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Aaron Burr took the pistol handed to him by his second.  He hefted it consideringly, raised it to sight, and then lowered it again.  He nodded, not wanting to waste words.  These were guns of excellent workmanship, if not ones he had ever fired with.  They would suffice.

Across the river, the sun was beginning to rise.  The bright rays slanting across this New Jersey shore would soon become dazzling.  Dawn was a damnably foolish time for these affairs, except in that it got rid of them and left the rest of the day clear.

“Are you ready, Colonel?” asked his friend.

“I am.”  Across the clearing his rival was little more than a silhouette.

“You may fire when ready, after I give the order to present.  Good luck, Colonel.”

Burr nodded and took his position with his back to the city.  In a few minutes his honour would be wiped clean, one way or another.

“One, two…” The world was always at its clearest and most beautiful in these moments where death was a possibility.  The birdsong in the trees around was a chorus of different sounds that should have been discordant, but wasn’t.  How was it that nature could be so beautiful, so content, but humankind never was?

The pistol was a familiar weight in his hand.  It was a useful accomplishment, being able to shoot accurately.  Others’ knowledge of his capabilities had staved off threats before.  It had probably also staved off the kind of posturing challenges that so many of his peers indulged in, mere threats to intimidate.  He hated posturing.

“Seven, eight…” This time, it was his entire reputation that was at stake.  His integrity, his trustworthiness.  His ability to hold office, to pay his debts.  The gentleman who stood across from him now had not merely insulted him, he had threatened the very foundations on which life must be lived.  Only by showing his willingness to risk that same life could he win it back.

“Ten.  Present!” Burr smoothly raised the gun to shoulder height, carefully aimed, tensed his shoulders and jerked the heavy trigger.  The flint fell.  There was a sizzle and a thunderclap, and the gun kicked hard, sending a familiar ache through his braced arm.  A moment later he heard a second thunderclap and something whizzed past his ear.  He turned his head away slightly as fragments of leaf and bark pelted his cheek.

Grey clouds drifted from his lowered pistol, like a fog across the field, and all he could smell was the acrid smoke of gunpowder.  For a moment it took him back to Monmouth; how was that still possible, after all these years of innocuous morning practice?

A figure walked towards him through the smoke, and he went to meet it.

“Colonel Burr!” John Barker Church called as the haze cleared.  He swept down into a bow.  “I have come to the realisation that I was indiscreet, and I am sorry for it.”  He gave a short laugh, and fingered the breast of his coat.  “I have quite the souvenir of our meeting today.  See here how neatly your ball has carried off my button.”

Burr had not been aiming at the button; the miss irritated him for a moment, before he saw the gift that providence had given them both.  He chuckled.  “Then I am satisfied, Mr Church.  Perhaps I will see you later at Troup’s dinner?”

“I do hope so.  I should be interested in your opinion of the barrel weight…” and the two chatted politely as they strolled back towards the boats, their seconds and unneeded doctor falling in with them.  Ahead of them, the late summer sun lit the river in shades of gold.

***

Weehawken, 1804.

Aaron Burr stood again with his back to the river.  The rising sun cast his shadow long and slanted across the clearing.  The breeze on the river had been almost cold, but here amidst the cleared undergrowth the day was already becoming warm.

At the other end of the wide ledge, Hamilton stood looking back at him.  Burr felt rage rise in his throat; he could almost taste it, salt and sour.  His friend Hamilton.  Twenty years of dining at one another’s houses, of late-night brandies over troublesome legal cases.  Swapping political gossip and theatre reviews at parties; getting a little drunk and swapping war stories at Society of the Cincinnati dinners.

They were friends.  A few weeks ago, when that note of credit had been called in and somehow there just hadn’t been a way to meet it, no matter what he shuffled around, it had been Hamilton he had gone to.  Because Hamilton was a kind man, a man of honour, who would not see a gentleman and friend so embarrassed.  And he had persuaded his friends to open their pocketbooks, and that would tide him over until he could start making the returns he expected from his Louisiana land.

And yet his friend Hamilton had been destroying him for almost five years.

Van Ness was making quite a production of ramming that pistol.  Burr rubbed briefly at the tension between his brows; the undersized bullets he preferred complicated the loading, but he had given clear instructions. Van Ness had been irritatingly nervous all morning, though.  He'd never seen battle. 

It was bad form but to hell with that.  Burr abandoned his position and strode over to Van Ness.  “You didn't grease the chamois, did you?” he said bluntly. 

“My apologies, Colonel, but no, I… it somehow slipped my mind, and it was only once the ball was well in that I recollected.”

Burr dropped to a crouch, looking over the pistol Van Ness was working on.  They were a matched pair, though he felt that this one sat better in his hand.  His, of course; Hamilton had no pistols of his own.  He had offered to borrow a pair from his brother-in-law but Burr had had some fascinating conversations about their shared interest since his duel with Church, and knew about the hair-trigger setting.  Nothing good could come of an amateur like Hamilton messing with something like that.

“How far is it in?” But he could gauge the ball’s position from where the ramrod arrested, just as well as his second could. Not firmly seated, but too far to be brought out any other way than gunpowder.  “Hellfire.”

He looked across at where Hamilton stood with his back to the scrubby trees.  His neatly clubbed hair was starkly white against the dappled green and brown shade.  He undoubtedly had business to attend to back in New York this morning; the man was never out of court, he took on more cases than a single man could possibly handle.

“We have wasted enough time.” Burr held out his hand for the pistol.

“But Colonel…”

“I’ll take a crack as it is.  Just ensure you grease the next.”

He took the gun from his second’s startled hand and stalked back to his position, his back to the glittering river.  From behind him he could hear Hamilton's second expostulating, Van Ness explaining.

After a few moments Pendleton delivered the other pistol to Hamilton.  Hamilton looked across at Burr and then paused, passed the pistol back for a moment while he fidgeted with his pockets.  He slipped his glasses out and perched them on his nose.  Burr waited as Hamilton lifted the pistol, tested his sighting.  Twice the muzzle swept across him.  He almost chuckled at the transparent gamesmanship.

In his own hand he held a pistol that would not shoot correctly.  He would be exposed completely to Hamilton's fire.  There was a pleasing symmetry to that; if he died, he hoped that whoever spoke at his funeral would not be dull enough to miss the metaphor he had been gifted.  If he lived, he must kill the General with his second fire.

“One, two…”

Political rivalry need not stand in the way of personal friendship.  A man of honour could speak against his rivals, even machinate against them with clever ruses - and he was still entertained by how successfully he had used the Federalists’ own energies to undermine their banking stranglehold - without genuine insult or injury.

He had been jousting with Hamilton, with Adams, even with Jay for years, taking care never to let the two spheres overlap.  It would be meanness in the extreme to let his political differences with the other men lead to disdaining their real merits and accomplishments.

“Three, four…”

It had been four or more years ago, at the time of the presidential election, that he had first started to hear stories beyond the usual.

That he was a voluptuary, he did not deny.  He was no hypocrite, and he enjoyed the company of ladies beyond the habit of most men.  He approached such affairs with an appropriate delicacy - the letters were marked to be burned upon his death - but he did not hide that he embarked upon them.  There was no shame in it, and he took no insult from the rumours that resulted.

Lists of married ladies that he had seduced and ruined went somewhat beyond that, painting him not merely as profligate in his pleasures but as dishonourable in his conduct.  Lists of famous prostitutes that he had attended upon.  Claims that he had attended upon them even as his beloved Theodosia - that woman who above all her race had proven to him that women had souls - lay dying.

Not just rumours but newspaper stories and pamphlets.  Unsigned, or signed with a pseudonym, from multiple sources; but they aligned with certain political ends, and in more than one he recognised traces of Hamilton’s eloquence.

He had chosen to ignore them.

“Five, six…”

It was quiet here.  Behind and below, he could hear the faint chirruping of insects in the rushes.  Above, the chaos of birdsong was slowly petering out as the light grew brighter.  There was barely a breath of air; he could smell crushed leaves, the sharpness of sap where they had broken branches to clear space.

At the far end of the ledge, Hamilton stood proudly upright and impeccably dressed, with his pistol held carefully out to the side, looking back at him.

“Seven, eight…”

He had kept silent while throughout Washington DC and New York people spoke of his holding balls more like Roman orgies, of his defrauding his clients to pay his own immoderate debts, of his political plans to remove the rights of men of property - the very rights that he had founded the Manhattan Company bank to enlarge.  Even criticised his war record.

Twice Hamilton’s name had been associated too closely with slanders for him to disavow them, and twice he had made apology, like a gentleman, before it was requested of him.  And yet he had continued to rip Burr’s honour into shreds before the world, while Burr’s silence progressed from harmony to forbearance to humiliation.

He knew of only one way to fight this battle.  He had ignored it for as long as he could.  He still did not know why his friend so hated him.

“Nine, ten…”

He did not think any of Hamilton’s previous affairs had brought him to an exchange of fire.

The man had been taking shots at him for years.  How would he take this one?

“Present!”

Burr smoothly raised the gun to shoulder height and aimed.  Twenty paces ahead of him, Hamilton did the same, a perfect mirror image.  He pulled the heavy familiar trigger.  The flint fell.  There was a sizzle and a thunderclap, and the gun kicked, jerking his arm a little sideways.  The sensation was wrong; he knew without looking that the poorly-loaded ball had flown wide.

