming Anglo-French relations under Canning and Eldon, as well as inspiring resentment towards him in Greece, not unlike what he did with Poland at the beginning of this story. In the long run, the costs are liable to outweigh the benefits.

[6] My brother suggested this to me a while back, and I’ve spent ages wrestling with whether or not it’d be too indulgent to run with. IOTL, Melissino was killed at Dresden, easily butterflied by the lack of a Sixth Coalition, but still, he’s not what people would think of as a proper noble. In the end, I ran with it for a few reasons. One, he is more authentically Greek than any conventional candidate, which Konstantin, at least, is likely to care about. Two, this pick sidesteps the factionalism on the State Council – the Tsar doesn’t have to be seen as favoring one side over others by picking one of them to rule Greece. And three, Melissino won’t seem like a French puppet, a greater danger ITTL for many German princes. He’s therefore less likely to raise hackles in Britain or Austria, who otherwise oppose this whole endeavor.

 

[TRH]

I usually update on Mondays, I know, but I really don't like how slow these have been coming lately, so here we are. With this chapter, I give you the Portuguese Civil War. This is far outside my usual wheelhouse, and I simplified a lot of what was going on at this time, but, well, the lack of a Peninsular War means radical changes for a lot of this history in any event. Enjoy, and stay tuned for the next update, on the Clay Administration and the Election of 1828.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Disunion​

Excerpted from The Age of Revolutions by A.F. Stoddard, 2006.​

King John VI of Portugal spent most of his life attempting to keep his aging Empire together in the face of daunting turbulence, both from within his country and from without. This struggle began nearly a quarter-century before he officially came into his inheritance. In 1792, just as the Napoleonic Wars began, John found himself stepping into the role of de facto regent due to his mother’s declining mental health. From then on, the prince faced an uphill battle to maintain stability in Portugal.

After initial defeats in 1795 and 1801, Portugal sought to remain neutral in any subsequent conflicts involving France. Between Spain’s defection to the French orbit and Lisbon’s centuries-old alliance with Britain, affiliation with either side seemed ill-advised. Unfortunately, non-alignment proved equally untenable – in February 1807, Spanish troops mobilized along the border, demanding Portuguese entry into the Continental System. To add to John’s discomfort, a British squadron arrived a fortnight later, offering passage to Brazil for the Portuguese court – as well as orders to storm the city should their offer be spurned. With his advisers divided on what course of action to take, the prince regent faced his most daunting test so far.

Forced to choose sides, John ultimately cast his lot in with the French and their Spanish proxies. The thought of abandoning his subjects to the tender mercies of invading armies offended the prince’s sensibilities. Perhaps more importantly, John feared French retribution more than he did the wrath of the British; the latter’s humiliation at Jönköping was still fresh in everyone’s minds, and spoke poorly to the state of the British army. The Portland Ministry was equally mindful of the recent defeat, and as such only partially carried through with their threat. The warships in Lisbon, upon hearing of Portugal’s accession to the Franco-Spanish ultimatum, shelled the capital for several days before withdrawing. [1]

Belém Tower, which exchanged fire with British warships during their bombardment of Lisbon.

Thankfully, this would be the last true bloodshed in Portugal for over a decade. The national economy slumped under the restrictions of the Continental System, but joined in the general recovery that accompanied the post-Madrid years. John’s challenges during this period were instead centered around palace intrigue and colonial unrest.

Much like Spain’s American colonies, Brazil had grown progressively more restless during the late 18th century, with abortive rebellions in 1789 and 1798, both brought on by a combination of Enlightenment ideals and economic deprivation. The 1807 imposition of the Continental System provided another flashpoint in Portuguese-Brazilian tensions. Direction from Lisbon became weaker and more sporadic in light of the Royal Navy’s blockade of the Continent, and with this diminished oversight, British and American smugglers began to ply their wares in Brazilian ports. Unquestioning obedience to authorities in Portugal seemed less important, and as Rio de la Plata rose up against its colonial masters, there were calls for Brazil to follow suit.

Early revolutionary sentiment was isolated, however. So long as war raged in Europe, the public’s primary concern was to avoid entanglement in a larger struggle. It was only after John’s decision to intercede against the La Platan rebels in 1821 that the question of Brazilian autonomy became impossible to ignore. The successful war effort resulted in a respectable increase in territory, but for the Brazilians who had participated in the conflict, this was not enough. [2]

As demonstrations began to gather steam in Rio de Janeiro, José Bonifácio de Andrada, a minister and scientist, began sending warnings to the court in Lisbon, suggesting that the King impose a compromise along the lines of Spain’s Ordinance of 1819. A revolution was taking shape, he warned, and the only way to forestall it would be by demonstrating responsiveness to popular demands. A personal union with Portugal would be a useful symbolic concession, if nothing else.

John VI was an absolutist by inclination, but the upheavals he’d witnessed in the Spanish-speaking world were worrying enough to command his attention. Like in Spain, liberal elements in Portuguese society agitated for a transition towards Constitutional government. Just as worrying were the machinations of his own wife, Queen Carlota Joaquina, who entreated both General Palafox and Napoleon Bonaparte for aid in deposing her husband. [3] More than anything, the example of Palafox’s rise to power in Madrid told the King that he couldn’t be certain of the loyalties of his own army. If he were to respond to the unrest in South America using force, then he risked suffering the same fate as the Bourbons.

On New Year’s Eve, 1821, the King officially elevated Brazil to the status of a kingdom, with the Portuguese Empire as a whole rechristened as the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves. At Andrada’s request, John sent his eldest son Pedro to serve as the King of Brazil. Together with Andrada, the two would manage Brazilian affairs in John’s absence. Little did John realize that this move would merely alleviate one crisis, only to replace it with another.

In Portugal, little changed in the wake of the Brazilian union. John feared the threat of revolution, but he was equally concerned that ratifying a Constitution would inexorably lead the monarchy towards irrelevance. An 1822 uprising in the city of Porto was suppressed by the army, but liberal sentiment wouldn’t abate. To forestall the threat of a military revolt, John began dismissing generals with overt republican sympathies, hoping that this would result in a more loyal officer corps. In this, he proved only half-right.

Queen Carlota still harbored ambitions of overthrowing King John, and in their second son Miguel, she had a willing confederate. The Queen and Prince desired an end to the liberal upheavals that troubled Portugal, and two developments in 1823 bolstered their confidence. The first was the restoration of the Spanish monarchy by Napoleon. Although King Francisco pledged to follow the new Spanish Constitution, this was still seen as a victory for monarchical interests. The second advantage they saw was John’s purge of the Portuguese military. Although the King was correct in thinking that more conservative army officers would be loyal to the crown by default, he didn’t realize that this was not the same as loyalty to him personally. More importantly, soldiers alone couldn’t protect him from what came next.

On September 7th, 1825, King John fell ill, wracked by vomiting, stomach pains, and convulsions. After two days of agony, he passed, leaving Prince Pedro as his heir. This death was no accident, however, and Pedro would not be granted the crown so easily. The King had been subjected to arsenic poisoning, as part of Carlota and Miguel’s latest bid for power. Citing a 17th century law, Miguel announced that in light of Pedro’s reign as King of Brazil, he was ineligible to also hold the crown of Portugal. As such, Miguel would be crowned as the new King of Portugal. With landowners, Church leadership and the increasingly conservative army behind him, his power seemed secure. [4]

A contemporary caricature, depicting Pedro and Miguel as puppets for the Great Powers.

For his part, Pedro would not let his brother’s usurpation go unchallenged. From his power base in Brazil, he was free to organize a response. First, he declared Brazilian independence from Portuguese rule, frustrating any efforts by Miguel to assert control in South America. Second, he began a military buildup, both building and purchasing warships as well as welcoming ships and crews from Europe opposed to his brother’s regime. Third, Pedro made clandestine arrangements for Portuguese liberals to depart the country for Brazil, further bolstering his available resources. Lastly, he dispatched diplomats to other countries for assistance, Britain, France and Spain in particular.

Even if the effort took years, Pedro was determined to bring his treacherous brother to justice, and reclaim the Portuguese throne. The Portuguese Civil War had begun.

[1] This is obviously the big change from OTL. I’ve already explored how the lack of a Peninsular War has affected the Spanish Empire, but it had similarly profound effects on the development of Portugal and Brazil. With John staying in Europe, Portugal is less restless than OTL, but Brazil still faces economic and political pressures that push it away from the metropole. If nothing else, liberals will want to emulate similar movements happening in Spanish America during this period.

[2] And historians will of course draw parallels between this and America’s course after the 7 Years War, as well as La Plata’s course following the two British expeditions. If you involve your colony in a war, then they’ll want greater representation as a reward for their service.

[3] Carlota’s plotting and scheming is largely OTL, including an attempted coup that took place shortly before the POD and resulted in her essentially being put under house arrest. Portuguese court politics during this time was really wild, and I’ve left out a lot of stuff. Of course, the court hated her guts and may have exaggerated some of her behavior, but probably not all of it.

[4] This is also condensed some from the OTL course of events. But since Carlota and Miguel resort to poison as their first tactic, Miguel doesn’t get exiled after a failed first effort, and therefore has an advantage over Pedro in Brazil. With help from sympathetic army officers, he takes the initiative and seizes control of Lisbon before his dad’s body is even cold.

 

[TRH]

Well, I should let you guys know that I started grad school last week. I'll try and keep updating as often as I can manage, but be ready for updates to get sparser for a while. I wanted to get another out before my homework load becomes overwhelming, though, so here's the story of the Clay Administration. The next update will be about life in Britain under the Eldon Ministry. Enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Three: Feet of Clay [1]​

Excerpted from The First American Party System by Charles Francis Adams, 1871.​

If the Election of 1824 had signaled the end of the first American Party system, then the course of the Clay Administration gave birth to the second. But before we explore that process, I should first reiterate my definitions, because the Party systems I set forth in this work do not necessarily correspond to those defined by other scholars.

For the purposes of this narrative, I define the first Party system primarily by the success of the Democratic-Republicans, who were the first group in this country to pursue electioneering and governmental appointments in an organized and systematic fashion. Their efforts had profound consequences at all levels of American government, from the spoils system that dictates civil service appointments, to the tradition of judicial review set forth in Marbury v. Madison. [2]

The degree of organization and discipline the Democratic-Republicans were capable of stymied the Federalist Party, which never managed to expand its popular appeal outside of New England. Following the Adams Administration, the Federalists inexorably retreated further and further into their familiar hinterland, such that by 1824, even men like my father found themselves obligated to join the Democrats to appeal to a national audience. The passing of Rufus King in 1826 was simply the final blow to the Party of Washington.

Under these circumstances, it was likely inevitable that the Party would eventually become the victim of its own success. Power has a logic all its own, and methodically corrodes any checks on its untrammeled exercise. Despite his stated intentions of transcending Party, William Crawford struck the first blow in 1816. His refusal to defer to James Monroe, the heir apparent to Madison, established the precedent of prioritizing personal ambition over Party or national loyalty. His failure to unite the country behind his own successor in DeWitt Clinton eight years later was the natural consequence of the example he had set.

Despite this setback, Crawford was not entirely dejected by the ultimate victor in the 1824 contest. Like him, Henry Clay was a slaveholder who nevertheless valued the strength of the Union over the parochial interests of slave power. Clay’s American System was in many ways an accentuation of Crawford’s economic policy, and is also the most illustrative demonstration of how sectionalism overcame the Madisonian consensus.

Clay’s predominantly Northern and Western political allies, initially dubbed the Clinton-Clay Republicans, controlled the House of Representatives with a narrow majority, but the Senate was divided between different factions, many of them opposed to the American System. This proved a thorn in Clay’s side, despite his lengthy experience in both chambers and mastery of parliamentary maneuvering. In March 1825, in a move calculated to obstruct the new Administration’s domestic agenda, extension of the National Road across the Mississippi to Lohman City in Missouri was narrowly rejected by the Senate. and it would take another two years before the state legislature could be seated in its new capital. [3]

This conflict marked the beginning of the consolidation of Clay’s rivals into a unified opposition Party. The Senate during this time included Calhounites like Robert Hayne and George McDuffie, Jacksonians such as Hugh Lawson White, disaffected former Crawfordites like Martin van Buren, and Pikeans such as John McLean and Francis Preston Blair. As Clay continued advancing his agenda, his supporters eventually adopted the label of National Republicans. In answer to this, the President’s opponents dubbed themselves the National Democrats. The contours for the next Presidential campaign were now laid out.

Despite Clay’s best efforts, the National Democrats were on the ascendant during his Administration, and following the 1826 midterm elections, his opponents enjoyed majorities in both the House and Senate. Following this defeat, Clay became more circumspect in his efforts to promote internal improvements, increasingly pairing them with measures calculated to court Southern support. The most notable of his concessions was the establishment in 1827 of the Office of Indian Affairs, an agency in the newly formed Department of the Interior designed to expedite land sales between Indian tribes and American settlers. Chaired by Thomas L. McKenny, the early OIA worked to balance the longstanding push for civilization programs with an effort to resettle tribes west of the Mississippi. [4]

As the 1828 elections loomed, the President was, by all accounts, in a difficult position. Clay’s narrow third-place finish in the previous campaign eroded his perceived legitimacy, with detractors castigating the Corrupt Bargain that had secured him victory in the contingent election. Furthermore, the National Democrats were determined to prevent the President from repeating his previous triumph over divided opposition. The state legislature in Tennessee nominated Andrew Jackson for another run, but he was far from alone in seeking higher office. To forestall another chaotic general election campaign, the Democrats organized their first national convention in Baltimore in July 1828, where they could choose a single nominee to rally the Party behind. [5]

The 1828 Democratic National Convention.

In the months preceding the convention, Jackson was contested by two other 1824 stalwarts, James Monroe and Zebulon Pike. The three men toured the country speaking out against the Clay Administration, while also working to secure as much support among convention delegates as they could. Of the trio, Jackson was the most provocative campaigner, advocating fiercely for reclaiming government for the common man, and decrying the elitism and corruption of the National Republicans. Pike made similar arguments, albeit couched more diplomatically than Jackson, while also touting his personal reputation as an intrepid frontiersman and Indian fighter. Monroe, for his part, tried to recapture Crawford’s mantle, and denounced Clay as exploiting sectional tensions to maintain his power.

As the National Democrats gathered in Baltimore on July 2nd, few expected the affair to become as protracted as it eventually did. Conventional wisdom viewed the campaign as a simple contest between Generals Jackson and Pike, with Monroe likely serving as a kingmaker between the other two. This prognosis only proved partially correct. On the first two ballots, no candidate secured the majority vote necessary to secure the Party nomination, with Monroe’s support suffering between the first vote and the second. There was an hour’s delay between the second and third ballots, with Monroe conversing at length with both Jackson and Pike. Shortly before the third ballot was cast, Monroe announced his withdrawal from contention, urging his remaining supporters to throw their lot behind Andrew Jackson. This seemed like the decisive moment.

In the end, however, Jackson’s victory was denied him by an unexpected source. Shortly after Monroe’s concession, another contender entered the race. New York Senator Martin Van Buren spoke to the convention floor, citing his efforts in wresting his state’s politics away from the influence of DeWitt Clinton. Without his success in flipping sixteen House seats in New York, Van Buren pointed out, the National Democrats would not control the House of Representatives. [6] By appointing a representative from the Mid-Atlantic, the Democrats could gain a decisive advantage against Clay in November.

On their leader’s urging, Monroe’s delegates defected to Jackson on the third ballot, but both he and Pike also lost support to Van Buren at the same time, again preventing any candidate from securing a majority. Another six ballots would ensure, with the Senator from New York slowly gaining ground against his rivals. Finally, just before the tenth ballot, Pike withdrew from the race, casting his support behind Van Buren in exchange for the Vice Presidency. With Pike’s delegates bolstering him, Van Buren finally emerged victorious against Andrew Jackson. A Van Buren-Pike ticket would face Henry Clay in November.

Clay, for his part, understood well the threat he now faced. The alliance between Van Buren and Pike may have been a product of serendipity, but there was also a deeper political logic behind it. Sectional pressures pitted the Free Soil states of the Northeast against the slave states of the South, so the Presidency would be decided in the Mid-Atlantic and the West. The combination of a New Yorker and an Indianan underscored this point. [7] In response, Clay dropped the unpopular Vice President Gallatin from his ticket, replacing him with fellow Pennsylvanian John Sergeant. [8] More importantly, however, Clay’s allies introduced a new tariff bill to Congress.