From somewhere above him he heard a crash and splinter.  Something pattered down onto his shoulders, and he lifted his free hand to brush fragments of bark and twig out of his tightly pulled back hair. 

No man was that poor a shot.  He knew what he would see even before the smoke began to sluggishly lift; Hamilton standing with his pistol very obviously raised skyward.

Burr whirled away so quickly that the silk tails of his coat whipped around his thighs.

“Colonel?” Young Van Ness walked up to him, his eyes wide.  Burr managed to curl his mouth up into an easy smile. 

“There is no harm done by your error,” he reassured his second.  He handed him the pistol.  “But please do not make it again.”

“Colonel?” That was a very different tone of voice.  Burr dropped the smile, raised one eyebrow, fixed Van Ness with a stare.

“Colonel Burr, the General has thrown away his fire,” Van Ness said with nervous urgency even as he shifted the pistol to his other hand.  “If you shoot him now it will look like murder.”

It would be murder. 

“I am aware of that, my friend,” Burr said frankly.  “But you know the terms on which I entered into this affair.  These things must have an end.” 

Van Ness sighed, and then nodded.  With an expression of great sadness, he clapped Burr once on the shoulder and retired to the sheltered area beneath the bluff to reload.

Burr turned around, looked through the haze of smoke and dust to where Hamilton was talking to his own second.  Next to Pendleton Hamilton looked small.

As if aware of Burr’s scrutiny Hamilton glanced across; the familiar, pleasant, expressive face Burr had so often seen across a courtroom or a crowded ballroom, much given to smiling.  He was not smiling now. 

Burr held his gaze.  He felt lightheaded, suppressed a sudden wild desire to laugh.  Was he really about to murder a man whom he had no real desire to kill at all?  What a very stupid thing was mankind.

Hamilton looked away, and Burr strolled to the edge of the ledge, looking across the river to New York.  The birds had gone silent, scared by the shooting.  Behind him he could hear the low voices of Van Ness and Pendleton talking as they reloaded the pistols.  He had that long to reconsider.

Hamilton could not escape the consequences of his actions by refusing to participate.  Throwing away his shot had not been courtesy but yet another act of manipulation, aimed not at Burr but at the people now waking beyond the rolling expanse of grey water.  It was not courage but cowardice; though there was doubtless a letter written in pretty prose that would present it otherwise, ruining him from beyond the grave.

If he killed Hamilton now, Theodosia would be a murderer’s daughter.  

The realisation hit him like a lead ball in the stomach.  He could not burden Theodosia with that name.  And that meant he could not kill Hamilton, but must allow him to walk away to continue befouling him in the eyes of the world.  If Theodosia still knew her father to be a man of probity and delicacy, that must be enough.

He might still hurt him, though.

A second exchange would expose him to Hamilton’s fire again.  He turned his head to look at Hamilton, pacing in the deep shade beneath the bluff, expostulating to himself.  He might throw away his fire again.  He might not.  He had seen Burr aim to kill, even if the ball had flown amiss.

If Hamilton did give him a mortal wound, he would then be caught in the same vice of public opinion that he had prepared for Burr.  And Burr did not think Hamilton had touched a firearm since the war.  It was no more risk than he had already assumed when he had first rowed across the Hudson in the morning breeze.

The sounds of thumping and clanging from under the bluff stopped, and after a few moments he could hear Van Ness’s footsteps rustling the leaf debris behind him.  He turned to meet his friend.  “I assume no accommodation has been offered.”

Van Ness shook his head, looking uncertain and unhappy.  “The General will make apology, even for rumour, but only if you name the shape or form of the rumours for which he is to apologise.  He still deals in specifics, Colonel Burr, and refuses to make answer for the general tenor of discourtesy with which he has dealt with you.”

“No man who has been spoken of in the terms he has used could be satisfied with that.”  Burr held out his hand and, rather reluctantly, Van Ness put the grip of the pistol into it.

“I agree,” Van Ness continued, “But…”

“I will not kill him,” Burr stated before his second could finish.  He lifted the pistol, briefly checking that everything looked correct this time.  “I would have to be a great booby to rescue my name from Hamilton only to destroy it myself.  A foot, I think, will do.”

Van Ness did not seem to know whether to look relieved or even more concerned.  “Good luck, Colonel,” was all he said in the end, before retreating to join Pendleton well out of the line of fire.

Burr returned to his position, the weight of his pistol comfortable and familiar in his hand.  He studied Hamilton, wondering what the man would do.

“One, two…”

Across the clearing, Hamilton was regarding him just as intently.  The bright morning sun flashed across his glasses as he tilted his head.

“Three, four…”

Firing into brightness would not help Hamilton's aim.  Burr had wondered why the man had chosen that position; now he understood that it was so his delopement could be clearly seen. 

“Five, six…”

It would help him again now.  He had no intention of giving Hamilton the chance to gauge his intentions before reacting.

“Seven, eight…”

Hamilton’s gun dropped a little, he opened his mouth - then he gave his head a short, impatient shake and took up his stance again.

“Nine, ten…”

If the man didn't want to shoot he should not have come here.  Burr looked down from his friend's face to his chest and arms, which would most clearly signal his moves.

“Present.”

He could feel the way the air moved around his arm as he raised it, would never forget the way sun and shadow made stark patterns on Hamilton's bright blue coat.  A pale, tense face above the wedding-ring shape of the muzzle of his gun.  They stood in mirror poses, regarding one another, and Burr almost laughed, wondering if Hamilton was going to recreate his son’s ridiculous duel and point his gun for long enough to sing a drinking song before finally shooting.

Then Hamilton's shoulders tensed and Burr quickly swung his gun down and pulled the trigger. 

A thunderclap slammed into his chest, turning him partway around.  He stumbled back, his shoulder hitting a tree; he tried to lift his hand to support him but there was no strength in his arm.  His pistol dropped into the grass by his feet.  He sagged against the tree as pain exploded through his breast.  Dammit.  Hit.

Van Ness was there before he could fall, supporting him with an arm around his waist.  “Doctor!” he yelled and Burr recoiled from the loudness of it against his ear.

“How bad is it?” he managed to get out against the deep, burning ache that hollowed out his whole chest. 

“I cannot well see,” Van Ness’s voice said, low and worried.  “You must sit.”

“Don't be ridiculous, we need to leave.” If he sat down, he was not sure he could get up again.  Tremors were starting to run through his body.  In the distance he could hear a scuffle.

“I must speak with him!”

“No, General, you cannot be found here.”

For a moment he remembered with astonishing clarity the overwhelming thunder of an artillery volley, could almost feel Montgomery falling back against him.  “Get the General away,” he said harshly.

“Mr Pendleton is dealing with General Hamilton.  Ah!  Dr Hosack!  Colonel Burr has been hit in the chest.”

“So I see.” Dr Hosack dropped his medical bag, his voice clipped and professional.  “Let me examine the injury, Colonel.”

Burr leaned back against the tree and his friend, trying to ignore the shocks that ran through his body as Hosack carefully pulled the material of his coat away from the raw and burned flesh.  Deep, bruised pain shot from his ribs every time he took a breath.

“The wound does not look mortal,” Hosack said at last.  He pressed a square of gauze against Burr’s ribs and started wrapping it in place.  “I do not think the ball has penetrated your chest cavity, it must have ricocheted from your ribs.  But I cannot rule out complications.  We must return to New York immediately so that you can be cared for.  Can you walk to the boat, if assisted?”

“I can.  Van Ness, if I may put my arm around you…”

Time dilated on the journey back down to the river.  The pain was only an annoyance, he told himself.  But his body was entirely distracted by it, so that he felt himself trapped inside a crude puppet.  Every stumble blackened his vision with the shock that hammered through him, and he felt lightheaded with the inability to breathe deeply.  The feeling of heat and pain was so achingly familiar that he twice almost asked Van Ness how the battle had gone before he fought his way back to clarity.  But he was alive.  He kept himself moving, kept focused, by concentrating on the satisfaction of knowing that Hamilton's plan had broken with his own ribs. 

Dr Hosack forced him to lie in the bottom of the boat, his shoulders propped up on something softened by Van Ness’s coat.  The doctor knelt beside him, checking his pulse, feeling his extremities.  A few sips of watered wine restored a little of the warmth that had started leaching from his body, and reduced the shivering that he could not seem to stop.  It was becoming harder to breathe. 

Dr Hosack frowned and bent to place his ear against Burr’s chest. 

“Mr Van Ness,” he said as he straightened again.  “Do you know of a house near the dock to which Colonel Burr can be transported?  I mislike his breathing, and Richmond Hill is across the city.”

Burr drew in a breath to suggest Davis, and then let it out again in a gasp as pain bloomed in his lungs. 

“Mr Davis’s house is not far,” Van Ness replied for him, “And I am sure he would be insulted if we did not think of him immediately.”

Burr closed his eyes and concentrated on re-establishing the rhythm of fast, shallow breaths that seemed to be the only way to get air.  When they docked he did not try to stand, but allowed the bargemen to carry him through the streets, gasping at every change of posture, fighting against the stabbing pain in his breast and the feeling of suffocation as his lungs just wouldn't open enough.  The sound of panic in Matthew's voice as he greeted them at the door was not encouraging.  But the British had not killed him and he was damned if Hamilton would.

Hosack wasted no time cutting his coat and other clothes off him.  With Burr’s bare skin exposed, the red and black wound that flowered across half of his breast looked obscene, like so much burned meat.  Red fluid pooled sluggishly and flowed in little rivulets down his side.  Hosack examined it closely, and Burr tried not to twitch as each probe, each careful dabbing away of the obscuring blood, stabbed pain through his body.  “I am afraid, my friend,” Hosack said reluctantly at last, “that your condition is less favourable than I had first thought.”

“How… bad?” Burr managed to pant out, staring at the ceiling as he held his body as straight as he could through the throbbing of broken ribs and burned flesh, trying to give his lungs enough space to expand. 

Hosack gently began to wind a new bandage over the wound, more tightly.  “It is bad, Colonel Burr,” he said flatly.  “I fear there is some damage to your vital organs, most likely from a splinter of your ribs.  We may still entertain hopes of your recovery, but surgery may be necessary.  I need to consult.”

Burr just gave a tight nod, unwilling to waste precious breath on speaking.  He forced himself to breathe in shallow, even breaths.  He was not afraid of surgery, if it would increase his chances. 

Hosack retired and Davis entered with Van Ness.  “Your health is much enquired of,” Davis said as he sat beside the bed.  “We will put out bulletins to inform the people.” Burr nodded, once.  He didn't want to share his body’s brokenness, his lungs’ cramping hunger for air, with anyone less confidential than Theodosia.  But he was the Vice President, and America needed to know.

“General Rey has sent for the French naval surgeons,” Van Ness informed him.  “They have experience with gunshot wounds, they may be able to assist Dr Hosack.”

Burr nodded again.  The pain was tiring, but he could not rest, he had to keep sucking air into his aching chest.  He gathered his strength, being careful not to fill his lungs too deeply. “Read… something,” he requested.

“You want one of us to read to you?” Van Ness asked and he nodded.

“Do you mind being the one to oblige the Colonel?” Davis asked Van Ness quietly. “I need to get ahead of the Federalist press on this.”

Burr closed his eyes and shook his head.  The events of the duel must speak for themselves.

“But Colonel…”

Burr shook his head again, forcing himself to raise his head enough to fix Davis with a forbidding glare.

“If that is your fixed wish then I must abide by it,” Davis said at last with bad grace.  “But you cannot dissuade me from honesty when I speak of your health, Colonel Burr.  My affection for you will not allow it.” He turned to Van Ness.  “I'll bring you a book.”

***

COLONEL BURR WAS SHOT BY GENERAL HAMILTON THIS MORNING IN A DUEL.  THE COLONEL IS SAID TO BE MORTALLY WOUNDED. 

***

To the People of the State of New York, 

It is with heavy heart that I must confirm that Colonel Burr, whose record of loyal service to State and country is well known to all, has this morning suffered serious injury in a duel with General Hamilton, long his political rival.

The injuries to Colonel Burr are of such a nature that hopes of his recovery, while not to be disdained, dare not be entered in upon with any comfort.  All friends to the Union must feel the greatest apprehension at the most likely outcome of events for the trustee of one of its highest offices. 

***

Dr. David Hosack,

I can excuse to you the liberty I take in sending this missive only by the extreme anxiety I feel over the health of my friend Colonel Burr.  Despite the exchanges that left me with no other recourse than the desperate one we entered upon, our personal intercourse has always been marked by cordiality, even, I have hoped, real affection.  It is in the name of our long personal, as distinct from political, acquaintance that I hope you will be so candid as to share what hopes are entertained of my friend's recovery.

If, as I conclude is probable from the news that is spread among the public, you have insufficient time to write or send to me any account, I would be satisfied if you should be able to indicate at what hours of the day you may most probably be found at home, that I may repeat my inquiries in my own person. It would be an even greater kindness, although an unanticipated one, if you were to do me the honour of calling upon me as you return from Mr Davis’s.  You will be welcome at any hour. 

Yr friend and humble servant

A. Ham

***

The only sound in the room was the faint scratching of pen over paper.

Hamilton paused and laid his quill aside to read the line again. 

‘...reason to apprehend that Col. Burr intended to take my life, and sensible that my criticisms of his political principles and character had at times been very severe, such that for a man of zealous pride it must have been repugnant to make no palpable answer…'

It wasn't working.  Somehow, in this extremity, even his quill had turned against him.  No matter what he tried to write, the fact was that he had shot to kill a man who had, apparently, not been trying to kill him.

There was a quiet knock at the door.  Grateful for the distraction, dreading the news, Hamilton limped to open it. 

Dr Hosack looked drained.  “General Hamilton,” he said formally.  “You asked to see me.”

“Doctor.  Thankyou for coming.” Hamilton backed up to let him past.  “Come in.  Anything my home has to offer is at your disposal, but please, tell me first - does Colonel Burr yet live?”

“I'll take a glass of wine with you and yes he still lives.  Or did when I left, at any rate.”

Hamilton felt his vision waver for a moment, passed his hand in front of his eyes.  “Thankyou.  Into the study, please, doctor.”

Hosack knew the house.  He turned right as Hamilton limped into the parlour to quickly collect a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses.

When he entered the study Hosack was slumped in the single armchair, rubbing his eyes.  He looked up as Hamilton handed him a full glass and then subsided into the chair at his desk. He frowned and gestured at Hamilton's leg.  “What's that?”

“Colonel Burr aimed down.  His bullet grazed my ankle.”

“You pair of…” Hosack took a slug of wine in lieu of finishing the sentence.  “All right, Hamilton.  I'm here.  Now what is it you want to know?”

“I would be obliged if you should tell me the nature of the injuries sustained by Colonel Burr, and whether I should be prepared for the worst news a friend can hear.  I assume from your answer to my previous question that the answer to my last is - unfortunately - yes.”  Hamilton turned to the window, but it was too dark to see the garden beyond.

“I didn’t come all the way out here so that you can torture yourself, Hamilton,” Hosack said shortly.  “Or so that you can figure out how best to use any information I give you in whatever public defence you’re currently writing.  I really don’t care.”

“I have heard what they are saying on the streets, David,” Hamilton said with some passion.  “Already I am called a murderer.  What if those passions overflow, taint rational reflection with the immoderate passions of the moment, unreasonably exercised against any of my party?”

“The time to have worried about that was two weeks ago when Mr Pendleton and I were telling you not to fight.  I do not care about your party or your pride, General Hamilton, and I will take my leave now.”

Dr Hosack stood, and Hamilton leapt up with him.  “Wait!  No.  That is not why I want to know.”  He swallowed.  “I… this is not the first time that the exigencies of public life have forced me into behaviour that is at odds with my conscience and my personal responsibilities.  Contradictory as it may seem, I have never wished Colonel Burr ill.  When I ask you of him it is, I assure you, with the solicitude of a friend; what are the chances that he will live?

“Well.”  Hosack sighed and sat down again.  “The ball struck a glancing blow to his ribs, so that at first we thought him but little injured.  Mr Van Ness was able to help him to the boat.  But as we crossed the river his breathing became laboured, and once we reached the nearest convenient house a more careful examination showed that a fracture had turned and pierced him inwardly so that he could not fill his lungs except with the most distressing effort and pain.”

Hamilton pressed his fingers to his temples and groaned.  There was silence as his mind raced.  “Did you essay placing a tube within his chest to suck out the fluids?” he asked at last.

“I did, with the assistance of some surgeons from the French frigates.  We were also able to perform surgery to retrieve the fragment that was piercing him, so that he is at risk of no further internal injury.  His fortitude throughout the ordeal was extraordinary; the use of laudanum was an impossibility, as if he had he lost any element of his usual vigour he had surely given up the unequal struggle for breath.”

Hamilton felt sick at the thought.  He remembered the way Burr had looked when he last saw him, eyes almost black in his shock-pale face as he leaned against the trunk of the tree, refusing to give way.  He could imagine him holding onto consciousness with the same indomitable will, no matter the suffering.  He very much did not want to imagine it.

“So what are the dangers now?” he asked instead.  Details.  Information.  He needed something he could work with.  “Infection?”

“Always, although of course I have applied limewater and oil, and we have used plaster to bring the edges of the surgical wound together.  But mainly the question is whether the hurt to Colonel Burr’s lung will allow of healing, or whether he must suffocate despite our efforts.  And that I simply cannot know.”  Hosack sighed tiredly.  “Why did you do it, Ham?”

Instead of answering, Hamilton opened one of the drawers in his desk, extracted a paper, and handed it over.  He stood up and limped to the window, not wanting to see Hosack’s reaction.  His ankle stung.  He thought again about the way the earth had kicked up beside his foot as the bullet had ploughed into it, the way Burr had spun and fallen backwards, the sudden shocked realisation of what he had done.

“‘From principle, rather than pride’?” Hosack quoted disgustedly.  Hamilton heard the sound of paper being vigorously shaken.  “Your ‘animadversions have been particularly severe’?  What is this self-serving muck, Hamilton?  You’ll give the apology and the respect Burr pressed you for to everyone else in the world, but not to him, is that it?”

“That is not what I…” Hamilton turned around defensively but Hosack overrode him, crumpling the paper and throwing it at his feet.