The Tariff of 1828 was a continuation of Clay’s general preference for protective measures supporting American industry. More than that, however, it was a carefully designed sectional weapon, intended to hamstring Van Buren by driving a wedge between his Party’s Southern base and his own state’s Congressional delegation. The tariff would be a boon to both New England and the Mid-Atlantic states, while proving deleterious to agricultural interests in the South. The National Democrats, having chosen a ticket without a Southerner on it, seemed especially vulnerable to charges of ignoring Southern concerns should they support the tariff.

To Clay’s shock, however, Van Buren declined his bait. The New Yorker spoke in favor of the tariff on the Senate floor, and urged his colleagues in the House to advance the measure as quickly as possible. This support proved instrumental in passing the tariff, with 109 votes for and 89 against. Clay had grasped the sectional nature of his contest with Van Buren, but failed to carry that logic to its proper conclusion. Van Buren calculated that the South would stand with his Party come what may, especially in light of Clay’s role in the hated Maine-Missouri Compromise eight years previous. As such, he was willing to risk alienating Southern voters to secure his own home region. [9]

Van Buren’s gamble proved a fruitful one, and on Election Day, he prevailed over Henry Clay with 149 electoral votes to Clay’s 111. Martin Van Buren would be the seventh President of the United States, and, in so doing, usher in the Second American Party system.

Martin Van Buren, Seventh President of the United States.

[1] I make no apologies for puns in chapter titles. Why even have them if not to make cheap jokes?

[2] Adams is wrapping up his book here, so there’s a bit of a recap of his prior ideas. Also gives me the opportunity to explain why this book, focused on the Democratic-Republicans, calls this the First Party system, as opposed to calling Federalist vs. Anti-Federalist the first.

[3] Jefferson City was originally called Lohman’s Landing.

[4] IOTL, the Bureau of Indian Affairs started out under the Department of War, created by then-Secretary John Calhoun. Here, this is the first time that the federal government is pushing Indian Removal in an organized manner.

[5] Andrew Jackson was re-nominated by his state’s legislature to run for President almost immediately after the 1824 race wrapped up, so the Democrats didn’t really bother considering anyone else for the job. Here, his diminished stature means that the Party isn’t ready to stake everything on him, so they come up with a less ad-hoc way of selecting a nominee.

[6] IOTL, 12 seats flipped from Clay to Jackson in 1826, so this is only an accentuation of an actual political trend in New York.

[7] Pike raised his family in Kentucky, from what I can tell, but here, he needed a state legislature to nominate him to run in 1824, and with Kentucky behind Clay, he moved across the Ohio river to get the necessary support for his campaign.

[8] The way contingent elections work in the Constitution, the House chooses from the top three vote getters for President, but the Senate has to choose from the top two for Vice President. As a result, Clay gets saddled with Clinton's old running mate despite neither man really wanting this.

[9] Van Buren supported the Tariff of Abominations for similar reasons IOTL. He actually had a pretty unique perspective on party politics and sectionalism, which Clay wasn’t prepared for ITTL.

 

[TRH]

Well, grad school is pretty draining, but on the other hand, writing and researching for this is a good distraction from all the work I'm dealing with. So much so I had most of this done on Monday, but wanted to fine-tune it a bit more. Here's a look at Eldon's Britain, and Chapter 25 will return us to the Ottoman Empire in the wake of Naxos. Enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Triumvirate​

Excerpted from The Age of Revolutions by A.F. Stoddard, 2006.​

If the Canning Ministry, with its tentative and haphazard stabs at social reform, represented listlessness in post-Madrid Britain, then the counter-revolutionary tenor of Lord Eldon’s government marked the first effort by London to take stock of the post-Napoleonic world. For the most part, this meant increased repression of dissent at home, combined with measured isolation from the outside world, and an aversion to high-stakes foreign entanglements.

Eldon’s foreign policy may seem puzzling on initial inspection. Certainly, he had supported the war against Napoleon with all due zeal, so his moves towards reconciliation with the Emperor while in office present a paradox. There are two main reasons for the Prime Minister’s caution. First, he felt that Britain was ill-prepared for another conflict, burdened as it still was by war debts, industrial discontent, and a sluggish economic recovery.

“Men delude themselves by supposing that war contains only a proclamation, a battle, a victory, and a triumph,” he wrote. “Of the soldiers’ widows and the soldiers’ orphans, after the husbands and fathers are buried, the survivors know nothing.” [1]

Perhaps more importantly, Eldon and his allies saw the foreign stage from a different perspective than Canning or Castlereagh had. The balance of power on the Continent had decisively shifted in France’s favor, and the High Tories saw few prospects of changing that in the foreseeable future. With that painful truth in mind, they instead prioritized ideological threats. To them, revolution was a contagion, as evidenced by the spread of republican fervor from America to France, and from there to the Netherlands, to Poland, to Latin America, to Spain, and to Greece. And with the example of Arthur Thistlewood, they couldn’t dismiss the possibility that Britain was equally vulnerable.

Because of this, the Eldon Ministry cooperated with France and Austria in an effort to counteract revolutionary movements on the Continent. The primary success from this alignment was the restoration of the Bourbons to Spain. These efforts bore a heavy cost, however; with London unwilling to check him, the Emperor strengthened his hand in the Mediterranean through the 1820’s, while also installing a Francophilic monarch on the throne in Madrid.

This tradeoff was a calculated risk on Eldon’s part. A painstaking study conducted by Sir John Kinneir examined the threat France posed to British India, concluding that the Persian Gulf would be a poor staging ground for such an offensive. [2] Because of this, the Eldon government felt safe allowing French maneuvering in the Mediterranean, confident that it posed little threat to their interests. And the more Napoleon was steered into suppressing revolutionary movements, the less credibility the Emperor would enjoy among liberal circles across the Continent. French self-interest could thus be used to box them into a more conservative role in European politics.

Domestically, many historians have drawn comparisons between the rise of the High Tories and the Second Terror that engulfed France half a century later. In both cases, movements for social change and the disappointment of a failed war led to widespread unrest, culminating in acts of shocking political violence. After that, a reactionary backlash ensued, with a pliant press and public empowering the national government to purge society of its cancers, with horrific results.

To be sure, Lord Eldon and his allies lacked the mad ambition and obliterationary zeal of the clique that governed the late French Empire. [3] As a result, the crackdown in 1820’s Britain was far more tempered. Nevertheless, a crackdown it was, with the remnants of the Spenceans and the Luddites either executed, exiled to Australia, or forced deep underground. In addition, Sidmouth’s Six Acts banned events that offered weapons training without government sanction, limited bail for defendants, and gave local authorities the power to search and seize weapons, as well as disperse public meetings concerned with either church or state. Despite several of these laws including sunset provisions, the government made sure to renew all six statutes whenever they came close to expiring. [4]

Despite this repression of violent agitators, political opposition and dissent was still permitted, in several different forms. In Parliament, the opposition was comprised of three main factions. The first of these were the Whigs, who had finally ousted George Ponsonby after their disastrous performance in 1820. His replacement, Charles Grey, proved a more vigorous critic of the ruling government, castigating Viscount Sidmouth and Spencer Perceval for sabotaging Canning’s Emancipation initiative and “slighting the memory of the former Minister, angling for power before his body was even cold.”

Charles Grey provided the most vigorous leadership the Whigs had seen since the death of Charles James Fox.

For their part, Canning’s surviving supporters also opposed the High Tories. Their program was less ambitious than Grey’s, but they also supported Emancipation. As well, the Canningite Tories, now led by Lord Melbourne, called for repeal of the Corn Law, arguing that an end to trade barriers would enable British goods to contest the French in the European market.

Lastly, there was a small group of politicians who, under any other circumstances would likely have been loyal Tories, but for whom the excesses of Eldon’s government were simply intolerable. The two most prominent examples of Middle Tories, as they were known, were Sir Arthur Wellesley and Sir Robert Peel. The former had resigned his army commission and run for office following the death of his brother, Lord Wellesley. A conservative by inclination, Arthur nevertheless found himself at odds with the High Tories on the question of Catholicism. Emancipation had been his brother’s main focus at the time of his murder, and Arthur felt compelled to pursue the same cause, even if it meant alignment with the Canningites.

Peel, for his part, was disturbed by the changes in the British police under Lord Sidmouth’s stewardship. Peel felt strongly that effective and ethical law enforcement depended on mutual trust between the government and the public, and so took issue with the Six Acts, as well as Sidmouth’s use of plainclothes officers and suspension of habeas corpus. Like Wellesley, his main political ally, he found himself in an alliance of convenience with the Canning faction, begrudgingly backing Emancipation in exchange for the post of Home Secretary should the Canningites form a government.

Of course, the Middle Tories’ begrudging concessions towards Emancipation would not have occurred had the grassroots movement in Ireland not gained the strength that it did in the 1820’s. Daniel O’Connor’s Catholic Association upended the status quo in British politics through its mass-based membership strategy. By charging one penny a month, the Association was able to attract a devoted following among poorer Irishmen, providing a foundation for O’Connell’s reformist campaigns. Conservatives like Wellesley and Peel supported Emancipation in no small part in the hopes of preventing even more radical upheavals in Ireland in the future.

An American poster depicting O'Connell as "The Champion of Liberty."

Opposition to the Eldon government also extended outside of political circles, into the economic and artistic spheres as well. In the former, economist David Ricardo was an outspoken critic of the Corn Law. His theories of comparative advantage made the case that tariffs were inherently inefficient, and merely reinforced the tendency of the rentier class to capture profits incommensurate to their productivity. Ricardo died in 1824, but his children Osman and David carried on his legacy, with both eventually standing for office as Whigs.

Even in literary circles, the High Tories found staunch opposition to their regime. Lord Byron, the one-time apologist for the Luddites, proved a thorn in their side from within the House of Lords, skewering the government with his characteristic laconic wit. His fellow poet Percy Shelley was equally acerbic, mocking Lord Eldon as an insincere hypocrite, dismissing his remarks about widows and orphans as “the tears of a crocodile.” [5]

Despite these voices of protest, the unraveling of the Triumvirate came from within. No one member of the trio could keep the government in working order without both of the other men’s skills. This fact mitigated infighting between the three, but it also meant that the removal of one would leave the entire structure unstable. The death of Spencer Perceval in 1827 weakened the government’s grip on its backbenches. Without Perceval to keep them in line, some MPs began to defect to the Canningites, concerned by the effects of the Corn Law on their constituencies. The Tories could no longer unite effectively behind the protectionist agenda.

These tensions weakened the Tories electorally. When the country went to the polls again in 1828, they found themselves assailed by both the Canningites and the Whigs, and their majority suffered as a result, dropping from over a hundred to under sixty seats. Eldon was still able to form a government afterward, but he was forced to rescind plans for additional farm tariffs to forestall a backbench revolt. To make matters worse, Daniel O’Connell had won a seat in the Commons, which he could not fill due to his refusal to take the Oath of Supremacy, further exacerbating unrest in Ireland. Despite the Triumvirate’s best efforts, change was coming to Britain. The coming decade would prove a decisive one for the political development of the United Kingdom.

[1] This is a paraphrase of an OTL quote from Eldon.

[2] This is also OTL. Kinneir examined potential invasion routes to India from the perspective of several potential enemies, attributing some as likely choices for ‘a Napoleon’ and others as better bets for Russia. He was pretty skeptical about most possible invasion strategies.

[3] Obliterationism is essentially TTL’s equivalent to totalitarianism. The idea is that these kinds of ideologies obliterate the individual and their identity.

[4] The Six Acts are OTL, but at least two of them lapsed within a few years. Sidmouth ITTL doesn’t want to let any of them go if he can help it.

[5] Shelley was also quite critical of Lord Eldon IOTL, and naturally has a lot more reason to be here.

 

[TRH]

It's been entirely too long since I updated this, but yeah, grad school is kind of kicking my ass over here. And honestly, I didn't want to rush this chapter out in any case, for reasons you'll see shortly. Today we're looking at the Egyptian-Ottoman War, so enjoy.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Aegyptus Surgit​

Excerpted from The Age of Revolutions by A.F. Stoddard, 2006.​

It’s a common adage that the treaty ending one war lays the groundwork for the new one, by pitting the victors’ ambitions against one another. In the case of Naxos, however, the reverse was true. The Khedive of Egypt, smarting from the loss of his navy, began agitating for new concessions almost immediately. With the French taking Crete for themselves, Muhammad Ali demanded that the Sultan cede Syria to him as compensation for his losses in the war with the Greeks.

Mustafa IV, for his part, was unimpressed by the Khedive’s demands. The Sultan declared himself unbound by obligations his predecessor may have made during the Greek Revolution, and certainly saw no reason to reward the Egyptians for a failed campaign. Moreover, the personal friction between the two men was far more acute than that between Ali and Selim.

Despite their occasional conflicting ambitions, the Khedive respected the previous Sultan for his progressive outlook, as well as his struggles against reactionary elements within the Empire. [1] Mustafa commanded far less respect in Cairo, since in Ali’s eyes, he combined the worst of reaction and opportunism in one abrasive figure. This interpersonal tension may explain the tenor of Ali’s exchanges with his nominal sovereign, which often verged on outright insubordination.

In any event, Mustafa’s snub proved the final straw for Ali, and set his ambitions on a collision course with Constantinople. He had coveted control over the Levant for years, and now felt no compunctions about taking it by force. For the next several years, Ali bided his time, rebuilding his army and navy in preparation for a confrontation with the Sublime Porte. In October 1829, using a minor commercial dispute as a pretext, the Egyptians invaded the Levant.

The balance of forces favored the Egyptians in the war’s early days. Ali’s forces, led by his son Ibrahim, were veterans of many battles. In addition to fighting the Greeks, the Khedive’s armies had also conducted successful campaigns along the Red Sea coast, bringing the holy cities of Mecca and Medina under the Sultan’s control. To compound this advantage, the governor of Sidon lacked access to well-trained and equipped forces like Ibrahim’s or the men of the Nizam-i-Djedid, a legacy of Selim’s reluctance to arm his governors with powerful armies that could be turned against him. Egyptian naval superiority also slowed the arrival of reinforcements from Constantinople, resulting in the surrender of Acre by March.

From there, Ibrahim’s forces advanced up the coast, capturing Damascus and other key cities over the course of the next several months. By September 1830, Ottoman reinforcements began to slow the Egyptian advance, checking Ibrahim at the Battle of Antep in southeastern Anatolia. Chastened by this defeat, the Crown Prince switched tactics, wheeling his forces northwestwards towards Adana. The Turkish army marched in pursuit, just as Ibrahim had hoped. On the Cilician Plain east of Adana, the Egyptians could make proper use of their superior cavalry, defeating the larger Ottoman force.

Defeated, but not broken, the Ottomans withdrew into central Anatolia, with Ibrahim pursuing this time. Subsequent confrontations at Konya and Eskişehir were bitterly contested, but the Egyptians prevailed despite significant losses. [2] With Muhammad Ali’s forces encroaching ever closer to the capital, a sense of panic set in in Constantinople. Mustafa’s executions of his brother and cousin meant that should he die, the last heir to the Osman dynasty would be his 10-year-old son Abdul Hamid II. To many observers, the Ottoman Empire’s final hour had come.

This was a frightening prospect, not only for the Ottomans themselves, but for governments across Europe. The Eldon Ministry, which had previously been disengaged with the eastern Mediterranean as a part of their geopolitical strategy, began building up land and naval forces in Sicily. Russia and Austria also kept a close eye on the campaign in Anatolia. Of course, the most important response would be the French one. And developments in France would soon exacerbate the Turkish crisis even further.

By the late 1820’s, Napoleon’s health was failing. His leg wound from Regensburg began aggravating him severely, forcing the Emperor to rely on opiates to combat the pain. This came with its own problems, however. Under the influence of opium, the Emperor grew increasingly lethargic and withdrawn, rarely leaving Fontainebleau. [3]

“I fear the spark of inspiration has left him,” lamented the Marquis de Caulaincourt in 1829. “The man who once towered over a continent is little better than an invalid now. One can do nothing but despair in witnessing this.”

Napoleon, in his moments of clarity, was equally despondent about his deteriorating condition.

“Pain and fatigue nearly overwhelm me,” he told Marie Louise. “Perhaps it would have been better were I a Hannibal instead. Only failed conquerors may die with dignity.” [4]

With the Emperor unfit to lead on the Egyptian question, his government was left divided on how to respond to the latest Ottoman upheaval. Muhammad Ali enjoyed cordial relations with the French, but some were concerned about the implications should the Turks face too comprehensive a defeat. Were the Ottoman Empire to collapse, then there would likely be a mad rush between the great powers of Europe to seize as much territory and influence as they could. This could even re-ignite war with Britain, who continued to marshal forces on Sicily and Malta as the crisis continued.