“You and your damnable pride!  Here is your admission that you have slandered him up and down in the most unreasonable fashion; I would bet my carriage and horses that if you had written to him with something like this after he first saw that bloody Cooper letter, neither of you would have been at Weehawken this morning.  I thought he would kill you, Ham, we all did.”

“And so did I!” Hamilton responded equally angrily.  “But if I had meekly apologised to him again you know the world would have thought me a coward, and I would have lost the good will of all decent men of standing… ”

“I am not having this argument again.”  Hosack pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Tell yourself what you like, Ham, I am not interested.  It’s late, and I need to rest so I can attend on my patient in the morning.  If he survives the night.”

“But I must…”

“No.  I’m done.”  Hosack turned and strode out of the house, leaving Hamilton quivering with frustration behind him.

After a moment, he bent down and picked up his statement.  He sat down and smoothed it out carefully on the desk, rereading his careful explanation.  No.  There was nothing there that would have answered Burr’s final, intolerable demands.  He could have said any of it to Burr, it would have made no difference.  He tried not to wonder why, in that case, he had not said it to Burr, why it mattered that he said it here.

It had been about the principle.  It really had.  And yet somehow the principle seemed terribly thin when put up against the tension in the city, or the memory of how Burr had jerked like a puppet when the lead ball struck.

Chapter Text

Joint Statement by William P. Van Ness and Nathaniel Pendleton

Col Burr arrived first on the ground as had been previously agreed. When Genl Hamilton arrived the parties exchanged salutations and the Seconds proceeded to make their arrangements. They measured the distance, ten full paces apiece, and cast lots for the choice of positions as also to determine by whom the word should be given, both of which fell to the Second of Genl Hamilton. They then proceeded to load the pistols in each others presence, after which the parties took their stations.

At this time a distracting incident occurred.  The ball in Col Burr’s pistol, due to an unusual characteristic of the loading, was found not to be home.  Rather than keep the Genl waiting, Col Burr chose to discharge his pistol in the state it had been given to him.

The Gentleman who was to give the word, then explained to the parties the rules which were to govern them in firing which were as follows: The parties being placed at their stations The Second who gives the word shall count to ten and then he shall say “present” after which the parties shall present & fire when they please. If one fires before the other the opposite second shall say one two, three, fire, and he shall fire or lose his fire.  Both parties being prepared he gave the count followed by the word present as had been agreed on, and both of the parties took aim, & fired in succession, the Intervening time is not expressed as the seconds do not precisely agree on that point. The pistols were discharged within a few seconds of each other and neither fire took effect.

A second exchange being necessary events proceeded as before, save that both pistols now were sensibly loaded.  The pistols were discharged so close that the sounds could not be clearly distinguished & the fire of Genl Hamilton took effect; Col Burr instantly fell back against a tree. Genl Hamilton, though slightly wounded in the foot, then advanced toward Col Burr with a manner and gesture that appeared to Col Burr’s friend to be expressive of regret, but without Speaking turned about & withdrew. Being urged from the field by his friend as has been subsequently stated, with a view to prevent his being recognised by the Surgeon and Bargemen who were then approaching. No farther communications took place between the principals and the Barge that carried Genl Hamilton immediately returned to the City. We conceive it proper to add that the conduct of the parties in that interview was perfectly proper as suited the occasion.

***

To the People of the State of New York,

Our friend Colonel Burr still draws breath, although this ordinary task is attended by piteous difficulties.  This morning by putting forth great effort he was able to inquire of the city, and upon being told of the crowds gathered near the house showed greatly affected by these evidences of the regard in which he is held.

Although without the solace of family within the city, the Colonel suffers no loneliness thereby from the number of friends who have gathered to give comfort in this extremity.  Our hopes of his survival, though encouraged by his fortitude, still fluctuate moment to moment.  All now is in the hands of that One who is above doctors.

***

A coach drew up before the house, and a man alighted and hurried to the house.  Men just like him, stylishly dressed and immaculately groomed, had been coming and going for the last few days.  Davis’s door opened and he was ushered quickly inside.

“Is that not Mr Pendleton’s carriage, General?” Dr Hosack asked with surprise as he hurriedly closed the door behind Hamilton.

“You will forgive the deception,” Hamilton responded with an absent dismissing motion of one hand.  “It seemed circumspect to take precautions to avoid recognition; the tenor of emotion in the city is high, and in attending to some necessary business at my office I was yesterday struck by a thrown rock.  I did not wish to bring disorder upon this house.  How fares the Colonel?”

“A little improved, perhaps.  He was able to have some imperfect sleep last night, which has restored him a little.  You will find his mind of its usual power and clarity.  However I must warn in the strongest possible terms against any agitation.  No matter how you may feel yourself provoked, Hamilton, you must not argue.”

“My feelings partake of nothing but solicitude,” Hamilton assured the doctor.  “My attentions will not trouble Colonel Burr.”

“I am placing a great trust in you, Alexander,” Hosack warned softly.

“I am sensible of it,” Hamilton returned, very seriously.

“Well, then.  The man has consented to see you against my advice, it is out of my hands.  Come up.”

At the top of the narrow stairs Hosack signalled him to wait while he slipped into the bedroom briefly.  Hamilton could hear the murmur of voices from inside, though none of them sounded like Burr’s smooth tenor.  A few minutes later Hosack emerged, Van Ness following behind him.  “Mr Davis has been reading to the Colonel this morning,” Hosack explained briefly, “and will remain to attend him.”

Hamilton just nodded, sensible of the delicacy of the second’s departure.  He had known this could not be a private interview, had accounted for that.  The man who would leave the Vice President alone with a man who had shot him would be a perfect fool, and Burr did not count perfect fools among his intimates.  He would have no difficulty with Davis. He stepped quietly into the bedroom.

Hamilton was no stranger to a sickroom; when his children were unwell he was as likely to nurse them as Eliza was.  He had expected the disarray of vessels and instruments strewn across nightstand and shelves, the sudden shock of powerful, acrid stinks like hartshorn and vinegar over the more familiar human unpleasantnesses, even with the window thrown wide to disperse any miasma.  But it was still a shock to see Aaron Burr - charming, aristocratic, clever, unscrupulous Aaron Burr - looking so undone.  He was reclining against a pile of miscellaneous pillows and cushions, with his shoulders indecently bare beneath the rumpled blankets.  Oily dark hair lay loose and tangled, snagging on the black bristles furring his jaw and straggling like spilled ink over the bleached bandages that wrapped over one pale shoulder.  The linen looked a little stained and grubby at the edges.  His skin seemed clammy, his tawny eyes sunken and shadowed above unnaturally flushed cheeks.  Even from the door Hamilton could hear the rasp of air between the man's chapped lips, the effort he was making for each breath.

Burr did not move, but those dark eyes fixed immediately on him, raking him up and down.  One black eyebrow raised in a familiar elegant gesture that belonged to the cultivated world of court chambers and dining rooms; not with this disarray.

“Colonel Burr.”  Hamilton walked to the bed and took the empty stool on the opposite side to Matthew Davis.  His familiar enemy slouched a little in the single armchair, a copy of Rousseau’s The Social Contract open on his lap.  Burr had always been fonder of Rousseau than the impractical ideals merited.  “Thankyou for agreeing to see me.” He paused briefly but Burr showed no sign of wanting to speak, so he continued.  “Our mutual friend Dr Hosack has told me that he entertains realistic hopes of your recovery.  I wanted you to hear from my own lips that there is no one in New York who would greet that event with more gladness than I.  Or its inverse with greater regret.”

Burr gave a slight nod, no more than an acknowledgement.  His steady gaze was a little disconcerting, and undoubtedly intended to be. 

“Mr Davis.” Burr’s friend looked up in some surprise, having apparently been resigned to the role of chaperone.  Hamilton smiled at him across the bed. “You and I have had our professional disagreements; but the articles you have issued lately have been my only source of relief from affliction, having no more claim to news than the common lot, but with acquaintance as well as circumstance involving my passions much more deeply.  Your writing reveals your affection for Colonel Burr, even if your opening your home did not.

“It is on the basis of that shared affection”, he continued a little more carefully, “that I assume of you greater delicacy than most of your profession.  To ask you not to speak of this interview would be to offer you an undeserved insult.  I am therefore in a position of mere trust that nothing I say today will later confront me in print.”

Davis’s eyes narrowed a little, clearly offended anyway.  That was to be expected.  The journalist’s eyes then flicked sideways to Burr, who nodded.  He shrugged, sighed, and flipped a few pages farther ahead in the book, marking the current place with one finger.  Hamilton turned back to Burr.

“My dear friend,” he said intently.  Burr braced his left arm to push himself a little more upright, that small effort making his breathing thick and harsh, but simply continued to stare neutrally at Hamilton, offering neither reply nor encouragement.  Motes of dust danced between them, in the single shaft of light that slanted across the room, gilding the dark panelling.

“Colonel Burr,” Hamilton continued with determined ease.  “During the scope of our professional rivalry, I have made many criticisms of you, some of which have been very severe.  I know that you are a man of considerable pride and sensibility, and that these criticisms must have borne hard upon you.  I hope you will offer me the justice of believing that I have not censured you on light grounds, but from a conviction that my declarations were well founded.”  It was no lie that the man before him was all but bankrupt.  He had seen that desperation for himself only a few weeks ago.  “However,” he granted, “it is not impossible that in some particulars I have been influenced by misinformation or misconstruction; in fact it is my ardent hope that it is so, for the sake of the personal esteem in which I hold you.  I have never acted from malice or dislike, for I have always considered us to be personally well, and have sometimes even thought I might like you extremely if our ideas were less often opposed.