Marshal Savary, leader of the French war faction in 1830.

Talleyrand, as always, was the voice of diplomacy. He suggested that the great powers intercede to broker a peace settlement between Ali and the Sultan. In light of the events of the Greek Revolution, neither man would be so foolish as to ignore such an ultimatum, and it would ratchet down tensions in the region. Others took a more hawkish bent, however. Led by Marshal Anne-Jean-Marie-René Savary, this faction welcomed the prospect of a general war. The French navy was still outnumbered by the British overall, but enjoyed local superiority in most of the Mediterranean. By buying off Austria, Russia and Spain with gains from the Turks and Gibraltar, respectively, the hawks believed they could expel the British from the Mediterranean altogether, while also claiming significant ground in the former Turkish lands.

Savary’s faction outnumbered Talleryand’s supporters in the Conservative Senate, but neither side was willing to act with the Emperor’s passing seemingly imminent. They did make sure to prevail upon Napoleon II, and try swaying the Prince Imperial to their point of view, but the prince kept his own counsel. He and his mother rarely left Fontainebleau during October 1830, as the Emperor began losing weight rapidly due to vomiting. Finally, on November 10th, the Emperor breathed his last.

With all of Europe on the precipice of war, it now fell to Napoleon’s 18-year-old successor to chart the course of his father’s Empire.

[1] As per OTL, Muhammad Ali dispatched the Mamluks in much the same manner that TTL’s Selim disposed of the Janissaries. In fact, he likely used Selim’s example as a model for tactical execution here.

[2] The Turkish army is more formidable than OTL, but they lost most of their artillery at Adana, and have had to disperse some of their forces to guard against cavalry raids.

[3] I read up a little on opiate addiction to try and present a realistic portrayal of Napoleon sliding into heavy drug abuse. Hopefully I did that justice.

[4] I came up with that line ages ago. Probably had Jason Isbell’s Elephant on the brain when I wrote it, with the idea that there’s no such thing as a peaceful death. Hopefully not laying that on too thick here.

 

[TRH]

It's been a year since I started this little story, and it's certainly been one hell of a ride. I wouldn't have been able to stick with this for so long if it weren't for you guys, so thank you, one and all! Today, we've got a Where Are They Now update to wrap up this second arc. This is a little different from past updates, in that it's not from the perspective of a book. It's also set in present tense, from the perspective of 1830. In any case, stay tuned for the next chapter, where I intend to go meta with this story. Enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Where Are They Now?​

Klemens von Metternich: As the architect of the Franco-Austrian détente that helped bring the Napoleonic Wars to a close, Prince Metternich gained acclaim throughout Europe for his shrewd decisionmaking. Ironically enough, the Austrian Foreign Minister’s loudest detractor during the post-war years was himself. Metternich spent the latter half of the 1820’s looking on in alarm as France expanded its influence to its South and East.

The 1825 intervention in Greece and the French invasion of Algiers two years later left the Mediterranean a French lake, as well as weakening the already precarious Ottoman Empire. Prince Metternich is currently working towards a diplomatic solution to the Egyptian crisis, for fear of escalation into a much larger war.

Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette: A longstanding and outspoken opponent of the Napoleonic regime, the Marquis de Lafayette spent years refusing all offers of political office from the Emperor. The passing of his wife Adrienne left the Marquis devastated, and largely disconnected from the political scene. The Treaty of Madrid rendered Napoleon politically unassailable, which has further diminished Lafayette’s hopes for a democratic France.

With little to salvage at home, Lafayette divided his time between entertaining guests at La Grange, who have never been in short supply, as well as occasional visits to the United States. The most recent trip involved a multi-year tour of the country in anticipation of its 50th anniversary. During this time, he consulted with William Crawford, Dewitt Clinton, and Henry Clay, giving his perspective on the state of the Democratic-Republicans in exchange for advice on how to advance his liberal agenda back home. [1]

Large crowds of well-wishers turned out to greet Lafayette in Philadelphia.

These consultations, along with the slow decline of the Emperor’s health after 1827 renewed the Marquis’ interest in politics. He belatedly accepted the standing offer of appointment to the Senate, and is currently working to form a coalition that will pressure Napoleon II, in the hopes that the new Emperor will be willing to transition the country towards a more democratic system.

Alexandre Dumas: The son of a disgraced Afro-Caribbean general, Alexandre Dumas has spent much of his young life languishing in poverty. He writes newspaper articles and the occasional play to make ends meet, but without patronage of any kind, his work remains obscure and unappreciated.

Marie-Henri Beyle: As Commissioner of War Supplies for the Grande Armée, Marie-Henri Beyle is currently tasked with preparing forces for a French intervention into the roiling Egyptian crisis. [2] As a steadfast Romantic and admirer of foreign cultures, Beyle has also found time to write travel memoirs of his time in Germany and Italy. His 1822 book Île de la Faucille has sparked widespread interest in the island of Corfu, which offers natural beauty along with the best of French, Italian, and Greek culture.

Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel: An abstruse yet penetrating political thinker, Hegel has devoted years to creating a model of human advancement, and where the French Revolution fits in the story of our race. Hegel’s teleological vision postulates that the internal contradictions and strife endemic to human society are not so chaotic as they seem, but simply represent stages of self-discovery and learning. By testing seemingly contradictory ideals against each other, we are able to reconcile them into a more comprehensive understanding of our place in the universe.

An artist's depiction of Hegel's fateful encounter with Napoleon while the French army marched through Jena, 1806.

To Hegel, the story of the French Revolution represents this process in miniature. The radicalism of the early Jacobins prompted a counter-revolution, the Thermidor reaction, which held sway until the rise of Napoleon, who came to power with a synthesis of both of the movements preceding him. Hegel sees conflicts such as this as waypoints along the path towards perfect self-awareness, a state that our society may reach in some future time, but which must currently remain a dream for the future. [3]

Pauline Léon: After her release from prison in 1794, the radical French feminist spent the following quarter-century living in obscurity. Nothing is known about this phase of her life, other than that her husband Théophile Leclerc passed away, and that some length of these years was spent in the Vendée. Finally, in 1819, she returned to political life as suddenly as she’d left, joining the Saint-Simonian newsletter L’Organisateur. [4]

This second stint in public life is proving a tenuous one, as the journal faces constant scrutiny from La Sûreté. Nevertheless, Saint-Simon’s allies continue to agitate for women’s rights as well as the rights of workers. Léon is currently working alongside the younger writer Claire Démar on a piece exploring the implications for women in the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen.

Wilhelm von Humboldt: Philosopher, linguist, schoolmaster, and diplomat, Wilhelm von Humboldt is a man of many talents, and equally numerous responsibilities. As the Foreign Minister of Prussia, Humboldt has had to steer the Kingdom through its darkest hours, with Napoleon’s encroaching influence encircling it, and leaving Prussia a shell of its former self.

Direct confrontation with the French is unthinkable, given Berlin’s vulnerability in the wake of Tilsit, and conspiring with France’s other rivals is equally dangerous. As such, Humboldt’s focus has been on conciliatory measures that improve Prussia’s long-term security without alarming the French. These have included private reassurances to Tsar Alexander that Prussia has abandoned all claims to its former possessions in Poland, as well as negotiating the marriage of Prussian Prince Frederick to Charlotte, Princess of Wales. [5] In time, Humboldt hopes to break the French grip on its German satellites, allowing Prussia to reassert itself and regain its former glory.

Pierre Louis Roederer: As the Minister of Finance for King Joseph of Naples, Pierre Louis Roederer has been a key architect behind many of Joseph’s accomplishments in Italy. Roederer’s administrative skill, combined with Joseph’s progressive idealism have made Naples by far the best-governed of Napoleon’s satellite states. And with the threat of renewed war between Britain and France looming, both men hope that this is the opportunity they need to capture Sicily, reuniting their fractured domain at long last.

Victor Hugo: A Romantic in the tradition of Chateaubriand, Victor Hugo is considered by many to be France’s most promising up-and-coming poet. His 1826 compilation Odes et Ballades is already hailed by many as a classic, showing all the lyrical dexterity of a veteran wordsmith.

Like his father, Hugo is a steadfast admirer of Napoleon, a fact that cynics often cite to explain his rapid rise to prominence. But regardless of one’s opinion of the man, there is no denying his success and artistic influence, and with his first foray into playwriting expected next year, all of Paris eagerly awaits the young writer’s upcoming comedy.

[1] I don’t know how much advice Lafayette solicited during this trip IOTL, but he certainly rubbed shoulders with a lot of notable figures along the way. ITTL, he was less active during the 1810’s because Napoleon seemed completely untouchable, and it was only when he fell into his opium addiction and had to start delegating his responsibilities that Gilbert saw an opening to try and do some good again.

[2] Stendhal had this post IOTL during the retreat from Russia. Soldiering didn’t go so well for him, but he was apparently better with logistics.

[3] Hegel isn’t exactly easy to understand, so I hope I didn’t butcher this too much. What’s important ITTL is that Hegel doesn’t consider 1830’s Prussia to be the pinnacle of human achievement – he can’t, considering how weak it is. And that conviction that the Weltgeist is still leading us somewhere important will be an influential one in the decades to come.

[4] The Saint-Simonians had a number of prominent feminists in their ranks IOTL, including Démar. It seems like the most hospitable environment available for Léon’s return to politics.

[5] These two were probably an item IOTL, depending on who you believe. And I mentioned before that Charlotte has a role to play, so we’ll get to that soon enough.

 

[TRH]

And to truly bring this arc to a close, here's a map of the world in 1830, as the Turkish-Egyptian War and the Portuguese Civil War still rage. Credit to @Kikkomaan for the map. Enjoy!

 

[TRH]

My term is winding down, so hopefully I'll be able to update more frequently for a while. In any case, I've got something special planned for this update: in-universe alternate history! This gives me a few different opportunities in terms of storytelling. The obvious one is that I get to explore crazy dystopia ideas that I don't want to pursue in the main continuity of the timeline. Of course, since that's such an obvious draw, I've decided to go the other direction for this first installment, and introduce a crazy utopian idea that I don't want to pursue ITTL. Also, a ton of additional foreshadowing!

More than that, though, I think it's interesting to think about the historiography of an alternate history. We have an idea of decisive or pivotal moments in our timeline, which often say a lot about us, so thinking about what people in your fictional timeline think are important events can be just as revealing. Of course, this might just be my head disappearing up my own ass, so feel free to let me know if you think more in-universe timelines are worth pursuing. I just wrote up an analysis/review of a timeline for this one, but I can definitely see myself including excerpts in future installments if you guys are interested.

In any case, next time I'll return to France to see how the new Emperor handles the Egyptian crisis. So stay tuned for that!

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Tales from an Alternate History​

Excerpted from An Allohistorical Anthology by Agnetha Karlsson, 1998.​

Allohistory is the lamentation of people who think they’ve been robbed. Mencken wrote this less than a decade after the end of the Eurasian War, and although it’s an unfair generalization, the jibe still hits uncomfortably close to home. Patriotism has a way of insinuating itself into allohistorical fiction, and the study of what could have been is subsumed by a writer’s conception of what should have been.

To understand the utopian tendency within this genre, we will explore one of its oldest and most influential entries, one that exemplifies the Whiggish optimism of its time. If Mencken had any particular story in mind when he gave his take on allohistory, then he undoubtedly thought of Robert Quick’s 1890 essay A Stillborn Revolution. From the initial premise, where Princess Charlotte of Wales dies in childbirth in 1817, the book explores a Britain that might have been, had it been deprived of The People’s Princess. [1]

Before we start, it’s important not to sell short the audacity of Quick’s story. He recognized that the death of Charlotte, a key symbol of liberal reform in the British Empire, would have its most profound impact not on British liberalism, but on the reputation of the monarchy itself. Quick had ample reason to reach this conclusion, given the political climate of 1820’s Europe, but to portray a republican revolution as utopian was, and still is, a radical sentiment in Britain. Quick was certainly forced to downplay the sentiment behind his work, labeling it a thought experiment instead of a description of his ideal world. Nevertheless, observers at the time and today were convinced that this thought experiment was the product of conviction as much as intellectual curiosity.

Synopsis: Princess Charlotte of Wales dies while giving birth to her first child in 1817. From there, little changes in Britain or elsewhere in the short term. George Canning is still assassinated in 1820 by Arthur Thistlewood, resulting in Lord Eldon and his Tory allies taking power. The allohistory begins in earnest a decade after Charlotte’s death, when Spencer Perceval dies, leaving the High Tories in turmoil.

From the history we know, Princess Charlotte was rarely allowed to interact freely with the general public, but her rebellious streak was well-known, and the British people thought her far more amiable than her father or grandfather, while also lacking their psychotic tendencies. As such, she became a symbol of resistance against the Eldon government, but was also seen as evidence that the monarchy could be better than what George IV and George III had represented. Her cooperation with Sir Robert Peel and Charles Grey in passing parliamentary reform was a critical moment in British history. [2]

In Quick’s narrative, the conservatives do not yield their power gracefully. William IV proves a weak ruler, easily swayed by Viscount Sidmouth and Lord Eldon. The selective electoral reforms undertaken by the Tories in the wake of the failed 1828 Corn Law further calcify Parliament. By increasing the number of boroughs and enfranchising at-will tenants, they are able to strengthen the hand of landlords to mitigate the rising Whig sentiment among the middle and lower classes. [3] The continued enforcement of the Six Acts also makes it difficult for even peaceful demonstrations to be organized against the sitting government.

With the Commons controlled by a Tory coalition that’s a minority government in every sense of the term, and the Lords steadfastly refusing to consider reform, violence ensues. Starting in April 1833, riots sweep the country from Edinburgh to Bristol. Viscount Sidmouth’s mansion in Richmond Park is burned to the ground during the riots, along with the estates of several other lords. The British army is mobilized to quell the rioting, but the campaign for popular sovereignty and an end to the Six Acts refuses to yield.

With direct force proving insufficient, the radicals, led by Thomas Attwood and William Cobbett, decided to change tactics. An organized bank run ensued, putting the Bank of England’s solvency at risk, while an alliance of Whigs and Canningites resolved to withhold confidence from the Eldon government. With Eldon unable to maintain a government, new elections are called, with the Whig-Canningite coalition prevailing. Despite all of this, the House of Lords remains obstinate, refusing to consider Grey’s stab at moderate reforms to the franchise. This proves the final straw, and a second wave of riots begins in November 1833. This time, the army refuses to move against the protesters, and both William and the Lords, fearing violent retribution, are forced to flee.

When the dust settles, the Whigs, in accordance with the now overwhelming popular will, begin the transition towards a republican government. Many of their early reforms are acts Grey historically enacted with the approval of Queen Charlotte, including an end to rotten boroughs and a repeal of the Six Acts. Others are forced upon him by the situation: with the royal family and many Lords having departed for Hanover, Spain, Prussia, or other places, the British parliamentary system is revised, becoming a unicameral legislature, with a President serving as the new head of state.

From here, Quick’s narrative becomes less detailed. The new Republic of Great Britain and Ireland selectively asserts itself on the international stage, but always with careful consideration and righteous conviction. By embracing mass popular mobilization in wartime, the republic fields larger armies than the Britain we know, which proves vital in winning the War of the Five Cousins in the 1850’s. More than that, Britain becomes a force for liberty, supporting anti-slave interests in the Sectional War and the Riverine Wars during that same decade.

Most striking of all, however, the republic intervenes in France to put an end to the Second Terror. Where the Royal Navy historically refused to challenge the French blockade of the Marseille Commune, the republicans act, sweeping aside the blockading ships to relieve the ill-fated rebellion. From there, British forces supplement a groundswell of popular resentment against the tyrannical French government, putting an end to its genocidal designs. The story ends as the tricolor is once again hoisted over the Bastille, and all across Paris, renditions of La Marseillaise and Rule Britannia can be heard well into the night.

Analysis: A Stillborn Revolution certainly challenges British faith in its monarchy as a force for good, both then and now. But more than that, it also challenged Quick’s own contemporaries, and the school of Whig History that he’s so commonly associated with. Far from being, or even progressing towards, the perfect realization of human liberty, Quick’s essay suggests that the world may, in fact, have missed important opportunities for progress. Had those opportunities been realized, then we would live in a better, freer world than the one we see now.