“As an accessory to this, it has been my invariable experience that even declarations that proceed from strong reasons and principles can accrue, in their passage from mouth to mouth, falsehoods and calumnies that were never intended by the declarer.  Simply put, Colonel Burr, I do not know what rumours you may have heard, or what others are whispered.  I am more than willing to take responsibility for any injury caused by my own words, but I will not risk attaching the slanders of others to my name, and I fear that much of what has seemed to you to be reluctance or evasion has proceeded from a reasonable caution on this head.”

He stopped, took a deep breath.  “I have come to understand that I should have said to you three weeks ago when Mr Van Ness called upon me with what I now realise to have been the heart of the affair, and not a tacked-on demand designed to bring me to the point of action.  I have sought to correct the misunderstandings that I now perceive - I trust that I have been successful.”

“Are you… apologising… now?”  Burr’s ragged rasp cracked with the force of the final word.  He sucked in breath as if to cough then clearly forced the urge down, swallowing hard several times to suppress a paroxysm that would have been painful at the very least.  Davis leaned forward to hand him a glass of watered wine, glaring at Hamilton. 

Hamilton tapped his hand against his thigh, resisting the urge to adjust the sick man’s pillows or wipe the sweat from his face to make him more comfortable.  “Am I distressing you?” he asked instead, softly.  Burr shook his head impatiently and signalled for him to keep talking.  On Burr’s other side Davis looked dubious, but said nothing. 

“No.  I am not offering the apology that you repeatedly requested.  I am not willing to broadly disavow any statement I might have made that you might choose to take offence at, and I still think it was peremptory and unreasonable to demand that of me.  But,” Hamilton continued quickly.  “But I have done you injury in forgetting that you are my friend before you are my rival, in allowing this animosity to grow between us, and in allowing our affairs to reach the stage they did.  Though the political ends I pursued I still believe to be righteous and justified, it is personally intolerable to me that you might go a moment longer with any apprehension that my attitude toward you is one of zealous enmity.  It is not.”

Burr tilted his head and gave Hamilton a long, considering look.  He closed his eyes briefly and Hamilton noticed again how sunken they looked, the fragile skin around them dark as an old bruise. 

“I expect no response,” Hamilton finished quietly.  “I do not seek to place on you any burden, Colonel Burr, but to relieve you of one.” He rose from his seat.

“I have taken up too much of your energy.” Across the bed, Davis failed to hide the look of relief that crossed his face.  “Should you wish to talk at another time, or if there is any good I may do you, please send for me.  I am at your service, at any hour of the day or night.”  And bowing to both men, he made his way out.

***

To Mrs Theodosia Alston, Charleston.

On behalf of Col Burr I write to apprise you of the unembellished facts behind any rumours that you may have heard regarding recent events in New York.

On July 11, the Col met with Genl Hamilton to settle some differences that had lately arisen.  The Col was unfortunately wounded in the course of events.  No blame attaches to the Genl on this account.  Col Burr’s injuries are severe but he begs me to remember to you his customary vigour and encourages you not to succumb to cynicism.    

Your obedient servant, 

Matthew L. Davis

***

To General Hamilton, The Grange, New York

Sir,

The interview between yourself and Colonel Burr being concluded, Colonel Burr considers it indecorous to further dwell upon the communications that preceded it.  He is surprized at your apparent determination to reopen a correspondence already unnecessarily prolonged and irritating, and now brought to a definite close.

If you should still feel any delicacy regarding the effects of your private conversations on the common opinion of Colonel Burr, you must proceed according to the dictates of your own conscience and temper alone.  It is in no way material to Colonel Burr.

By the same token no hostility is considered to attach to such chance intercourse as may arise from the coincidence of legal business or mutual acquaintance.  Colonel Burr has never failed to respect the courtesies of civilized behaviour and shall not do so now.

Your most obedient and very humble servant,

W. P. Van Ness

***

Burr finished his train of thought in a hurried scribble before letting the quill fall from his hand and sagging back against the pillows.  The pen hit the slope of the writing desk, fell, and rolled across the blanket, leaving a little trail of black smudges in the British wool before dropping off the edge of the bed.  He ignored it and rubbed at his temples, trying to ease away the incipient headache.

At least he was no longer surrounded by a circus of well-wishers and the noise and stink of the city.  If he looked up he could see through his window the familiar rolling expanse of grass and trees, slanting down to the bright mirror of the pond with its rushes and pleasant little bridge.  The wide window flooded the room with light and air, the blue and white flocked wallpaper a soothing improvement on the dark claustrophobic panelling of Davis’s house.

The relief of returning to his beloved estate far outweighed the annoyances of having to write his own correspondence, or any small deficiencies in his servants’ nursing.  Though the house still seemed to lack its fundamental essence without Theodosia, who would have uncomplainingly acted as his amanuensis and offered witty commentary on his correspondents to amuse him into the bargain.  Her sweet voice would have cheered him out of this headache.  She would also not have dropped the damned pen on the damned floor.

Downstairs the bell rang, and he heard the quiet thunk of the front door followed by indistinct voices.  After a few moments Peggy’s footsteps clattered up the stairs, followed by her voice in the doorway.  “Master?”

He twisted a little to look at her, trying not to grunt at the sudden bruising ache in his chest.  “I told you to come in where I can see you.  Who is it?”

“General Hamilton, master.”  Her broad face expressed her distaste clearly.  “Shall I tell them to send him away?”

Burr’s first impulse was to agree.  But it would be discourteous - almost as much so as Hamilton calling on him unexpectedly in the first place - and besides, conversation might provide a welcome distraction.  Hamilton could undoubtedly be relied upon to assume the bulk of the effort of talking.  “No, send him up.  And bring the Bordeaux brandy, I think.”  He pushed the tray on his lap aside and smoothed back his hair.  Annoyingly, his hands were still trembling from the exertion of writing.  Something to drink would help.

There was creaking from the stairs followed by footsteps in the corridor, and Alexander Hamilton walked into the room to stand before the foot of the bed, fully in the light of the window as he bowed.  Burr ignored Peter coming in behind him to place a chair and arrange items to the left of the bed, though Hamilton’s eyes followed the slave’s movements and he favoured him with a small nod of thanks as he left.

“General Hamilton,” Burr greeted him.  “You will excuse my not rising.  What brings you so far out of your way?”  He gestured to the chair in invitation.

Hamilton shook his head.  “I cannot stay long.  I heard you had returned to Richmond Hill, and I was concerned that you presumed too much on your recovery.” He took a few idle steps across the room and turned to walk back.  “I could not be easy in my mind until I saw that you were comfortable.”  He noticed the quill on the floor and absently stepped forwards to scoop it up and place it on the writing desk.

“Not that this idea is entirely of my own genesis,” Hamilton added wryly, “For I have been charged with innumerable commissions to you by Robert Troup, and I truly believe that if I had not announced my intention of coming here before the list grew inordinate, I had still been receiving instruction when night fell.”

“My great fat friend,” Burr said with an incautious chuckle that suddenly turned into a cough followed by several seconds of rigid, agonised self-control to suppress further.  “He is recovering, then?” he continued, quickly brushing the tears out of his eyes as though nothing had happened.  “I had feared for him.”  He reached for the bottle Peter had placed on the nightstand and carefully started to work the cork out, trying not to wince as the movement of his arms tore at burned and lacerated flesh.

Hamilton wordlessly walked around the bed and held out a hand for the bottle.  Burr passed it over with an annoyed twist of his lips, watched Hamilton open and pour, then took a good slug from the glass he was handed.  The burning sweetness in his throat softened into a warmth that diffused slowly through his body.

“He is, although much displeased with us both.”  Hamilton finally sat down, crossing one ankle over his knee.  Burr noticed with mild amusement that the blue clocks in the ankles of his stockings exactly matched the colour of his waistcoat.  “You know he has always had a very partial fondness for you.  I had, with many extravagant promises, to put him off an attempt, that I considered unwise, to visit you in person.”

“I will scribble him something.”  Burr shifted the brandy to his left hand, which was shaking less, and took another sip.  “He has pardoned me before for worse than bad handwriting.”

“You should not over-tire yourself writing letters,” Hamilton said with a slight frown, and Burr knew he’d noticed the tremors.  “Are you sleeping well?”

“You know I need little sleep,” Burr dismissed the query.  “I have been using this time to read Bentham’s volumes on legal reform; I find good ideas a better restorative than unconsciousness.”

“In health, perhaps, but in the neutral state of recovery the body’s needs are different.  Sleeping even as much as nine or ten hours in the night is not considered excessive by the most modern theories, and a short sleep in the afternoon, in addition, has often been found beneficial.”  Hamilton was leaning forward in his chair, gesturing with his hands, light eyes wide and earnest.  “You must try the remedy, at least, and let experience inform your judgment.”

“You cluck worse than Bobby,” Burr observed, a little surprised.  Mutual friends had occasionally commented that Hamilton tended to an almost smothering solicitude, but their acquaintance had never been close enough for him to experience it personally.

“Did I not inform you I was on his business?” Hamilton returned lightly, with a quick smile.