From that perspective, Quick’s utopianism is more than just sentimentality – it’s a challenge. After all, the divergence in his story, a tragedy that most would see as a setback to liberalism, is presented as an opportunity in disguise. Quick’s challenge to the human race is to find the silver linings, and live the virtues that we want to see win out in the world. That’s what makes his story resonate, despite being an otherwise breezy narrative by the standards of allohistory.

It’s also proof that Mencken was wrong about the utopianism of this genre of historical fiction. Far from being a feeble lament that we’ve been robbed of a better, more gratifying reality, utopian allohistory is a call to seize and to create that better world for ourselves. And as the 20th century comes to a close, with the Byzantine power struggles between the Council of Ten and the MISTIC bloc continuing with no end in sight, that’s a call we’d do well to heed.

[1] My inspiration for this is essentially Arnold Toynbee’s speculation about Alexander the Great surviving in his book Some Problems in Greek History. This story is less about the future and more about how 1830’s Britain would get to a republican government, and its design. The idea of it consciously acting as a beacon of liberty, well, honestly I think I’m pulling from a lot of timelines on this site that have Britain or the US or whoever doing that. If you’ve been here long enough, you’ve seen a lot of those.

[2] Compared to William, she’s more willing to threaten to appoint new Lords, so TTL’s standoff over reform is shorter and less turbulent than OTL. This in turn, makes Quick’s suggestion that this period was a golden opportunity for republican revolution all the more startling ITTL, while seeming more convincing from our OTL perspective. Or maybe less convincing, since Charlotte did die IOTL and we know that didn't doom the monarchy. Head spinning yet?

[3] An OTL provision from the 1832 Reform Act to mollify the Tories. Here (ITTL and in Quick’s TL) they just enfranchise at-will tenants on their own to try and hold onto government as long as they can.

 

[TRH]

Hope everyone's enjoying the holidays. I've been planning the resolution to the Egyptian crisis for a long time now, and I'll admit, I initially had a much more convoluted/dramatic ending in mind, with some bait-and-switches and obfuscating stupidity from Napoleon II. In the end, I decided that would be too risky and needlessly complicated to get what he wants from this, so we've got a shorter chapter than I expected. In any case, this is where the third arc starts in earnest, so enjoy! Next time, we'll return to Portugal to see how their civil war is going.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: L’Empereur Est Mort…​

Excerpted from The Road to War: 1830-1852 by Alexander Peterson, 1971.​

The 1850’s are remembered as a decade of conflict, one that presaged the industrialized butchery of the 20th Century. But because observers tend to see the wars of this period as merely preludes to later conflicts, their own causes often go unexamined. This book seeks to rectify these oversights, and present an organised analysis of the origins of the War of the Five Cousins, the Sectional War, and the Riverine Wars, and why these struggles sundered three continents. [1]

Because the popular explanations for these wars consider only their connection to 20th Century struggles, they tend to be systemic explanations that emphasise a broad continuity. The burgeoning appeal of nationalism in Europe, the sectional polarisation in the United States, the rise of the Trust with its disruptive effects on international business, and the fallout from the Portuguese Civil War and the wars of independence in Spanish America are all commonly cited causes. [2]

These explanations are insufficient for a complete understanding of the midcentury wars. Their failing is not simply that in eyeing systemic factors, they ignore the influence of individual actors. Rather, individuals and systems interact in complex ways, which are not nearly as predictable as many scholars assume. No man encapsulated this truth as completely as Napoleon II, which is why this analysis begins with his ascent to the French throne following the death of his father.

The passing of Napoleon I certainly shook the nation, and indeed, the world. And yet even as the Emperor’s body was being interred in Les Invalides, the internal debate over the Egyptian crisis continued in the background. By November 1830, Ibrahim Pasha’s army had reached northern Anatolia. Come spring, it would be able to push on towards Constantinople, with only an increasingly demoralised Turkish army standing in the way. The French Senate stood divided between hawks under Marshal Savary, who wanted to speed the Sublime Porte on its slide towards oblivion, and doves led by Talleyrand, who preferred to broker a diplomatic end to the Turkish-Egyptian war.

Like his father, Napoleon II's coronation took place at the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

During his father’s incapacitation, the Prince had been guarded in his sympathies, refusing to side with either Savary or Talleyrand. This did not change upon his coronation: instead of endorsing either the hawkish or dovish approach, Napoleon II chose a different strategy entirely. A French fleet set off from Taranto, but instead of aiding Muhammad Ali, their orders were to side with the Sultan. The French army under Marshal Jourdan reached the Dardanelles in mid-December, with ample time to fortify their position and prevent the Egyptians from advancing any further.

The French force was accompanied by a contingent of diplomats. Led by Louis Antoine Fauvelet de Bourienne, a veteran negotiator and an old friend of the former Emperor, the French delegation approached Ibrahim Pasha to negotiate a ceasefire. The Egyptian, remembering well his past defeats at French hands, was quick to agree, especially upon learning that a second French fleet had been sent to blockade Alexandria, and if necessary, bombard it. Turkish representatives were invited to join Ibrahim and Bourienne at Eskişehir, where the Egyptians were wintering, to broker a peace deal.

The Convention of Eskişehir was favorable to the Egyptians, at least on paper. Ali’s claims to Syria were vindicated, and he received the provinces of Syria and Sidon at the Convention. However, there were secret bilateral agreements between the French and the Ottomans at Eskişehir designed to alleviate Turkish security concerns. For one, the French agreed to intercede again on the side of the Porte in the event of another war with Muhammad Ali. For another, the French agreed to send a mission to Constantinople to aid the Turkish army in meeting European standards. Lastly, the Turks agreed to purchase a sizable number of French artillery to refit their forces.

It’s here that we see how Napoleon II differed from his father in his approach to war and diplomacy. Unlike previous French moves in the region, he sought no territorial gains from either side in exchange for his aid. Instead, his focus was on cultivating long-term dependency on French support for both the Turks and the Egyptians. One of the public treaty provisions required both Ali and Sultan Mustafa to open their markets to French imports. This would hinder Ali’s efforts to cultivate an Egyptian textile industry to compete with those in the West, while also benefiting his country’s cotton growers. While the economics of the time was rudimentary at best, it does seem that the young Emperor had recognised the potential of Ricardianism to strengthen industrial powers like France at the expense of less advanced economies. [3]

His military commitments to the Sultan followed similar logic. The sale of advanced French artillery to the Turks was less concerned with profits from the transaction, and more with increasing Turkish dependency on French advisers who were familiar with the equipment. Combined with the economic influence that France would gain within the Empire, these security commitments would give the Emperor considerable leverage over the Sultan in the coming decades.

In a larger sense, however, Napoleon II had effectively sided with Talleyrand over Savary; he did not agree that the time was ripe for a general European war. The Emperor believed, as few hawks ever do, that time was on France’s side, and that his Empire would only gain strength compared to its rivals as the years went by. [4] This optimism would eventually be tested, but for the time being, it made the young Emperor committed to peace on the continent. And for the immediate future, he would get his wish.

[1] This is my first time experimenting with an author using British spelling. It doesn’t come naturally to me, of course, so if anyone spots inconsistencies, I’ll be happy to correct them.

[2] I think this is kind of the default approach for historians, or at least for history classes. They think their job is to explain why things happened rather than how they might not have, so there’s a bias towards determinism. And systems are (seem?) more predictable than people, so that becomes the model of choice. Peterson presents one of the counterpoints I’ve come up with in arguing that people and systems aren’t mutually exclusive. How can they be, when systemic explanations still rely on people most of the time?

[3] As I mentioned back in Chapter 14, I’ve seen scholarship claiming that the French actually did more than the British to spread free trade in the 19th Century. Now that they’ve got a true believer in capitalism at the helm, that trend will accelerate.

[4] That really is what singles out a hawk when you think about it. Why else would they want war now rather than later?

 

[TRH]

Napoleon II seems like a very competent successor to Ol Boney

Yes, I'm writing him to be a sneaky and cunning bastard. Of course, he's different from his father in many ways, but also shares similar weaknesses, which will become more apparent later on. I'll go into his mindset in more detail in a later update.

In the meantime, here's the wrapup to the Portuguese Civil War. This sets up tensions that will fester for a while ITTL's South America, and prove especially potent in the 1850's, when everything goes to shit everywhere, pretty much. Enjoy, and stay tuned for the next chapter, where I'll return to France to explore their domestic situation.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Whose Sacrifice?​

Excerpted from The Road to War: 1830-1852 by Alexander Peterson, 1971.​

The Portuguese Civil War is often portrayed, especially by Whig historians, as a war of contrasts. A usurper against the rightful heir to the throne, the Old World and the New, liberalism versus conservatism. But these contrasts elide a more fundamental similarity between Miguel and his older brother Pedro. Namely, that both men were reluctant to confront each other decisively while their domestic political positions steadily deteriorated.

Given his ultimate defeat, the weakness of Miguel’s regime receives more attention. The failed rebellions against his rule in Porto and the Azores, along with the latter’s capture by Pedro’s forces in 1831, are well-remembered. What’s less well-known is that Pedro faced similar uprisings in Brazil as he prepared to reclaim Lisbon.

Ironically, although he had been sent to Brazil by his father to establish a regime with more local accountability, Pedro did much the opposite. Like his father, Pedro was an absolutist at heart, and only tolerated other governing bodies insofar as they gave him free rein to pursue his own agenda. As such, Pedro’s Council of State composed a Constitution for Brazil that centralized governing authority in the King, giving little autonomy to provincial authorities or to the National Assembly. [1]

This autocratic arrangement became all the more galling for Brazilians in the years following 1825, as Pedro began mobilizing the country to reconquer Portugal. The army and navy were expanded in size. French Admiral Guy-Victor Duperré, the hero of Grand Port, was offered command of the Royal Brazilian Navy. To pay for this expansion, the crown was forced to levy high import duties on goods such as wine, textiles, and perfumes. [2] By necessity, these tariffs put a heavy burden on the Kingdom’s elites, the only reliable source of revenue in the country.

Unsurprisingly, these measures were the cause of significant unrest across Brazil. Slaveholders and other local magnates made common cause with regional separatists, united by their desire for greater financial and political autonomy. The first of these revolutionary movements arose in 1826 in Pernambuco and neighboring provinces in the northeast of the country, but others followed. In 1829, the Riograndense Republic was declared in Rio Grande do Sul. This rebellion proved especially tenacious, backed as it was by a vengeful Argentina. The fiercest conflict of all, however, came from Grão-Pará, where poor Indians, slaves, and mixed-race Brazilians established the Paraence Republic in 1831. [3]

The Brazilian army marching to put down rebellions in the provinces.

These irregular wars divided Pedro’s attention, and delayed his reckoning with Miguel for year after year, with no end in sight. By 1832, the Brazilian King decided to make his move, before matters in Brazil could spiral even farther out of control. He had not received as much foreign assistance as he’d hoped, but he did have assurances from the governments of Britain, France and Spain that they would not interfere in an internal Portuguese dispute, and that was enough.

On June 10th, a decisive naval battle took place off Porto, where Duperré’s ships destroyed Miguel’s fleet. With naval superiority assured, the Brazilian army was able to land in Porto and march on Lisbon. This alone did not end the war, however. Pedro had support from the middle class in liberal cities like Porto and Lisbon, but the rural south of the country remained loyal to Miguel. The Portuguese-Brazilian loyalist army was forced into a lengthy campaign to eliminate Miguelite resistance south of the Tagus, with fighting continuing into 1833. Finally, by July 1833, Miguel’s forces surrendered, with the erstwhile King going into exile in Britain.

Pedro's Loyalists engage the Miguelite fleet at the Battle of the Douro.

Success in Portugal didn’t alleviate Pedro’s problems in Brazil – if anything, it exacerbated them. The Brazilian people resented the heavy taxes and repression they suffered simply so that a European prince could pursue his own ambitions at home. And with Pedro and his army committed in Europe, there was nothing to prevent revolution any longer. As such, in May 1833, just as the campaign against the Miguelites was winding down, riots in Rio de Janeiro metastasized into a more serious rebellion. The National Assembly, previously supine to Pedro’s whims, decided to throw its weight behind the popular demonstrations. Just as Pedro had secured his Portuguese inheritance, he had lost his American one, with the Assembly proclaiming Brazil a republic.

As much as Pedro may have wanted to redress this betrayal, he was in a poor position to do so. The Portuguese army was weakened both by the civil war and by the purges that had preceded it. And there was little desire for a personal union in either Portugal or Brazil. In a final act of charity before this parting of the ways, Pedro offered passage to Brazil for any soldiers in the loyalist army who wanted to return home. He would not contest the declaration of independence in any way.

In any event, the Portuguese Civil War carried implications far beyond the dissolution of the union between Portugal and Brazil. In Europe, Pedro would prove a cautious and even-handed ruler, chastened by his experiences with discontent in the New World. In Brazil, the Assembly, riven by factionalism and still confronted with violent secessionist movements, would struggle to maintain order in what would ultimately prove a cataclysmic 19th Century.

[1] Something Pedro said IOTL was that he would “do everything for the people and nothing by the people.” That was right before he got run out of Brazil by revolutionaries, so that tells you something.

[2] Popular import items to Brazil during this period.

[3] All of these rebellions were OTL, although I moved up the latter two to take place during this period. Since the Portuguese court didn’t move to Brazil ITTL, there’s less kinship felt with Pedro and the crown generally.

 

[TRH]

Just in time for Turtledove season, we've got a new update. I'd intended for this to touch on domestic affairs in France, but I'd wanted to start with some description of TTL's Napoleon II, a radically different beast from OTL's, and that explanation drifted into foreign policy quickly. So that's the main focus for today, accompanied by a shitton of footnotes. Next time, we'll look at internal affairs, and then it's back to the United States to look at the Van Buren Administration. Enjoy!

Chapter Thirty: …Vive L’Empereur!​

Excerpted from The Road to War: 1830-1852 by Alexander Peterson, 1971.​

From a biographer’s standpoint, Napoleon II is a far more challenging subject than his father. From a young age, the prince understood the value of information control, and of keeping his knowledge and opinions as carefully guarded secrets. As a result, his personal writings are harder to come by than those of Napoleon I, and what correspondence has survived is often terse to the point of indecipherability. As a result, scholars tend to rely on the observations of the Emperor’s servants and confidants to divine his motivations and intentions.

One particularly well-remembered observation came from Bourienne, who noticed that the young prince’s fascination with the Spanish Revolution, and in particular with the negotiations between his father and King Ferdinand for French help in restoring the Bourbons.

“The sight of a proud King reduced to the role of petitioner in the court of France…seems to mesmerise the prince,” Bourienne noted.

In the eyes of many observers, Napoleon II never let go of his childhood fancy, of the Emperor of France sovereign over all Europe, with other Kings and Emperors as courtiers. If this is true, however, then the Emperor made a servant of his vanity rather than a master – his self-regard became the cornerstone of French strategy during the mid-19th Century. [1]

An adolescent portrait of Napoleon II.

French foreign policy during this period was, in many ways, a continuation of Napoleon I’s post-Madrid approach, with its judicious and opportunistic use of direct force. However, the son refined his father’s tactics by combining conventional military and diplomatic strength with other disciplines, such as economics, espionage, and internal political intrigue. This sophisticated approach was calculated to ensconce as many nations as possible into mutually beneficial relationships with the French Empire. This both minimised the risk of direct conflict, while also leaving France in an indispensable position as the continent’s primary peacemaker, without whom orderly conflict resolution was impossible. [2]

In Europe, this strategy was the driving logic between the 1833 and 1834 commercial treaties between France and Austria and Prussia, respectively, lowering trade barriers between the three countries. As Finance Minister Georges Humann noted, allowing these countries to traffic their goods through French ports freely would improve general prosperity, but it would also leave the smaller powers vulnerable should they defy French direction. [3]

French strategy in the colonial arena was more complex, for two reasons. The first is that unlike the continent, France’s position in Africa and Asia was tenuous at best. Despite Napoleon I’s successful efforts to rebuild the French navy in the wake of Trafalgar, they were still outnumbered and outclassed by the Royal Navy, especially outside European waters. Any moves in other theaters had to be judged carefully, lest they provoke an unfavourable conflict with London. By the same token, however, French distance from other theaters meant that the consequences of war were only significant if European powers came to blows. Otherwise, war on distant continents had few meaningful consequences for France itself.

These considerations resulted in a delicate approach from Napoleon II overseas; he attempted to court allies in distant theaters that might test British strength in the event of war, while also taking pains to prevent open war between his client states and the British Empire. French intrigue in India was a case in point. Although the Treaty of Madrid had ended overt French designs on the subcontinent, it did not prevent them from acting through local proxies. Ranjit Singh of the Sikh Empire was a particularly valuable asset by virtue of his strength and position. His domain controlled the strategic Khyber Pass, through which an invading army could penetrate India via Afghanistan. Moreover, the Sikhs themselves possessed a powerful army, which the East India Company feared rivaled their own.

Fortuitously, the French already had a well-placed asset in Ranjit’s court by the time of Napoleon II. Jean-François Allard, a soldier of fortune, had spent the years after the Napoleonic Wars travelling the Middle East, eventually finding his way into Sikh service as a general.

Jean-François Allard, General of the Sikh Empire.

It is only speculation as to whether the French Emperor had a hand in it, but in 1832, Allard convinced Ranjit to temporarily suspend his long-standing conflict with Afghanistan and turn his eyes southwest, towards Balochistan. The tribes inhabiting the region were ill-armed and politically disorganised, so through a combination of force and intrigue, Allard and the Sikh army gradually brought them to heel. By the time of Allard’s death in 1837, Ranjit Singh’s authority stretched as far as the Indian Ocean. [4]

At the same time, however, the wily Ranjit played a double game, entertaining British missions and signing treaties with the East India Company even as he asserted himself in Balochistan. Governor-General Lord Bentinck made the calculation that the Sikhs could be trusted to defend their northern borders against encroachment, indirectly shielding British India. [5]

While French efforts to distract Britain are self-explanatory, Napoleon II departed from his father’s policy by attempting to impede Russian ambitions as well. This was likely a result of anxiety: the Greek Revolution and the Egyptian crisis exposed the Ottoman Empire as deeply vulnerable to pressure, even despite French and British attempts to bolster its military. The Osman dynasty was still delicate, and its collapse would instigate the very Anglo-French conflict that the Emperor hoped to postpone.

This explains Napoleon’s intervention in the Egyptian crisis, but it also is the reason for French missions to Persia during this period. The Qajar dynasty had retreated in on itself following its traumatic defeat by Russia in 1812. This did not equate to idleness, however, as Crown Prince Abbas Mirza took to reforming the Shah’s army to avenge the failures of 1812. The opportunity for action against Russia never came, but Mirza was able to win a minor border war with the Turks in 1824, vindicating his efforts as well as his leadership skill. [6] And upon the death of Shah Fath Ali, Mirza took the throne in 1833.

Persian cavalry at the Battle of Erzerum, 1824.

Mirza made no secret of his admiration of Napoleon I, but his dealings with the Emperor’s successor were driven by more pragmatic considerations. [7] Of the three great powers of Europe, France had the lightest presence in the Middle East, and so seemed the least likely to exploit Persia for regional gains. As such, although the new Shah invited military advisers from several neighboring countries, it was the French whom he trusted with modernizing Persia itself. [8]

The city of Tabriz, which had become a critical frontier bastion following Nakhichavan, also became the nucleus for the gradual attunement of Persia. [9] The University of Tabriz, founded in 1840, combined classical education with the latest insights from the sciences and economics, along with several foreign languages. By introducing the French language, along with the ideals of liberalism and Ricardianism, the teachers at Tabriz played their own subtle role in bringing the Shah’s domain under French influence.

Although it is Louis XI that the French remember as L’Universelle Aragne, that title may better apply to Napoleon II. Where his father forged a powerful empire through military strength and cunning, the son’s prudence proved critical in maintaining it. Although later events would test that prudence, Napoleon II’s proficiency for transactions and intrigue made him the right man for the right time in the mid-19th Century.

[1] Because he was born after this timeline’s POD, I’m already well within my rights to do whatever I want with Napoleon II, who bears very little resemblance to OTL. That said, I do think it’s important to consider just what about his different environment and upbringing is different here. As was mentioned, he got to see the King of Spain groveling in front of his father at a young age, and that had a major effect. Also, he was too young to see his father’s military successes, but he did see plenty of political intrigue, so that became more interesting to him than just being a great general like his old man.

[2] You’ll notice this is largely a refinement of what Napoleon I was doing from the Fourth Coalition onwards. The status quo is favorable to France, so French Emperors should present themselves as defending the status quo even as they find sneaky ways to profit on the side. Napoleon II, with his multidisciplinary approach to politics, is especially adept at finding fringe benefits to transactions.

[3] That said, this sounds more cunning than it really is. The World Wars of OTL tell us that economics alone won’t prevent a war if it’s set to happen, and the lack of trade doesn’t impede belligerents quite as much as we assume it will. Time will tell if Napoleon II learns this lesson the hard way.

[4] Allard’s exploits were OTL, but this Balochi campaign isn’t. The British also relied on diplomacy more than force to subjugate this region IOTL, so the Sikhs are primarily relying on a somewhat more forceful variation of the same strategy.

[5] The first change in attitude we can detect from Britain’s new Whig government is that they’re more open-minded on foreign policy. This is kind of inspired by their OTL engagement with Abdur Rahman that ended the Second Anglo-Afghan War, where they realized that an enemy proxy could be bought off if they made a better offer.

[6] The Persians and Turks fought a war like this IOTL, too. It was delayed slightly because the Persians decided the Greek Revolution was the perfect time to pick a fight with the Porte.

[7] Conjecture on my part, but Mirza did keep a number of Napoleon portraits, along with those of other figures he admired.

[8] French officials helped revamp Persian education IOTL too, from what I read.

[9] Attunement is a TTL social science term I'll explain later on. It's...interesting stuff when taken to extremes.

 

[TRH]

Well, it's been way too long since I've done anything over here. First, I want to thank everyone who voted for this timeline in this year's Turtledoves. I was honored just to be on the same stage as giants like Napoleon53, and although we didn't come particularly close to winning, I'm more than happy to keep plugging away regardless. I'm in this for the long haul, so I'm confident we'll get there someday. So thanks again for all the support, everyone!

Now, grad school is crushing me to death right now, but I've also just been having trouble getting this chapter just right. I feel like quiet chapters are persistently difficult for me to write, and I couldn't find as good sourcing online as I'd like. Still, it is what it is. This chapter talks about the development of Lille in the 1830's, and some of the unexpected implications of industrialization. Next time, we'll take a look at the Van Buren Administration and the dawn of the Second Party System in the United States. Enjoy!

​

Chapter Thirty-One: The Modern City​

​

Excerpted from Angels and Demons: The Shadow War for the Soul of France by Mathias Gaspard, 2004.​

French history in the early 19th Century is defined by two factors. The first of these was the Bonaparte dynasty founded by Napoleon I. The second was the Industrial Revolution. The social impact of the Bonapartes is well-discussed elsewhere, so here we will instead focus on the implications of modernization. [1]

The broad contours of modernization are among the most thoroughly studied aspects of sociology, as governments throughout the world have sought to carefully attune their societies for optimal efficiency. Agricultural workers, the backbone of human society for millennia beforehand, are displaced from their fields and flock into cities to support themselves. There, they begin to man assembly lines or mine coal to power the factories. This has resulted in geometric growth in urban populations over the past two centuries.

But for a more detailed understanding of this process and how it affected France, we require a specific case study. The city of Lille will serve as a useful lens through which to better understand these phenomena. Not only was this city profoundly affected by the advent of modernization, but it was also affected in diverse ways that show underappreciated implications to the rise of the urban industrial class.

At the start of the French Revolution, Lille was an inauspicious border town, one that had been in French hands for barely a century before the storming of the Bastille. This began to change in 1792, when an Austrian army invested the city, only to be met by obstinate resistance from the citizens of Lille, which forced the invaders to withdraw after an eight-day siege. Lille continued to grow as the Republic gave way to the Empire, becoming the county seat for the Nord départment in 1804.

The city was one of the primary beneficiaries of the Continental System, with cotton and canning industries spurring its population growth. By 1830, after the previous decade’s agricultural slump ran its course, Lille had doubled in size from its pre-revolution population of 50,000.

This growth came with both benefits and challenges, however. In addition to an economic transformation, modernization carried cultural implications as well. Lille experienced a surge in new factories during the early 19th Century, but also a number of cabarets, taverns, museums and other amenities. The Palais de Beaux-Arts opened in 1809, and was followed twelve years later by the city’s first Natural History Museum. In addition to zoological and geological research, Lille’s museum also took part in early interest in studying Celtic history and culture. The work of Jacques Camby and his Celtic Academy at the beginning of the century inspired antiquarians eager to vindicate Napoleon’s assertion that the French people originated from a stock of “empire-building Celts.” [2]

Lille's Natural History Museum in 2000.

Lille’s growth also resulted in an upswing of crime. Rich and poor neighborhoods were closely packed together in the city, which made theft, vandalism, and other violent crimes commonplace during this period. Crime committed for material gain is, of course, predictable in its rationality, and so an increased presence by the Gendarmerie was able to keep the worst of this larceny in check.

A more difficult challenge for law enforcement emerged in May 1832, when Jean-Sébastien Favreau, a priest in the neighboring town of Roubaix, was found murdered in his home, the victim of arsenic poisoning. Four of the priest’s servants were also killed. In a grisly twist, the killer concealed the bodies of the dead servants; townspeople came across the dismembered remains of two over the days following Favreau’s death, while the other two bodies eluded even thorough searching.

To the frustration of authorities, however, the perpetrator defied common logic in their crimes. Favreau’s valuables remained untouched inside the house. Even more disturbing was the subsequent discovery that this was likely not the killer’s first act of violence. Another priest in nearby Tourcoing had passed away two years earlier, from what had been thought to be cholera. Closer scrutiny of that case led the Gendarmerie to the conclusion that the death in Tourcoing may have been another instance of poisoning by the same malefactor. [3]

The official conclusion was a sobering one: there was a serial killer at large in the area around Lille. And to the consternation of local law enforcement, this murderer was an elusive adversary. For half a decade, Lille's police would hunt fruitlessly for the Devil of Roubaix. And the consequences of this manhunt would reverberate for generations to come.

[1] One of the themes I wanted to tackle with this story was modernization theory, of the kind that Weber was interested in. I’ve noticed it’s a pretty ubiquitous motif in timelines set in the 18th and 19th Centuries, but it’s kind of just there and rarely commented on, except insofar as certain societies industrialize effectively while others screw up. These are the screws and wanks of these timelines, broadly speaking. I want to take a more nuanced approach to this, one that captures some of the cultural implications of industrialization, and especially of a world where industry catches on in more places quicker than OTL.

[2] Most of this is OTL, except for the Lille museum taking an interest in anthropology. This Celtic revival is related to the rise of industry, and I’ll explain it in more detail later on.

[3] This is why they called arsenic inheritance powder, because its symptoms were hard to distinguish from cholera at the time.

 

[TRH]

School has made it pretty much impossible to keep a consistent schedule over here, I'm afraid, but I'm roughly two-thirds done with it, so we'll see what the future holds. Unlike last time, I actually managed to get enough material for a normal-length update, so there's that. Today, we look at the Martin Van Buren Administration. Enjoy, and stay tuned for next chapter, where we return to Latin America.

Chapter Thirty-Two: To the Victor, the Spoils​

Excerpted from The Road to War: 1830-1852 by Alexander Peterson, 1971.
​

In his retrospective on the First American Party System, Charles Francis Adams justified his focus on the Federalists and the Democratic-Republicans by citing the precedents of judicial review and partisan patronage for bureaucratic positions. These practices helped define the stakes in contests between the two parties, thus giving meaning to their competition beyond mere sectionalism. This focus does date his analysis, as neither of these traditions carry much weight in modern America. Nevertheless, they were influential at the time, and so provide validity to Adams’ model.

This system came to a gradual end over the course of the 1820’s, as the Democratic-Republican Party fractured beyond repair in the hotly contested 1824 and 1828 elections. The ascent of the National Democrats under Martin Van Buren marks the start of the Second Party System not because Van Buren overturned the practices described by Adams, but because he turned them to his own ends. Preceding Presidents, from Madison on through Clay, had, in the eyes of Van Buren and many others, betrayed the Jeffersonian legacy. Instead of cultivating a society of yeoman farmers, these leaders had nurtured the rise of industry and banking. Their embrace of protectionist tariffs did bolster American industry during its critical early development, but this had come at the cost of higher expenses for farmers in the South and West. [1]

To be sure, Martin Van Buren was far from an ideal messenger for the grievances of the dispossessed South. The New York Senator had, after all, embraced President Clay’s Tariff of Abominations during the campaign season in hopes of keeping his coalition together. But this lapse simply made the new President all the more eager to demonstrate his willingness to appease the Southern wing of the National Democrats. To this end, he pursued three specific causes calculated to curry their favour.

The first of these causes was trade. The new President was in a difficult position; he could not justify a swift about-face on the Tariff of Abominations without instantaneously vitiating his own credibility. But he could not dodge the issue either. The same year he was elected, South Carolina published a letter of protest, asserting its right as a state to nullify Congressional legislation – specifically, the Tariff.

Van Buren could not condone this declaration from a legal standpoint, given its implications for the power of the federal government. Allowing states to selectively enforce federal legislation would leave the country little better off than it had been under the Articles of Confederation. But a concession needed to be made to keep the Party from splitting again. To this end, Van Buren promised Congress that half of the Tariff’s revenues would pay down the national debt, with the other half being distributed to the states. This did not wholly satisfy John Calhoun and other Southern lawmakers, but it reduced intraparty tensions. Come his second term, Van Buren expected more latitude to scale back the country’s trade barriers. [2]

The second leaf on Van Buren’s Southern olive branch was Indian policy. Here, ironically enough, Van Buren continued the path set by post-Jefferson Administrations, in departing from the third President’s Indian policy. Jefferson, after all, nursed some degree of idealism regarding the disposition of Native Americans. He felt it possible for some, especially those among the Five Civilised Tribes, to attune themselves into the mores of white American culture, prospering side by side as harmonious neighbors. [3]

This understanding was not shared by subsequent Administrations. Under James Madison, the United States Army intervened into the Creek Civil War, helping the pro-American Lower Creek faction to prevail over the more combative Upper Creeks. But the peace treaty brokered by Andrew Jackson at the end of the conflict betrayed his erstwhile allies, forcing the Creek nation to cede tens of millions of acres of what is now Alabama and Georgia to the American government, with a smaller portion being ceded to the Cherokee.

Creek chief William Weatherford surrenders to General Jackson, 1813.

This effectively cemented a new Indian policy, with different tribes being played against each other by Washington. The Cherokee and Choctaw tribes received US support and guarantees to (reduced) lands east of the Mississippi, while Creek, Chickasaw, and Seminoles were gradually forced across the great river. The suffering of these peoples on their forced migration westward is well-documented elsewhere. Van Buren continued this divide and conquer policy, with the 1830 Indian Removal Act paving the way for forced resettlement of natives. [4]

The final peace offering from the new Administration was a takeover of the civil service by the National Democratic Party. As one can infer from Adams’ analysis, this was a departure in degree rather than in kind from prior governments. Thomas Jefferson in particular was aggressive in removing Federalist appointees from the bureaucracy upon entering the White House. Still, Van Buren dismissed an unprecedented number of officials from across the federal government after taking office. Nearly a quarter of federal officeholders were rotated out between 1829 and 1832. The president’s public justification for doing this was that the government needed more democratic accountability in its appointments – as the chosen representative of the entire country, he was naturally best-suited to decide who should serve. [5]

Privately, Van Buren admitted that in addition to serving the interests of his Party, he also needed to cement its new direction. The preceding Clay, Crawford, and Madison Administrations had all subscribed, to varying degrees, to Clay’s ideal of an American System, with protective tariffs, a national bank, and federal infrastructure spending to spur the country’s economic development. These provisions, particularly the first and third, had become a subject of resentment to many Southerners, who felt they enriched Northern states at their own expense. The Democratic majority in Congress ensured that no new tariffs or internal improvements would appear in the short term, but to mitigate these risks in the long run, Van Buren made considerable cuts to the Department of the Interior.

As for banking, Van Buren thought it best to depoliticise the Bank of the United States, as a hedge against inflation and corruption. To this end, he persuaded Congress to enact the Independent Banking Act in November 1829. This bill established the precedent of the Treasury Department managing the finances of the federal government apart from existing financial institutions, including the Second Bank. [6] The influx of National Democrats into the Treasury Department helped ensure the effectiveness of this transition.