“My health is a topic of little interest to me, General Hamilton,” Burr demurred with easy frankness.  The warmth of the brandy was steadying his hands, but it was not helping the headache, or the constant throbbing of his ribs.  He hoped he could finish the necessary letters before it became impossible to write.

“You must allow that it is of great interest to your friends, though.”  Hamilton uncrossed his legs, then recrossed them the other way around.  “Do you recall the Croswell case?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I have not lost all my wits, yes.  Do you refer to Jefferson’s hypocrisy in prosecuting, your own lamentable predeliction for causes, the idea of a free press as an instrument for checking abuses of power, the damages proceeding from published malice, or some supposed reverence for truth?  Or some other issue or incident?”

He could feel his voice becoming ragged in his throat, and there was a rawness pricking deep in his chest.  He finished the brandy and shifted slightly against the pillows, trying to reduce the aching pressure on the right-hand side of his ribcage. 

Hamilton reflexively moved to lift a couple of the pillows into a more convenient position and beat them back into plumpness. As Burr carefully repositioned himself Hamilton leaned over to move the portable desk, shake the covers sharply until all the crumbs and other debris of days bedridden were gone, and yank them until the bottom untucked sufficiently that the blanket would reach to cover Burr’s shoulders when he sat up.

“Thankyou,” Burr said with surprise as Hamilton replaced the desk and sat down again.

“I'll send you my lap desk, its design is superior,” Hamilton offered absently with an airy wave of one hand.  “A little of all of those, in truth,” he returned to his subject.  “What is the difference between a newspaper and a pamphlet?  One is a paper, published and distributed ostensibly for the amusement and education of subscribing citizens of our Union, but usually with the more sinister purpose of encouraging them in a particular set of beliefs, and incitement to act upon them.  The other is a paper, published and distributed for the amusement and education of selected citizens of our Union, with the more sinister purpose of encouraging them in a specific set of beliefs, and incitement to act upon them.  There is little enough room between them to slide a paper knife.  And if we then go further and consider whisper and rumour, the hundred-headed hydra; those are not in the technical term published, but they are indeed distributed, and the individuals they are distributed to are selected, and they act upon our faculties with amusement and we feel ourselves educated in some wise thereby; but are we not also encouraged in a specific set of beliefs, and incited to act upon them?  We have affixed a precedent upon the first, because the originator is a known quantity, who can be communicated with, summonsed and punished for the avocations that bear his name.  But the authors of the second and third are no less in culpability; we do not bring the law upon them because we should not, only because we can not.”

“Yes, the actio injurarum, where are you going with this?” Burr interrupted impatiently.

Hamilton stopped mid-pace.  Burr wondered if he was even aware that he had risen to walk back and forth before the foot of the bed, gesticulating, as though he were in a court of law with Burr a presiding judge.

Watching a silhouette move in front of bright sunlight was making Burr’s eyes feel hot and dry, and there was a dull pounding beginning in his temples.  “Briefly, if you can,” he added dryly.

“Perhaps now is not the time.”  Hamilton gazed at him thoughtfully.  “Should I loose the drapes?”

“If you would.”

Blessed dimness fell across the room as the velvet drapes fell across the window.  Burr could see Hamilton more clearly now in the light diffusing in from the door, as he walked to the side of the bed, refilled Burr’s glass, and then stoppered the bottle.

“The current way in which our highest offices traduce one another through intermediaries and pseudonyms is nothing more than cowardice, and if allowed to continue will tear apart the Union,” Hamilton said quietly.  “The fault is mine no less than, if not more so than, Jefferson and his particular friends.  If I rightly and with strong grounds accuse and convict myself of grave error, at a time when the passions of the people are disposed to be in sympathy with such accusation, I by contagion convict all.”

“And that makes me what, a hapless victim of your power?  A convenient rhetorical device?”

“No, of course not.”

“I read your refutation of the charge of speculation.  I know the tenor of your arguments, General Hamilton.”

“I had intended to send you the draft to edit.”

Burr felt intrigue coil in his belly like cigar smoke.  Hamilton, left to himself, was a loose cannon.  But he was a loose cannon with a genius for laying out a persuasive political argument, and the Croswell case had been a tour-de-force of legal eloquence.  This was a bold manoevre - and he never had been able to resist bold manoevres, with the enemy in sight.

“Don’t,” he said.  And as Hamilton frowned and drew breath to argue, he cut him off with a sharp gesture.  “Bring me your notes.  We’ll write it together.”

Chapter Text

Peggy glimpsed the carriage from the library window, as it rounded the bend at the base of the rise.  She hastily folded up the map she had been looking at and returned it to its place on the shelf.  Master Burr might encourage her to take down and read the books and maps he had collected - rows of richly bound octavo volumes covered all the walls of the room, filling the space with a dusty scent of paper and leather she had encountered nowhere else - but not all of his visitors had as casual an attitude to slaves touching the pages, as though her black fingers might somehow leave visible smudges.

She went through to the dining room, from which she would be able to see the carriage pull up and overhear the conversation with the footman at the door.  It felt strange, standing here among the white sheets, feeling a little like a ghost in the house.  She’d had to have the room put up when news had arrived of Master Burr’s injuries, because he would not be entertaining any time soon and letting dust lay would just make more work for them all.  But it still felt like a bad omen.

Through the panes she saw splinters of the horses pulling up, the carriage door opening, the slight, dapper figure of Alexander Hamilton stepping out.  A surge of disgust ran through her, making nausea curl in her stomach.  How dare he show his face here?  Master Burr might make light of his indisposition but she had seen him trying to write, hunched over, breath catching, an unhealthy sweat beading on his temples.  Hamilton had done that to him, had gone across the river to shoot him in the chest and try to kill him.

More than once Peggy had gone to linger by her master’s doorway, late at night, just to make sure she could still hear him breathing.  She knew, now, why the Vice President of the whole country, master of all those different states she’d seen laid out on the maps, still worked so hard at his legal practice.  She had seen the will.

Tell my dear Friend that I have not left her any thing, for the very good reason that I had nothing to leave to any one. My estate will just about pay my debts and no more.

Dispose of Nancy as you please. She is honest, robust, and good-tempered. Peter is the most intelligent and best-disposed black I have ever known. I advise you, by all means, to keep him as the valet of your son.

They would have been passed on with the books and wines.  If that ball had hit a few inches different, they might all have been in South Carolina by now.  A place she had never been to; all heat and swamps, she understood, ruled by plantations where people like her laboured and suffered and died.  That husband of Theodosia’s must already have his choice of negroes in his household; what would he want with three more?  And educated, uppity northern blacks at that?  For all Burr’s advice, what was the likelihood she would have ended up on a plantation, under the lash?

The footman was leading Hamilton towards the stairs.  The master was receiving him again, despite everything.

Peggy went to the kitchens to fetch wine and sweetmeats for their conversation.

***

“My actions require no explanation beyond what should be obvious to every gentleman,” Burr said, leafing through the papers scattered on the covers and plucking out those in his own handwriting.  He looked as if he still wasn’t resting nearly enough, Hamilton thought privately, but there was a window of effectiveness during which this pamphlet needed to be published and it was closing fast.

“It is folly and impossibility, to remove fully half of a discourse, and at that the most significant half, and still expect the remainder to convey the same vigour as the whole,” Hamilton disagreed tartly, picking up the sheaf that Burr had separated and spreading out the pages again.

“See here: Political opposition can never absolve gentlemen from the necessity of a rigid adherence to the laws of honour and the rules of decorum. I neither claim such privilege nor indulge it in others.  There is our case in totality, stated with an ardent sincerity, due to the exigencies under which you wrote, that I would be put to indefinite trouble to match, let alone improve upon.

“Or here: He is incapable of revenge, still less is he capable of imitating the conduct of Mr. Hamilton, by committing secret depredations on his fame and character. But these things must have an end.  …which was not entirely the effect of the phrasing used by Van Ness, by the by.”

“It was not meant to be.  The more judicious interpretation of foolish sentiment is half the point of a second, General Hamilton.”

Hamilton blinked, then tucked that statement into the back of his mind to think about later.  “Colonel Burr,” he continued arguing instead, “the visible folly and disaster of what passed between us are the very fulcrum on which we seek to move a world.  Its solidity is built on these inky bricks.”  Hamilton tweaked the loose papers into the order in which they had been exchanged, and quickly annotated them with their numbers.

“Then we must make these documents the heart of our case, not discard them into an appendix to be comfortably ignored.”

“Hmm.”  Hamilton considered this, staring blindly across the room for a moment, then pulled the portable desk over to himself and started writing.  He barely registered Burr picking up his existing notes and reading through them, occasionally striking out sections or, more rarely, adding short annotations in the margins.

A cool breeze drifted in through the open window, bringing with it the scent of sun-warmed greenery.  Hamilton became aware that the strokes of his pen had fallen into a kind of complex rhythm with the quiet ticks of the clock that decorated one wall; not just a clock but an artwork in bright porcelain, Japanese-style flowers spilling down from the face.  Richmond Hill was full of such beautiful and unusual pieces, even outside the famous gallery.  And the equally famous wine cellar.  He took a sip from his glass, crisp and dry and faintly redolent of apples, then dipped his quill and started the next paragraph, his hand moving quickly.  He knew how this introduction ought to work, he had the shape of it now, he had to get all his thoughts down before his mind leapt too far ahead.