That same movement of personnel had other consequences, however. Among the outgoing Treasury officials was Timothy Reeves, a low-ranking clerk who harbored deep resentment for the Administration that cost him his job. With no other prospects awaiting him in Washington, Reeves left the capital for New York City. And on February 4th, 1831, as Van Buren addressed a crowd in Greenwich Village following a series of religious riots, Reeves struck. [7] The President was struck by two bullets before Reeves was subdued, with one shot in the shoulder and one in the throat. The severity of the latter wound took the President’s life in mere minutes, the first American President to die in office.

The ambitious Zebulon Pike took over as Acting President, carrying on with his predecessor’s policy agenda as best he could. Between the sympathy vote over Van Buren’s assassination and his own popularity, the former frontiersman handily won election in his own right the following year, defeating former Attorney General Daniel Webster. Such was Pike’s confidence during the campaign that rather than engaging with Webster directly, he instead spent the spring and summer of 1832 touring Europe, where he met with the newly elected Prime Minister Grey, as well as Francisco of Spain and Napoleon II of France. Of course, Pike had his own agenda to pursue independent of the late Van Buren, and although few Americans recognized it at the time, his tour of Europe lay the foundations of his later schemes.

[1] Essentially, Van Buren is seen as TTL’s Jackson figure, albeit cut short and depending on Pike to cement his legacy. He differs on policy in some areas, but he knows what he got elected for, and so challenges Clay’s American System as best he can.

[2] Here, we see Van Buren, much more insecure about his bona fides in the South, take a somewhat more conciliatory approach to the Nullification Crisis than Jackson. His distribution of tariff revenues helps convince other southern states that this is a compromise they can live with for now, and so they put pressure on South Carolina to back down for the time being, and hold out for a federal repeal of the Tariff in the future.

[3] Note this sourcebook was published in 1971. It idealizes Jefferson’s views on Native Americans a bit, although it doesn’t pull this interpretation completely out of nowhere. Jefferson sounded different notes on the subject at different times.

[4] This is about as much as I think I can scale back Indian Removal while staying plausible, given the political currents in the US haven’t changed that radically from OTL. And note that the relative lenience the Cherokee and Choctaw are getting for now won’t necessarily last. Both tribes supported the US in the Creek War IOTL and ITTL, and thankfully for them, Crawford and Clay show a bit more gratitude for that than Jackson. I’ll certainly come back to this subject later regardless.

[5] This is slightly less than the number of people removed by Jackson IOTL. Not all for political reasons, to be fair.

[6] Van Buren failed to get this IOTL, but here, he’s not attempting this in the middle of an economic crisis, so Congressmen aren’t as fearful about the potential implications. And National Dems want to do something about the Bank, so he gives them this.

[7] There were Orange Order-related riots in Greenwich in the 1820’s IOTL, and again in the 1870’s.

 

[TRH]

Update time again. Here's a short-ish primer on Mexico and its post-1819 development. Enjoy!

Chapter Thirty-Three: Growing Pains​

Excerpted from The Road to War: 1830-1852 by Alexander Peterson, 1971.​

For both the Spanish-speaking world and otherwise, the Ordinance of 1819 remains one of the great experiments in political history. Because of the Palafox Regency’s desperation to disentangle itself from colonial wars, prime minister Calo’s plan afforded the newly appointed viceroys great leeway in determining the governmental structures of the new American kingdoms. As a result, the world saw a wide variety of governments emerge in Central and South America in the 1820’s and 30’s.

In New Spain, Viceroy José María Morelos faced a seemingly impossible task: not only to construct a new government to replace the colonial regime, but also one capable of advancing his ideals. A staunch liberal, Morelos dreamed of a Mexico where slavery was abolished, there was equality between races, and the poor and dispossessed would no longer be exploited by landowners and the Church. Unfortunately for him, these aspirations were at odds with his immediate responsibilities as a Viceroy – the only way he could create functional institutions in the post-independence vacuum required the cooperation of the very elites most opposed to his reformist agenda.

The Constitution for New Spain took shape over the course of 1820 and 1821, coming into force at the end of 1821. This document established the Kingdom as a federal system with significant autonomy for its initial 26 states. [1] The sheer diversity of the different states necessitated high degrees of local autonomy, but it also frustrated some of Morelos’ ambitions.

Slavery, for example, was a rarity in the majority of states. Unlike their northern neighbour, New Spain had never relied on slave labor as the basis for its economy, and the number of slaves had declined precipitously by the time of the Ordinance. As a result, abolition of slavery was a negligible demand for most of the Kingdom. The exception to this trend was Cuba, where labour-intensive sugarcane production still made slaves a valuable commodity. Cuban authorities obstinately refused to consider limiting the practice, and even states that abolished slavery themselves were loathe to force abolition on Cuba, troubled by the implications of overbearing federal power. By the time of Morelos’ death in 1828, slavery remained commonplace on the island.

Vicente Guerrero succeeded Morelos as Viceroy after his death.

In the meantime, the Viceroy had other challenges to address in helping New Spain stand as a sovereign kingdom. The 1821 Constitution laid out general principles for governance, but it was no substitute for a comprehensive code of laws. Certain edicts from the Spanish crown remained in force, but others had been invalidated by the new status of the Kingdom. These inconsistencies, combined with a shortage of judges, lawyers, and other professionals resulted in no small degree of confusion. One Mexican businessman, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, was able to exploit loopholes in existing bankruptcy law to repeatedly liquidate the debts he incurred through risky investing practices, while still accumulating assets. Over a 22-year period from 1820 to 1842, Santa Anna declared bankruptcy eleven times, while paradoxically growing richer all the while. [2]

Political parties were also something that took time to develop in New Spain. The first political factions to emerge in the kingdom had their roots in rival Masonic lodges, of all things. The Scottish Rite Lodge was well-established, having existed since before the struggle for independence. As a result, it became the rallying point for conservative politicians in New Spain. The Scottish Lodge opposed the federalist system imposed by Morelos, advocating for a stronger central government to protect the interests of landowning elites.

Anastasio Bustamante, leader of the Scottish Rite Lodge.

Their opposition rallied around another Lodge, the newly established York Rite Masons. Led by Vicente Guerrero, an Afro-Mestizo general, the Yorkinos supported Viceroy Morelos in his hopes of reforming Mexican society. Their close association with Morelos worked to their advantage; after Morelos’ death, King Francisco thought it only logical to appoint Guerrero as the new Viceroy, giving the Yorkinos an opening to continue their federalist agenda. [3]

Their ideals would soon be put to the test, however. By the end of the 1820’s, Tejas had become increasingly restive, with an influx of Anglo-American settlers agitating for an end to federally-mandated Catholicism, one of the few major impositions from the federal government. More radical voices, led by men like Samuel Houston and Davy Crockett, went so far as to encourage the United States government to annex the border territory. By the end of the 1820’s, these American settlers outnumbered the Spanish and French-speaking communities in the state.

Matters came to a head in 1830, when the Scottish Rite Lodge staged a coup against Viceroy Guerrero. The Lodge, led by Anastasio Bustamante, reversed course on the matter of state autonomy. For Tejas, this meant higher taxes, a ban on further American settlement, and a ban on slavery. [4] Americans decried these new restrictions, especially the slave ban, pointing out the hypocrisy in imposing such a condition when Cuba remained unfettered by it. Stephen F. Austin took the first step towards independence. On September 8th 1832, he decried Bustamante as an illegitimate Viceroy, and called upon his fellow Tejans to take up arms against the new regime. Secretly, he and his fellow settlers also sent a missive to President Pike, requesting assistance. The Tejan Revolution had begun.

[1] In addition to the 19 OTL Mexican states, the Kingdom also includes six additional ones in Central America, plus Cuba. These were all part of the Viceroyalty of New Spain, and because the Spanish government didn’t see the Ordinance as granting full independence, they didn’t see a problem in lumping these territories all in together. Puerto Rico and Santo Domingo were separated by another of the Ordinance’s provisions, however. They’re governed by Spain directly.

[2] Funny Easter egg I’ve wanted to throw in for a while. Santa Anna's parents wanted him to go into business IOTL. Here, he knuckles under and does just that.

[3] The political role of Masonic Lodges in Mexico is another of those OTL oddities. Beats a civil war over chariot racers, at least.

[4] Guerrero got couped IOTL as well. Poor guy can't catch a break.

 

[TRH]

I've got a little time away from classes, so to make up for lost time, I'm basically writing as fast as I can right now. This has led to some compromises, and I feel like parts of this new chapter should have been included in the last one, or vice versa. Still, it is what it is. This gives more background on the goings-on in Mexico before and during the Bustamante coup, explaining why the Scottish Lodge felt the need for extreme measures. Enjoy!

Chapter Thirty-Four: Backlash​

Excerpted from The Road to War: 1830-1852 by Alexander Peterson, 1971.​

The conservative forces behind the Mexican coup d’état of 1830 are commonly misunderstood as mindless reaction. This interpretation is a product of hindsight, however, as the turmoil of the Bustamante government are better-known than the difficulties that came before him. The first decade of Mexican history was defined by federalist government under Viceroys Morelos and Guerrero. Although their decentralized approach was crucial in keeping a disparate new nation together, it also provided weaknesses. More than anything, Bustamante sought power in order to correct these vulnerabilities.

The lack of a strong central government in Mexico City resulted in greater state power relative to the United States. But it also created a vacuum that was filled by other actors. These included businessmen, who took advantage of lax regulations to turn immense profits on the country’s economic development. Both foreign investors such as Émile and Issac Pérriere, as well as domestic ones like the aforementioned Santa Anna were prominent economic forces in this time, using their wealth and influence to suborn or simply flout state authority in the process. [1]

In 1825, the Pérriere brothers arranged a commercial pact with the state of Costa Rica. The region’s mountainous and heavily forested terrain made it nearly impossible for farmers to transport their coffee crop to Europe. Because of this, the French investors offered the state government a deal: they would finance the construction of a trade route to France via the Pacific port of Puntarenas. [2] In exchange, they would be entitled to half of the profits from the exported coffee. Costa Rican Governor José Rafael Gallegos knew full well how exploitative this proposal was, but felt trapped by the poverty and neglect of his citizens. As a result, he acceded to the proposal, and work on port construction began the following year. This gave foreign investors a foot in the door, beginning the slow decline in fiscal autonomy for the region.

Emile and Isaac Pérriere saw great potential for financial benefit in New Spain.

Even more worrying from the perspective of Mexican nationalists were the regional separatist movements that existed in several states. The Anglo settlers in Tejas were the loudest and most prominent of these, but others tasked the central government as well. In San Salvador, property taxes levied by the nearly bankrupt state government resulted in uprisings among the Native population. These rebels burned down local haciendas, with the intent to redistribute the farmland among its workers. Revolts in 1826 and 1828 were, however, suppressed by the Mexican army. What was more worrying for Mexico City was the discovery of an 1824 petition on the part of Salvadorians, requesting admission into the United States. Nothing came of this missive, but its exposure stoked fears of American interference in Mexican affairs.

This context is critical to understand the situation Anastasio Bustamante inherited in 1830 after his overthrow of Guerrero. Federalism led, or so it seemed, to fragmentation, and that, in turn, to separatism and domination by foreign capital. Bustamante spoke with some regularity of “French-American conspirations aimed at encirclement.” Advocates of centralization also had the history of their northern neighbour to point to: the Americans had, after all, replaced their founding document with a Constitution that concentrated far more authority within the federal government. Why should New Spain not follow suit?

But while the historical context explains why Bustamante and the Scottish Rite Lodge took the course they did, it does not follow that they played their hand well. Bustamante quickly resorted to drastic measures to secure his power. A secret police was established, and the press censored. Opponents of the regime were imprisoned or exiled, and membership in the York Rite Lodge became a crime. [3] These measures were effective in the short term; a heavily disputed snap election in 1831 returned a Congress far more supportive of the conservative agenda than its predecessor. With two branches of government secured and the judiciary intimidated into silence, Bustamante could govern as he wished.

His first order of business was to rein in the depredations of foreign investors. The Costa Rican commercial pact was renegotiated by fiat: the Mexican government would acquire the shares of the revenue from Puntarenas owned by the Pérriere brothers in exchange for a modest lump sum payment as compensation. A new statute required any similar commercial deals to be arranged by the federal government rather than states themselves. These future deals invariably saw the government pocket a percentage of the proceeds. The revenue from this economic intervention was distributed to Bustamante’s allies to buy their loyalty.

With his expropriation of foreign largesse, Bustamante had secured his political position as best he could. It was only now that he moved to suppress the country’s secessionist movements. Unfortunately, the fatal flaw in his political strategy became apparent at this point: by taking what he believed were necessary actions to confront New Spain’s enemies, Bustamante unwittingly multiplied the number of opponents he himself faced.

These enemies included foreign ones as well as domestic malcontents. France was a concern, in light of the arbitrary seizure of Puntarenas. But the more pressing danger for the centralists was Spain. By deposing and executing the chosen Viceroy of King Francisco, Bustamante had irreparably alienated the Crown. The Spanish King had no interest in another costly war in the Americas, but he made clear that Bustamante was an illegitimate Viceroy, appointing York Lodge founder Lorenzo de Zavala as his replacement. This move was an intentional slight against Bustamante as much as anything, because Zavala could not feasibly take up his new appointment. In 1830, the physician-diplomat was living in exile in New Orleans, where he mingled freely with several of the same Tejas provocateurs the Bustamante government so feared.

Lorenzo de Zavala would never become more than Viceroy in name only.

And so an unfortunate web of coincidence brought Tejas to the center of Bustamante’s attention. His conspiracy-focused mind quickly deemed this rebellious province, with its concentration of Yorkinos, French, and Americans, to be the key to the Kingdom’s decade of unraveling. And Austin and his allies, for their part, had chosen their moment well: by November 1832, they had expelled Mexican troops from eastern Tejas. The approaching winter would buy time to consolidate their position.

With these realities in mind, Bustamante decided overwhelming force was the best recourse to quell the Tejas rebellion. In February 1833, a Mexican army of 9,000 men entered Tejas under General Vicente Filisola. Outnumbered fourfold, the Tejano rebels could do little but pray for a miracle. What they would receive was something else altogether.

[1] OTL bankers and rivals of the Rothschilds.

[2] A similar arrangement was made with Costa Rica in 1841 IOTL. By a French captain, oddly enough. The reason the Pérrieres approached them with this a decade and a half earlier will become clear later on.

[3] Except for targeting the York Lodge specifically, all of this is stuff Bustamante did as president IOTL. Like I said, he went full police state pretty quickly.

 

[TRH]

I've been more productive lately than I've been since this story began, so here's Chapter 35 already. The Tejas Revolution continues, and escalates into something far bigger. Enjoy!

Chapter Thirty-Five: Politics by Other Means​

Excerpted from The Road to War: 1830-1852 by Alexander Peterson, 1971.​

Like many revolutions, the rebellion in Tejas began militarily, leaving political actors struggling to keep pace with developments. The appointment of Lorenzo de Zavala as the next Viceroy for New Spain provided an immediate pretext for resistance against the Bustamante regime. Tejas Governor José María Viesca endorsed Zavala and called on other state governments to follow suit, but he himself had been pre-empted in his declaration by Stephen Austin, the unofficial leader of the Anglo settlers in the region. Viesca wouldn’t forget this slight, but the Governor understood that his goals still coincided with Austin’s. Both men were more interested in restoring Constitutional rule to the Kingdom than in seceding to join the United States. This differentiated the two from Haden Edwards, the hot-headed empresario in charge of the lands along the Navasota. [1]

By Summer of 1832, it had become clear that Bustamante would not step down from his position as Viceroy, regardless of Madrid’s opinion of him. Austin and other empresarios began mobilising their local militias to expel Mexican army units from the state. Viesca turned a blind eye to their activities, having reached a tacit understanding with Austin that secession was not in the offing. It is important for the present-day reader to remember that the sedition in Tejas was not unusual for Mexican provinces at this point. State Governors elsewhere were just as assertive in their denunciations of the centralists in Mexico City. El Salvador, Oaxaca, Zacatecas, and Yucatan also resisted the federal government, with varying degrees of effectiveness, stretching the Mexican army considerably. [2]

Three things set the unrest in Tejas apart from that in other states. The first was the empresario system. The empresarios were men authorised by the Mexican government to recruit settlers for the lands in Tejas. Once settlement was underway, the empresarios would also be expected to keep order in the lands under their supervision with private militias. This programme had the effect of raising military formations with no loyalty to the Mexican government, which certainly had its implications when the revolt against Bustamante began. But by allowing French and American empresarios to set up shop in Tejas, the government unwittingly diluted the cultural identity of the state. Immigrants were required to learn Spanish to gain admittance, but the establishment of tight-knit immigrant communities like Bettencour and San Felipe ensured that French and English were still used in day-to-day life, driving a wedge between the settlers and native Mexicans. The introduction of slavery presented yet another bone of contention, especially once Bustamante took power and began to undermine state autonomy.