To one side he could hear Burr’s breath rasping a little, the familiar quiet rustle of paper, the occasional snort or grunt in reaction to what he read.  It was an oddly comfortable background noise as he started the tricky segue.

“General Hamilton.”

Hamilton raised one finger to acknowledge that he’d heard, determined to finish the sentence before he lost the sense of it.  He dotted the end and looked up.  “Colonel Burr?”

Burr was staring into the distance, frowning a little, clearly thinking hard.  “What will be the interval between now and publication?”

Writing and publication timescales were something that Hamilton knew without even calculating anymore.

“One week and a half, if we deliver in installments.”

“Hmm.  No speeches, then, unless dramatic collapse is part of the intent.  A reconstruction of the duel would be less fatiguing.  Yes,” said Burr, sounding pleased with himself, “that would answer very well indeed.”

Hamilton stared at the other man with his brows drawn together in confusion.  “Are you feverish, Colonel?” he asked with a sudden pang of concern, dropping his quill and reaching to feel Burr’s forehead.  But it was, if anything, a little cool.

Burr shoved his hand away, with a grunt and a wince at the incautious movement.  “I am planning the rally,” he said as though it were obvious.

Hamilton felt as though the breath had been punched out of him.  “Rally?” he said with sudden wariness.  His heart hammered as he remembered the last time he had worked on a political project with Burr; he swallowed back a sick feeling of betrayal.

Burr regarded him a little quizzically, elegant brows drawn together above dark, expressive eyes.  “How had you planned to draw public attention to our project?”

“I had not.  I am no demagogue, sir,” Hamilton said harshly.  “And I had hoped you had risen above such traffic.”

“What use is there in writing only for our friends and their friends, who would believe in us anyway?” Burr asked reasonably. “If that is all you intend, I could write a much shorter letter, and spend my energies on more enlivening pursuits.”

Burr was at his most dangerous when he was sounding reasonable.  He held out the annotated drafts; Hamilton ignored them.  Burr sighed impatiently.  “Don’t pretend to gentlemanly scruples now, General.  Or that there is somehow a difference between your traducing a reputation in the dining room, and having a newspaperman do so in the street.  Do you want to put pressure on Jefferson, or not?”

“And then you speak to the eager crowd, with me as your dupe, and suddenly your star rises again at Federalist expense?”

“Oh, come, to what purpose?  If I could keep such a meagre flame alight for the next four years, I should give up the practice of law and become a candlemaker.”  Burr let the drafts fall and lay back again against the pillows.  “Do as you see fit, General Hamilton,” he said disgustedly.  “But if you choose to distribute your pamphlet amongst any of Republican sympathies, I can still offer you some names.”

Hamilton hesitated.  “I am uneasy,” he confessed at last.  “I am reminded of the affair of the Manhattan Company.  You have a gift for seizing opportunities.”

“Bien sûr.  It's a poor politician who does not seize what comes his way.  A poor lawyer, too, General Hamilton.” Burr’s voice was starting to sound hoarse, and his face was slightly drawn with pain and tiredness.  He continued regardless.  “Do you remember the Weeks case?”

“Sufficient to reprise the defence, no, but in outline enough for whatever point you have in mind to illustrate, I imagine I may respond positively.  It was the last case we worked together.  Before the election.”

“Then consider the candelabra, General.”

Hamilton was surprised into a weak laugh.  “That was a ridiculous trick, Colonel Burr.  ‘Behold, the murderer’ indeed!  As if we could not have carried the case by rational argument.”

“Of course we could,” Burr agreed.  “But continet atque duas tantum res anxius optat.  It is the dramatic moment that carries.”

“Bread and circuses,” Hamilton mused bitterly.  “I called you a Caesar in embryo once, Colonel Burr, but I did not realise you genuinely did seek to take as a model the tyrants of the Roman Imperium.”

“If I did I imagine I should come to as bad an end as they did,” Burr denied with an odd detached amusement.  “But if you truly desire this project” - he tapped the notes he had dropped - “to have any effect, we must draw the attention and interest of the general public.”

“I mislike this exceedingly,” Hamilton worried, rubbing his temples.  “What do you propose?”

***

Hamilton could hear the familiar noise and hubbub from a street away.  The crowd did not sound as loud and frantic as that which had gathered for the Jay Treaty, which was a relief.  But it seemed that the handbills Burr had arranged to have scattered about the city had excited more interest than the late elections, which was… a disappointment in some ways, if not an unexpected one.

“Well, they don't sound as if they're getting ready to throw rocks,” Troup puffed optimistically from beside him.

“As long as they are disposed to listen.  If there is a swifter route to ruin than trusting in the rational discrimination and phlegmatic disposition of the masses, politics has yet to encounter it.”

“Oh come, Hammie, are they not men like you or I?  Little Burr has somehow succeeded in dealing with the run of people in our state without coming to irreversible harm; I’m sure your genius can achieve the same.”

“That is far from a recommendation,” Hamilton muttered darkly as they rounded the corner and saw the gathering crowd, the mass and noise of people somehow shrinking the familiar shape of the square red-brick building rising beyond.  A post-chaise with two horses was drawn up by the steps; Hamilton made straight for it, impatiently shoving people aside.  After a moment Troup handed him the bundle of papers he was carrying and stepped in front, his more imposing frame finding it rather easier to clear a path.

Hamilton reached the carriage and Dr Hosack leaned down from the window.  “I really must ask you to take second thought, Hamilton,” he said without preamble.  “Colonel Burr’s constitution is too delicate for such a scene, and you know your own is far from robust.”

“A. B.’s constitution must take its chances,” said a fainter tenor from within the coach.  “Do you have the pamphlets?”

“Those that we plan to distribute here,” Hamilton responded.  “The others I have had sent to The Grange, and will dispose of later as we had fixed.”

“Are you sure you are well enough for this?”  Troup stepped up behind Hamilton and used his greater height to look past Hosack to the small figure slumped in the corner beyond him.  Hamilton took a step sideways, leaving Troup in possession of the window, and stepped around the carriage to where a number of his allies and Burr’s waited on the steps.

“All right,” he said, handing out copies of pamphlets.  “Our intentions come as a surprise to Clinton, so there are unlikely to be agitators here to any special purpose, but still, if you recognise any and can, without exposing yourself, frustrate their intentions, do anything that seems to you reasonable. There will be recorders here from both the Post and the Chronicle, so conduct yourselved with the high-minded nobility with which you would like to be bruited abroad.  I do not expect villainy but we must always anticipate it.  Remember that we all here today are not Republicans or Federalists, but honest friends to our Union.”

The men raggedly dispersed, marking out a small space in front of the portico.  The crowd began to quiet, anticipating the beginning of the event, undoubtedly curious as to what two national politicians, rivals and now duellists, could have to say outside any election season.

On the side of the carriage away from the crowd, the carriage door was shoved open and Burr stepped down, to be caught and supported by Van Ness as his knees buckled.  He immediately steadied himself, took his hand from Van Ness’s arm, and raised one eyebrow at the hand that Hamilton had involuntarily reached out towards him. 

Hamilton dropped it and examined his ally closely.  Burr did look impeccable, from pristine white stockings to white-powdered hair, the latter wrapped with a black ribbon all the way down so as to leave not a strand loose.  His clothes were of a stark black that made it difficult to tell whether he was any paler than usual.  That might be deliberate, or it might not.  He had always liked to appear sombre.

“As you love me, try not to talk for six hours,” was all the vice-president said, dark eyes distant as they looked out over the crowd.  “Allons-y.” He turned to walk up the stairs towards the plain red brick of the hall, moving with slow gravitas, his carriage very erect.  Already tired and in pain, Hamilton diagnosed.  He himself walked quickly across to take his own position by the slender pillar on the other side of the portico, a little in shadow.

As Burr reached the top of the stairs and turned to address the crowd there was a smattering of applause, swelling into genuine appreciation; mixed with only the odd screamed insult. 

“My fellow citizens,” he said conversationally, projecting without shouting.  “It is not my habit to offer explanations.  I have always expected my conduct to speak for me more eloquently than my voice.”

Hamilton could appreciate that touch that brought attention to the ragged edge with which Burr spoke, although he would have appreciated it more if members of the crowd were not turning to him with angry stares and mutters.  If he had been wrong to trust Burr, he was exposed in danger. 

“So it is from my conduct that you must judge how implacably malevolent have been the slanders against my honour, and how thoroughly my reputation has been traduced.  I forbear to make repetition; you will have heard them.  They are not true.”  Burr paused for a moment, meeting the eyes of one or two members of the crowd before continuing. 

“Whence came those rumours?” he asked. 

“Hamilton!” the crowd roared back with the obvious response. 

Hamilton could not believe he had ever agreed to this.  From behind his back he raised an empty pistol in a farcical charade, pointing a little behind Burr, and offered up a prayer that he was not about to be lynched.  Several ladies in the crowd screamed, and he closed his eyes in silent apology for so upsetting members of the weaker sex.

“And what recourse had I to their author?” Burr’s voice was harsh and ragged now.  The crowd’s response was chaotic but they all knew how he had been injured.  Duel, shoot, challenge; Hamilton could hear the same savage idea from hundreds of throats.  To the crowd’s rapturous delight Burr also lifted a pistol, pointing it sideways towards Hamilton without taking his eyes from those he addressed.