The second difference between Tejas and other rebellious states is that the former could afford to trade space for time. The Mexican army under Filisola was too large to resist in open battle, but it was also too large to support itself in the field for long. The Tejano militias under Samuel Houston exploited this weakness by fighting delaying actions while drawing Filisola ever farther into enemy territory. The first major battle took place on the 3rd of March 1833, at the Nueces river northwest of Bettencour. The Tejans gave way quickly under the weight of numbers, but the army managed to retreat in good order. Filisola left men behind to occupy Bettencour while the bulk of his force advanced further northwest and captured the fort of Béxar. [3]

The fall of Béxar left Tejas dangerously exposed to the Mexican army.

It was at this point that political considerations began to reassert themselves. The complexion of the rebellion had changed over its first six months. A sizable influx of American volunteers bolstered the ranks of Houston’s army. This caused its own problems, however, as the army’s growing size also increased the importance of requisitioning supplies from local communities.

The political character of the rebels also changed dramatically during this time. The provisional government guiding the rebels was designed to coordinate the efforts of the empresarios with that of the original state government, but the sheer demographic weight of the English-speaking community and army resulted in the slow-motion marginalisation of Governor Viesca and other Mexican federalists. A proposal from Viesca for the Tejan army to mount a counteroffensive into New Spain in support of federalist forces was promptly voted down by the provisional government – with a large Mexican army encroaching on their territory, the idea of diverting forces elsewhere was deemed too risky. [4]

The situation for Tejas deteriorated even further over the Summer of 1833. Filisola split his army again, with separate forces laying siege to Goliad on the Gulf Coast, forcing the provisional government to abandon San Felipe, and still harrying Houston’s army as it retreated towards the Neches River. Houston readied his dispirited army for a last stand on the far bank, dispatched James Bowie to deliver a message, and waited for Filisola.

The Mexican army reached the Neches on July 16th. Filisola now commanded 5,500 men after having dispersed men to occupy Tejas, as well as sending several hundred men back into New Spain proper at Bustamante’s request to help put down Yorkino activity. Houston, for his part, commanded around 2,600 men, of which 1,500 had only come to Tejas after the start of the uprising the previous year. Filisola, sensing that the end of the rebellion was at hand, pushed his fatigued army into action on the 17th, having built a pair of pontoon bridges across the river the day before. The Mexican general reasoned that the Tejans were just as winded as his own troops, and that stopping for breakfast would cost him the initiative. This proved to be the second-greatest error Filisola made that day.

The advance began at 11:30, and made poor initial progress. The Mexican army was too exhausted from its long march, and the pontoons became deadly bottlenecks for the numerically superior attackers. Still, the Tejan army was a hodgepodge of local militias and raw recruits, so a slight slackening in their fire provided a window for the Mexicans to push forward and establish a beachhead on the opposite side of the Neches. Once this was done, the weight of numbers could make itself felt. By 1:30, the Tejan center was giving way.

At 1:34, the third difference between Tejas and other states made itself known. The Neches was disputed territory between New Spain and the United States. The American government thought it a tributary of the Sabine river, which was claimed as part of the Louisiana Purchase. Houston knew this, and had baited Filisola’s army into violating the disputed soil in his eagerness to crush the rebellion. Once his scouts had spotted the Mexicans approaching his position, Houston sent Bowie to inform General Edmund Gaines, whose army detachment was stationed nearby. [5]

Tejan forces battle the Mexican army at the Neches River.

Secretary of War Lewis Cass had instructed Gaines to respond with force should Mexican forces cross the Sabine River. That Filisola approached the Neches intending to engage Houston on the west bank was pretext enough for Gaines to act pre-emptively and assist the Tejans. His army crossed the Neches north of the ongoing engagement, and fell upon the Mexican rear. Filisola’s fixation on the immediate threat left him blindsided by the arrival of a second army, and his forces splintered on opposite sides of the river. Around 2,500 Mexicans eventually managed to escape southwards, but 2,700 men, Filisola included, were hemmed in between the Tejan and American armies and forced to surrender. Upon hearing of the battle, the Pike Administration promptly accused New Spain of violating its territory, with Bustamante levelling the same charges back at Pike. On July 31st, Bustamante declared war on the United States, while the US Congress would reciprocate two days later. The Tejanos had received their miracle, or so it seemed.

[1] Edwards led an anti-Mexican revolt in the 1820s IOTL, that Austin and others helped suppress. He didn’t do that here in part because Morelos did a better job of briefing his empresarios on the specifics of their responsibilities, but also for other reasons.

[2] Oaxaca and Zacatecas were the first states to rebel against Santa Anna IOTL.

[3] The Alamo isn’t as well-remembered ITTL, in part because it falls much quicker, but also because it’s overshadowed by the battle on the Neches and its Helm’s Deep-like conclusion.

[4] There was a (very small) expedition mounted into Mexico IOTL, but the far larger invading Mexican army ITTL just can’t be ignored.

[5] Gaines was positioned in Louisiana like this IOTL, and I read speculation that he had secret orders to engage a Mexican army if they violated what was seen as US territory. I don’t know how true that is, but the Pike Administration’s Latin American ambitions make it true ITTL. Gaines was led to understand by Cass and Pike that he should creatively interpret his official instructions if the situation demanded it.

 

[TRH]

I think I've got a decent rhythm for these Texas Revolution chapters now. Most of this one details American moves during the Tejas crisis, and Zebulon Pike's motivations, with the main war narrative moving forward at the end. I'm trying to strike the right balance of introducing a new player into this situation while also making progress in the actual narrative. Getting this down right will be crucial once I get to the 1850's, and have to write about three big wars at once, so be sure and let me know how you feel about my handling of the pacing now. Also, enjoy!

Chapter Thirty-Six: All According to Plan​

Excerpted from The Road to War: 1830-1852 by Alexander Peterson, 1971.​

In America, the Zebulon Pike Administration has accumulated a vast literature of hagiography, mythmaking, and several rounds of historical revisionism, especially following the publication of Pike’s memoirs after his death in 1851. Chief among the myths surrounding this most consequential of men is that Pike’s presidency was the culmination of nearly three decades of carefully calculated strategy. From the time he first set foot into New Spain in 1806 Pike, or so the story goes, was pursuing his long-term ambitions of American expansionism at Spanish expense. This is almost certainly an exaggeration; Pike’s journals from his explorer days make no mention of ambitions towards political office, and indeed it wasn’t until members of Congress began meeting with him in the years after his invasion of Florida that he became interested in national politics. [1]

That said, there is strong evidence that from the 1820’s onwards, Zebulon Pike was indeed pursuing anti-Mexican foreign policy, which naturally reached its zenith during the Tejan Revolution. Under the Ordinance of 1819, the Kingdom retained strong ties to Spain, and this gave the European power a foothold on America’s doorstep. This was a threat Pike sought to neutralize as best he could. In particular, Pike seemed interested in undermining the federalist government of Viceroy Morelos.

“There is no doubt in my mind that New Spain is on a similar path to the one our own nation took following the Revolution,” he wrote. “Like us, they will discover the limitations of federal government. The upheaval that follows could prove quite advantageous to those who make use of it.”

To this end, Pike sought to foment regional separatism in New Spain. This instability could provoke a centralist backlash, thereby increasing the likelihood of Mexican-American conflict. And if the centralists failed to take power, then regional governments would be free to go their own way, and fall under Washington’s influence regardless. One key contact was the empresario Haden Edwards, who started corresponding regularly with Pike during the 1824 campaign. Pike advised Edwards to cooperate with Viceroy Morelos for the time being, knowing that Austin and other Anglo settlers were unready for a break with Mexico City. Should the Viceroy be replaced by a centralist, then Edwards should gather allies, but only for the purpose of restoring federalist government, a platform that would attract the broadest support in Tejas. Only once rebellion was underway would it be safe to begin proposing more radical measures like secession. [2]

Another of Pike’s moves involved Émile and Isaac Pérriere. In 1824, Émile Pérriere met with John Forsyth, the US Minister to France and a staunch ally of Zebulon Pike. [3] Forsyth brought the troubles of Costa Rica to the attention of the young French investor, and suggested the potential for the state to host a lucrative coffee industry. Forsyth’s contacts in the US State Department helped arrange the subsequent meeting between the Pérriere brothers and Governor Gallegos, something that was carefully concealed from then-President Clay. For all of Bustamante’s paranoia about a vast anti-Mexican conspiracy, Pike went to great lengths to make just such an encirclement a reality.

An early convert to the Pikean cause, John Forsyth would help advance Pike's ambitions as Minister to France, and then as Secretary of State after 1832.

Of course, Pike’s machinations in 1824 all took place under the assumption that the general would win the presidency in November, so as to take immediate advantage of the instability he was cultivating. Pike’s loss to Henry Clay frustrated him, but the defeated candidate bided his time, taking solace in the realization that his efforts in New Spain would take time to bear fruit. His subsequent defeat in 1828 was even more galling, but Pike made the most of his situation by joining forces with Martin Van Buren. If he could not be President, then he could still influence the country’s foreign policy by joining the new Administration. With the Bustamante coup in 1830 and Van Buren’s assassination the following year, the pieces finally fell into place for Pike.

As Acting President, Pike made the final preparations he thought necessary for a confrontation with Mexico. He offered refuge to nominal Viceroy Lorenzo de Zavala, knowing that the Yorkino would make a strong propaganda tool to use against Bustamante, but also that the Viceroy’s practical influence would wane outside of New Spain. [4] And during his tour of Europe in 1832, Pike discussed the situation in Mexico City with Europe’s leading statesmen.

King Francisco had washed his hands of Bustamante after he refused to step down in favour of Zavala, privately revoking Spanish protection over New Spain. Napoleon II took a dim view of the Bustamante regime’s infringement on free trade, and promised to send agents into Francophone Tejas to aid the secessionist cause in exchange for a restoration of French assets in New Spain, as well as an assurance from Pike that French Catholics would be tolerated in the event of the United States annexing Tejas. To meet this promise, Pike’s 1832 campaign platform proposed a Constitutional amendment, guaranteeing equal protection under the law regardless of one’s religious denomination. This measure ran afoul of nativist sentiments in much of the country, but would eventually be ratified in 1840 as the 13th Amendment. Lastly, the British government professed disinterest in the matter so long as its interests in Belize were not infringed upon.

With an adequate casus belli in hand, and the great powers of Europe mollified, Pike finally had his opportunity to break Mexican power. What he didn’t have was the military readiness to exploit his opening. The traditional American wariness towards standing armies left Pike with little to work with; in fact, the 2,000 man force under Gaines’ command in Tejas represented over a quarter of American strength, once garrisons and deployments against the Indians out west were accounted for. Pike sent out a call for volunteers to bolster the Army, while the United States Navy set sail for Cuba.

The Marine assault on Santiago de Cuba, September 10th-12th, 1833.

On September 8th, 1833, the American fleet defeated a Mexican squadron at Santiago de Cuba, but the subsequent landing by US Marines was repulsed over three days of heavy fighting. Meanwhile, the remnants of Filisola’s army in Tejas, led by Colonel Martín Perfecto de Cos, managed a successful fighting withdrawal back from the Neches, frustrating the combined US-Tejan force under Gaines. Pike had little doubt that the United States would ultimately triumph, but early setbacks showed victory would not come quickly. A long and potentially costly struggle lay ahead.

[1] IOTL, Pike’s journals from the 1806 expedition got confiscated, and weren’t made available in the US until the 20th Century. The decades where Pike’s presidential memoirs were available but his early stuff wasn’t helped feed this in-universe misconception.

[2] As far as strategy goes, Pike is taking inspiration from the American Revolution, which also started before there was a consensus behind independence from Britain. He recognizes that for Texas to repeat that, they’ll need to start with less ambitious goals.

[3] Forsyth was the US Minister to Spain during OTL’s Monroe Administration, and an ally of Andrew Jackson. Jackson’s diminished stature ITTL results in him drifting into Pike’s orbit instead.

[4] Pike’s offer of asylum was kind of a trap. It saves Zavala from getting purged like the rest of the York Lodge, but it also makes him look like a coward, running to the Gringos for help when he’s supposed to have the backing of the King of Spain, who’s also made to look weak. Pike’s playing the propaganda game for all it’s worth.

 

[TRH]

Whelp, summer classes are done with now, so I can focus on this again. This is the longest chapter I've made in a while, too, so enjoy the end of the Mexican-American War. After this, we return to Europe to see how Germany has developed. Enjoy!

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Halls of Montezuma​

Excerpted from The Road to War: 1830-1852 by Alexander Peterson, 1971.​

Since gaining independence from Great Britain, the United States diligently followed the advice of its founders in shunning foreign wars. For two generations, the martial endeavours of the young republic were limited to naval warfare and conflicts with the native population of their own continent. The Tejas War was the first serious test of American arms, and the country’s inexperience made itself known throughout.

To be sure, the worst of the dysfunction wasn’t found in high command. Commanding general Winfield Scott devised a sound strategy that made the most of American strengths, while minimising the importance of its shortcomings. Although the US Army had been neglected under past Administrations, better-suited to Indian fighting than facing a conventional army, the Navy, small as it may have been, was a capable force, far exceeding the strength of the paltry Mexican fleet. The assault on Santiago de Cuba drew the Mexican fleet into battle quickly, where it could be destroyed by Commodore David Connor’s superior firepower. With that accomplished, American ships were able to operate with impunity along the Gulf Coast for the duration of the war. The hasty Marine assault following the naval engagement was simply an attempted coup de main, whose failure was inconsequential in the long run.

With naval superiority secured, Scott’s strategy was threefold. First, the Tejan-American army under Gaines would be reinforced as soon as the influx of new volunteers were trained, equipped, and ready for duty. With Tejas secured, this force would invade the states of Neuvo Leon and Tamaulipas, hopefully tying down the majority of the Mexican army in the process. It’s worth noting that Scott rebuffed proposals to instead advance into Zacatecas in support of the federalist rebellion underway there. The American general doubted the rebels would survive long enough to be relieved by Gaines, and preferred to operate closer to friendly supply centres. [1]

The second thrust of American strategy focused on Cuba. The abortive assault on Santiago de Cuba presented a secondary benefit, forcing local forces towards the southeast of the island. Another diversionary push would be made in this quarter, to draw attention away from Havana, where the main American effort would be mounted. President Pike impressed upon Scott the importance of capturing the island, as its annexation along with Tejas would please the Southern wing of Pike’s National Democrats. The President had also met with Massachusetts Senator Rufus Choate, promising to advance the long-deferred statehood of Maine in exchange for additional slave states in territories ceded from New Spain. [2]

Finally, secondary American forces would attack other targets of opportunity along the Mexican periphery. New Spain’s Pacific ports would be blockaded to deprive the enemy of imported supplies, while separatist movements in more remote parts of the Kingdom would receive American support in breaking away from the Bustamante regime. There was less interest in Washington for annexation of Costa Rica or Yucatan, so any successful uprisings in this quarter would be recognized as sovereign republics instead of American territories. This, in turn, meant there was less motivation on Pike’s part for heavy commitments in these areas. [3]

This lack of commitment explains the mixed results of American campaigns along the Pacific coast. The Pacific Squadron’s first target was Puntarenas. To fulfill the Pike Administration’s promises to Napoleon II, Commodore John Downes was instructed to seize this vital trade artery, allowing French merchants to once again export local coffee to Europe. The landing took place on the 29th of September 1833, and faced minimal resistance. Costa Ricans saw little difference between French control of their port and the corruption of the Bustamante government, leaving them unmotivated to fight. Moreover, both the citizens of Puntarenas and the coffee growers further inland had grown dependent on international trade, however unbalanced it may have been.

With his initial objective secured, Downes stayed put for the winter. He had barely enough troops and ships to keep Puntarenas protected, and so waited until February, when his squadron was joined by the frigates President and Chesapeake before going on the offensive again. His next target was Monterey, the capital of the territory of Alto California. This region had largely been neglected by the Morelos, Guerrero, and Bustamante governments, and so operated with effective autonomy. Trade with other countries was conducted regardless of regulations from Mexico City, and the locals took no sides in the ongoing conflict between centralists and federalists. More than anything, the Californios simply wanted to be left alone, untroubled by Mexican or European ambitions. [4]

Because of this, the settlers in California were willing to trade with American merchants, and even supply Downes’ squadron with food and water, but they would not tolerate occupation or annexation by American forces. On the 13th of February 1834, Downes landed a force of 200 bluejackets and marines in Monterey in a bid to force the issue. The town militia, led by Governor Santiago Argüello, were able to repulse this landing party and force them back to their ships. The following week, Downes bombarded the city with his three frigates, but a second assault by his infantry also failed. The Americans settled in for a blockade of the port, which lasted for nearly a month. Eventually, new instructions arrived from the Department of War, ordering the Pacific Squadron to proceed southwards and assault the city of Mazatlán. Downes complied, and with the departure of his ships, California’s role in the war came to an end.

The failed assault on Monterey frustrated American designs on California for a generation.

Although Downes and the Pacific Squadron achieved only limited success in their operations, this was still far better than what happened in Cuba. The diversionary assault on Santiago de Cuba came on the 5th of March 1834. This time, the landing force was 2,000 strong, commanded by Brigadier General Henry Atkinson, and it managed to capture the city. With the city secured, Atkinson mounted several raids towards the north and west – not enough to bog down his forces, but sufficient to avoid the appearance of passivity, buying more time for the main army’s landing against Havana.

The main American force numbered 9,000 men, led by General Duncan L. Clinch. Based on the British assault nearly three decades earlier, the Americans concluded that an overland assault on La Cabaña was likely to fail, and so chose a different approach. On the 11th of March, American ships opened fire on Morro Castle, the smaller fort to the west of La Cabaña. The following day, a landing force under Colonel Henry Dodge was able to seize the castle after three hours of heavy fighting. This early success may have led to overconfidence on the part of General Clinch and Commodore James Lawrence, who opted to immediately proceed with their planned assault on La Cabaña from land and sea.

The attack took place on the 15th of March, and it proved disastrous. The Cuban fortress had been designed to frustrate landward invaders, and the American soldiers, raw as most of them were, lacked the discipline to push through heavy fire to carry the walls. 133 men were killed and over 400 wounded in a failed attempt on the fort. Meanwhile, Lawrence’s flagship, the USS Congress, had taken minor hull damage while trading fire with Morro Castle several days earlier. During the assault on La Cabaña, the frigate sustained additional hits, and began to take on water. Lawrence, now aware of the danger his ship was in, ordered a retreat, but with its rigging also damaged, Congress could only move sluggishly away from the battle area. A lucky shot from the Mexican defenders struck the ship’s magazines, causing it to catch fire. A handful of sailors escaped the sinking frigate on dinghies, but most of the crew, Lawrence included, went down with the ship.

Clinch was chastened by this defeat, and was forced to adjust his strategy. Additional American troops were landed further east of Havana over the following week. A two-pronged land assault from east and west proved just as ineffective in capturing La Cabaña, and so Clinch, like Dalrymple before him, had no choice but to lay siege. Unlike the British general, Clinch was not content simply to wait, however. The bulk of his army landed to the west of Havana, well away from the forts guarding the harbor, and advanced on the city from its landward side. The Mexican defenders under Andrés Manuel Sánchez were well-prepared for this, and once again American forces proved unable to dislodge the Mexicans from defended positions. On both sides of Havana, the American army found itself in a stalemate with the city’s defenders.

The American siege lines west of Havana. The palm trees are likely a display of artistic license by the painter. [5]

News of the failures in Cuba enraged President Pike, who had to be talked down by his Cabinet from leading a relief expedition personally. Instead, the President recalled Clinch from his position, replacing him with General Atkinson. Atkinson’s erstwhile command in Santiago would be taken over by Brigadier General Zachary Taylor.

Of course, even Cuba was a secondary theatre in the war. The main focus for Washington was always on Tejas, where General Scott arrived in January to take charge of the campaign. Colonel Cos had effectively abandoned the territory after the Battle of the Neches, leaving Scott free to advance across the Nueces once his army was fully prepared.

The Mexican commander received little additional help from Mexico City in the early months of 1834, as Bustamante’s government was stretched increasingly thin. Instead, the beleaguered colonel was forced to muster support from the local population of Tamaulipas. These volunteers were enthusiastic to defend their homes from invasion, but they lacked discipline and training, the same frustration felt by so many American commanders at this point. In any event, Cos found himself repeatedly outmaneuvred by Scott, who captured the state capital of Ciudad Victoria in early March, and by the start of May, the Americans had forced the Mexican army out of the state entirely.

This defeat proved the beginning of the end for the Mexican cause. Bustamante, blaming Cos for the string of defeats, recalled the Colonel to Mexico City. Cos, for his part, had earned the respect of his men, who credited him for making the most of a difficult situation. Word of his valiant defense of Tamaulipas preceded Cos on his way to the capital. As he approached Mexico City, Cos was warned by sympathetic locals that the Viceroy, fearing his growing popularity, intended to court-martial and execute him when he arrived. With this knowledge, Cos quickly made plans to turn the tables on his would-be persecutor.

Cos arrived in Mexico City on the 19th of May. True to the local rumours, a detachment of soldiers awaited him at the city gates, with orders to place him under arrest for insubordination and cowardice. Cos’ supporters were prepared, however, and the loyalists found themselves surrounded by a growing mob of city residents and sympathetic soldiers. With this advantage, Cos delivered an impassioned speech, decrying the savagery and lawlessness of the Bustamante government and asking those gathered to join him in restoring peace and order to the Kingdom.

So stirring were Cos’ words that even the men sent to arrest him joined his cause, and marched on the Viceroy’s palace. Bustamante belatedly tried to flee, but the building was surrounded, and he was promptly imprisoned, to await the judgment of the new Viceroy. Although the Spanish King had chosen Zavala for the position, the Mexican people saw Cos as the only reasonable choice. Although he had rebelled against Bustamante, the colonel was still a centralist at heart, which put him in a position to bridge the political divisions in the Kingdom. [6] And Cos’ first action was an obvious one – on the 30th, he sent diplomats to Scott in Tampico, requesting an armistice. The Tejas War was over.

The Treaty of Tampico solidified American gains in proportion to their success in the various theatres of action. Cuba and California remained untouched, despite the frustrations this would cause in Congress afterwards. Costa Rica would become an independent republic, with the Mexican government paying compensation to French investors for the revenues lost under Bustamante. Finally, Tejas would join the United States, with its southern boundary set at the Rio Grande. These were painful concessions for New Spain to make, but given the American encroachment on Cuba and Tamaulipas, the general consensus was that the peace could have been far more onerous. All were ready to simply put the conflict behind them, and so both nations began to turn inward, to take stock of the war, and to see what implications it would have on their politics in the coming years.

[1] And so the venerable OTL American tradition of abandoning friendly rebels repeats itself.

[2] Pike needs to peel away some National Republicans like Choate, to ensure he has a majority supporting his actions. Not all National Democrats are up for these foreign adventures, after all. Also, Choate replaced Daniel Webster in 1832 when the latter ran for President.

[3] Politics tends to dictate strategy, after all. And this also explains Scott’s willingness to ignore Zacatecas, since it’s unlikely to fall under American influence post-war anyways.

[4] This state of affairs in California is OTL, and since this war comes a decade and change before OTL’s Mexican-American War, there isn’t the same level of outright separatism at work. The Californios know that Bustamante is content to live and let live, so they see no reason to take a chance on the Americans, or on nominal independence that would probably also get infringed on eventually.

[5] Finding the right OTL image for your ATL can be tough sometimes.

[6] From what I could tell, Cos was consistently loyal to Santa Anna’s government IOTL, which suggests acceptance of the President’s centralism.

 

[TRH]

I have to admit, I was worried that this was going to go the cliched route of the US getting all its OTL gains plus Cuba, but you thought this through and went with the more interesting and plausible scenario.

Well, I've seen a brief thread or two about the possibility of a Mexican Cuba, but to the best of my knowledge, nobody's ever included that in a timeline before. I'm certainly not about to sacrifice an idea I was the first to make use of, not without an incredible payoff.

I like how both sides were incompetent. Classic New World armies.

Well, I certainly don't like it when everything goes too well for anyone for too long. The US had done such a good job isolating Mexico politically that something had to go wrong on the military end of things, just for realism's sake.

In any case, I've decided that the update on Germany needs to be split into two parts. This first one is here to catch us up with what's been happening since the POD, and the next chapter will bring us into the 1830's. The next chapter will also hopefully include more of a glimpse into cultural and lifestyle details, since I'm worried about getting too tunnel-visioned into war and politics only. So I'll see what I can do to redress that. In the meantime, enjoy this politics and politics update!

Chapter Thirty-Eight: To Confederate or to Consolidate?​

Excerpted from The Road to War: 1830-1852 by Alexander Peterson, 1971.​

If divide and rule was Napoleon I’s strategy of choice in managing Europe as a whole, then his handling of the German states illustrates the same process in miniature. In establishing the Confederation of the Rhine in 1806, the French emperor needed to balance two key considerations. The first of these was the need for his German satellites to provide troops for his campaigns, and to resist the influence of Austria and Prussia. The second imperative was preventing any member state of the Confederation from establishing dominance over the others.

Understandably, these priorities conflicted. Further fragmenting the former Holy Roman Empire, an already disparate collection of petty states and principalities, would have neutralised the threat of a unified Germany emerging for a generation or more. But doing so would diminish the ability of the German states to reinforce the Grande Armée, and Napoleon I depended greatly on German auxiliaries to prevail over the Fourth Coalition. There were also political considerations in play; several German states had sided with the French in 1805, including Bavaria, Baden, and Württemberg. Rewarding these allies for their service was also a necessary move to secure a new and more favourable status quo for France in central Europe.

The result of this military-political calculus was a result that seems counterintuitive, in light of the balancing act the Emperor set for himself. For him, the necessities of securing valuable alliances and forestalling a German hegemon both pointed towards a single solution: the German states had to be consolidated. On the 11th of June 1806, 22 states co-founded the Confederation of the Rhine at France’s behest, ranging in size from Bavaria, now a kingdom with a population of 3.3 million, to the Principality of Leyen, which boasted a meagre 4,500 subjects. [1] Over the following two years, 16 more polities would join the Confederation, with the Duchy of Oldenburg bringing up the rear in early 1808. From this peak size of 38 Kingdoms, Principalities, and Duchies, the Confederation gradually began to shrink.

The first victim of this consolidation was the minor Duchy of Saxe-Gotha-Altenberg. Ironically, the devotion of the ruling Ernestine dynasty to Napoleon would ultimately lead to their loss of sovereignty. By the time the Confederation was founded, the ruling family had only two male members remaining: Duke Emil Augustus, and his brother Frederick IV. Both were ardent admirers of the French Emperor, with the latter fighting alongside Napoleon during the campaign against the Fourth Coalition.

Frederick was killed in action during the Battle of Pressburg, leaving Augustus without a male heir. This put pressure on the Duke to have more children, since he had only sired a daughter by his first marriage, and his second union produced none. Unfortunately, Duke Augustus had been distant from his wife Karoline Amalie for years by 1810, and rumours abounded in Friedenstein Castle that the Duke’s predilection for male company made him reluctant to sire offspring. In any event, the situation remained as it was until the summer of 1812, when Duke Emil was assassinated on a state visit to Bavaria by a disgruntled German nationalist named Josef Speckbacher. [2]

Frederick Augustus of Saxony was well-rewarded for his alliance with Napoleon I. Emil Augustus of Saxe-Gotha was not.


The death of the Duke set off a succession crisis in Saxe-Gotha, with three different branches of the Ernestines vying for the throne. In the end, all three claimants would be denied, however. Karl von Dalberg, Prince-Primate of the Confederation of the Rhine, was called upon to resolve the succession dispute. Bowing to French pressure on the matter, Dalberg awarded the Duchy to none other than Frederick Augustus, the King of Saxony. The Saxon prince had not always seen eye-to-eye with Napoleon: he had participated in both the First and the Third Coalition, albeit under Prussian duress on the latter occasion, and was greatly distressed at the Emperor’s abandonment of the Polish cause at Tilsit. [3] Still, his loyalty to France held during the 1810 campaign, and so the Emperor saw fit to reward that devotion. On Christmas Eve 1812, the Duchy of Saxe-Gotha-Altenberg was officially dissolved.

Saxe-Gotha’s annexation was only the beginning of the path towards greater unification of the German states. The prospect of renewed hostilities with Austria, Prussia, or both induced Napoleon to tread carefully during this period, lest he provoke undue resistance inside Germany. The end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815 removed this need for subtlety. Over the following decade, three of the four remaining Saxon duchies would be absorbed into Saxony, with only Saxe-Weimar escaping this fate. [4] Meanwhile, the Kingdom of Westphalia under Jérôme Bonaparte absorbed several smaller states, including Anhalt-Bernberg, Mecklenberg-Scherwin, Mecklenberg-Strelitz, and most significantly, the Duchy of Oldenburg. [5]

This slow aggrandisement of Saxony and Westphalia was the lynchpin to Napoleon I’s strategy for managing the German states. Upon the advent of the Confederation, Bavaria was the largest member state by a significant margin, and although the House of Wittelsbach had been a faithful ally since the end of the Second Coalition, the Emperor still saw danger in the potential of Bavaria to dominate its fellow statelets. Raising the standing of Saxony and Westphalia served a dual purpose: it checked the Bavarians within the Confederation while also streamlining the process of raising auxiliaries – with more men answering to fewer princes, the mobilisation process for future conflicts would become more efficient.

Of course, this upending of the German status quo carried unintended consequences as well. The Kingdom of Westphalia was an ahistorical amalgamation of the electorate of Hanover and various formerly Prussian territories, incorporating Jews, Catholics, Lutherans, and Calvinists alike. Worshipers from all of these faiths received equal protection under the law, and the systems of serfdom and guilds were abolished under the Kingdom’s 1807 Constitution, the first of its kind in Germany. This demolition of age-old traditions extended to the Kingdom’s regional divisions as well – traditional boundaries and place-names were supplanted by French-style departments with names taken from local geographic features such as rivers and mountains. [6]

King Jérôme and Queen Catharina of Westphalia.

Westphalia, then, should be seen as representing the future course of Germany as a whole – traditional feudal territories and obligations were obliterated, to be reorganized and replaced at the whims of national government. Religious division still existed, but discrimination along such lines was officially suppressed. And above all, the syncretic social fabric that replaced the old system was elevated as the new tradition, to be defended with the zeal of true conservatism. A more apt description of 20th Century Germany can scarcely be imagined.

[1] Napoleon is too hard-pressed in 1805-1806 to attend to the reorganization of Germany until after he defeats Russia. As such, the starting number of founding states includes Saxony and the five Saxe-duchies, which IOTL didn’t join until after the fall of the Fourth Coalition. They join with 16 of the 17 OTL founders, with the Principality of Isenberg having been annexed by Württemberg as a result of early butterflies.

[2] The death of Augustus and Frederick without issue set off a succession crisis in the 1820’s IOTL that resulted in their lands getting split. Frederick did fight and get wounded fighting on Napoleon’s behalf IOTL. The duke’s TTL assassin, Josef Speckbacher, fought alongside Andreas Hofer in the 1809 rebellion in Tyrol IOTL. Also, Augustus’ reputation as a brown-noser for Napoleon was downright comical. There was a story where he hosted the Emperor who, having really enjoyed his hot chocolate, asked if he could keep the cup as a souvenir. The Duke said he’d rather give up his Duchy than this cup that Napoleon himself had drank from.

[3] Frederick Augustus was very passionate about the well-being of Poland, having been offered its crown in 1791 and taking Napoleon’s offer to become Duke of Warsaw IOTL. Because of that, he really wouldn’t like the way Napoleon threw the Poles under the bus to appease Tsar Alexander ITTL. But on the other hand, IOTL Frederick stuck with the French even after Leipzig when most German princes defected to the Coalition, so I figure he can forgive a lot.

[4] The heir to Saxe-Weimar married Tsar Alexander’s sister in 1804, and that connection was enough to convince Napoleon and Frederick Augustus to leave them alone.

[5] In 1810 IOTL, Napoleon annexed Holland and a large chunk of northern Germany, including Oldenberg. He didn’t do that for various reasons here, but that he did that IOTL suggests that he wouldn’t hesitate to indulge in some radical redrawing of borders to suit his interests.

[6] And all of this happened IOTL when Jérôme ruled Westphalia.