“And.  Who.  Loses.  By this.” He was forcing the words out now, but without any sign of flinching.

The baying mob separated into a thousand humans, confused and uncertain.  A few called “You?” questioningly.

“No.” In a sort of ragged unison, Burr and Hamilton both raised their pistols to the sky, then let their arms drop.  Hamilton walked across in front of the portico to join Burr, handing him the pistol, thoroughly relieved that the stage-managed drama was over.  “You.”

Then, “Yours,” he murmured to Hamilton in an undertone as he stepped back. 

They had discussed this speech in outline, but not in detail.  Hamilton looked down at the rabble, aroused by the drama, desperate for more.  He thought about how close he was to ruined, the chance that this was his last opportunity to speak where the States might listen.  All the things that he had not said, these last few years, for the sake of a flawed and failing union.  He was sick of it.

“We do not live in a democracy,” he accused, and his words dropped into the waiting silence like lead shot.

***

Observations on the abuse of Calumny in political discourse, and its Destruction of Democratic principles, as exemplified by a disquisition on the affair lately concluded between Vice-President Burr and General Hamilton.  By Themselves.

***

This newspaper has recently received word of an interesting affair that took place in New-York, involving Vice-President Burr and General Hamilton.

It will be recollected that Mr Burr was lately wounded in a duel with Mr Hamilton, and so the curiosity and consternation of the people is scarcely to be imagined upon learning that they would be speaking on a single stoop together.  A great crowd turned out, to be treated to a brief recreation of the famous duel, before the previous rivals showed their sagacity by putting up their guns and coming together as friends.

They then spoke for a time, first Mr Burr and then Mr Hamilton, claiming a deep defect in the wisdom of those intrusted with the guidance of our great nation, that where it cannot carry its argument by reason instead seeks to do so by slanders and the destruction of reputation of honest but opposing men.  Mr Hamilton in particular spoke eloquently, saying that irreversible injury to democracy would have occurred had he succeeded in informally and illegitimately destroying not only the name but the very life of the Vice-President. He proceeded to say that democracy cannot survive where dissent is suppressed, and carried the crowd with many honest recollections of injustices committed thereby, and learned examples.

These are arguments in which any citizen cannot help but feel great interest, and which we hear are set out further in a publication of which copies are highly sought. 

***

“How long is it since we were last at a party here?” Eliza asked Hamilton as they stood on the terrace looking across the grounds of Richmond Hill.  Everywhere the darkness was pierced by torches and lanterns; hung from the branches of trees, placed on the balustrades of the little bridge down by the pond, placed on the tables scattered just below where ladies and gentlemen could take ease and converse away from the music and heat of the dining room and gallery.  It was as if the gardens played host to a gathering of golden fireflies.

From the airy rooms behind them they could hear the faint strains of a string quartet, playing quietly enough not to impede conversation.

“1802, I think,” Hamilton replied ruminatively.  “There was a brief time when, politically as well as personally, we were on terms.  Though Colonel Burr has not, perhaps due to his pecuniary difficulties, held many events in the intervening time.  I confess myself surprised he has done so now.”

Eliza placed her hand on his arm, and Hamilton laid his hand on top of her smaller one and turned to smile at his wife.

“It must have become difficult with Theodosia's departure,” she said with the feminine insight and gentle empathy that he so treasured.  “The house has no hostess anymore.”

“I suppose not.”  Hamilton had never thought about it in quite those terms.  He was used to his own house, bursting with children, blessed by the calming presence of Eliza and enlivening visits from Angelica; The Grange was inextricably associated with his family.  He wondered if he would be lonely, in Burr’s place.

Down by the pond, it sounded as if some young men had become distracted by drunken foolery.  He wagered himself how long it would be until he heard a splash loud enough for a body, and won a few minutes later.  His Philip would never have been so silly, he thought with a pang of familiar pain. 

A moth, attracted by the light pouring out from the open doors, fluttered around Eliza's head and he swatted it gently away.

“I wonder how he has afforded all this,” he wondered aloud.

“Perhaps he has investments that have paid off?” Eliza speculated.  He thought she was looking particularly ravishing this evening, in cream linen that seemed to glow in the lamplight.

“Perhaps.  He cannot have ill luck with every speculation,” Hamilton allowed.  “Would you like to go down to the gardens?”

“I would love to, Alexander.” Eliza allowed herself to be led down the steps, the back of her dress trailing a little on the pale stone.  “Do you think The Grange will look like this one day?”

“I do hope so.”  In ten years or more, maybe, when their own shrubs had attained the height and elegance of the trees beneath which they now strolled.  Though no amount of time would suffice to give their own home the view down to small boats on the distant Hudson, of which Abigail Adams had once been so fond.  Even at night, they could see the lights like will’o the wisps in the distance.

Other groups and couples were promenading about the grounds, enjoying the summer night air.  Eliza and Hamilton greeted them as they passed.  “I had imagined Colonel Burr might have some political goal in hosting,” Hamilton confessed to Eliza, “To capitalise on the current interest in our affairs.  But I am sure fully half of those here hold no political office or influence that could be useful to him.”

“Maybe he simply wants to show the world that he is alive and well.  Or, Providence forbid,” Eliza added, gently teasing, “that he might enjoy their company.  I am sure that even Republicans may occasionally act according to whim rather than politics.”

Hamilton laughed.  “You chasten me as I deserve,” he accepted a little ruefully.

Eliza shook her head.  “You have made a name that your children will be proud to bear,” she said, then gave a little smile.  “But I am happy to have you home so much more now, where you can be looked after by those who care for you.  And happy to be here with you, tonight, with no motive other than our enjoyment of this moment.”

Hamilton looked around them, at the people moving through glowing circles of light sheltered by the trees, at the stars over the pond, and could not help but agree.

“Is that Colonel Burr over there?” he wondered, his attention suddenly caught by the movement of a familiar small, elegant figure that plucked a flower from a rose briar and offered it with a slight bow to one member of a couple.

“I think so,” Eliza agreed.  ”We should speak to him before we leave.”

They altered their steps towards the little group.  Burr, noticing them, stepped back to include them; he was moving a little stiffly, still, but there was some colour in his cheeks and he was clearly recovering well.  He turned to the couple he was currently speaking to; they looked a little familiar to Hamilton, dressed in clothes of fashionable cut and fine fabrics, but both people themselves plain and tending a little to stoutness.

“Mr and Mrs Astor,” Burr said, “Have you met General and Mrs Hamilton?”

“Not personally,” the gentleman said, his consonants a little swallowed by the hint of a German accent, “but by reputation, of course.  A pleasure, Mr Hamilton.”

“The pleasure is, of course, all mine.” Hamilton was a little surprised.  As far as he knew, Burr had no interests in common with the famously wealthy fur trader.  Perhaps he was seeking a loan; he was certainly exerting himself to be charming.

They made small talk for a few minutes about Gallatin’s export policies, the new fashion for longer breeches as sported by so many of the other guests, and, inevitably, compliments on the party, to which Burr responded graciously with some advice should Astor wish to host a similar event.

“We had come to make our apologies, I'm afraid, Colonel Burr,” Eliza put in eventually.  “My husband is feeling a little indisposed.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Burr said, looking at Hamilton with his eyebrows raised in what looked like genuine concern. 

Hamilton waved his hand dismissively.  “It is only the old kidney trouble,” he said, “nothing to be concerned about.  Colonel Burr,” he changed the subject, “I have lately received some letters in which you may have an interest.  Is there a convenient time at which I may call and show them to you?”

“Of course,” Burr said with faint surprise.  “I expect I will be mainly at home for the next week, at least; if it is more convenient to you, you may call upon me any evening. You know the hours I keep.”

Hamilton did indeed, having more than once cursed him soundly on receiving legal communications at midnight.  He and Eliza made polite farewells to the Astors and began walking back to the house.

“Those letters you were speaking of,” Eliza said at last.  “Are they those you read to me?  From Judge Marshall and Colonel Pickering?”

“Yes.”

“Are you… intending to involve yourself?” Eliza asked delicately.

Hamilton sighed, knowing exactly what his wife meant.  She was tired of his involvement in national politics; of the late nights, punishing work, and meagre rewards.  Almost as tired of it as he was.  But she was a woman, she could not understand.

“Not unless I must,” he temporised.  And then, more honestly, “You know that I desire nothing more than to retire, to spend my time with you and the children in The Grange, for however long it should please God to grant me.  That is still my intention.”  Unless his country needed him - and from Eliza’s sigh she heard what went unsaid. “I am sorry, my dear,” he offered.  “I do need to know the Colonel’s intentions.”

“I must say farewell to Jannetje.”  Eliza touched his arm, briefly, before she disappeared back into the bright and crowded house.  Hamilton leaned against the cool stone balustrade, trying to find a position that eased the discomfort in his abdomen, and lifted his gaze from the landscaped slopes below the Richmond Hill manor to the lights of the teeming city beyond.  Only a few months ago, New York had been in danger of seceding from the Union.  He was so tired of trying to hold this flawed country together.

Chapter Text

What with one thing and another - mainly a combination of bad health and the work of a complicated ejectment suit - it was almost a week before Hamilton did finally have the time to travel out again to Richmond Hill. 

And it was late; his post-chaise wound slowly up the slope in the dark, through open woodland, with the lights of the city glinting in between the trees.  But there were still lights glowing in the downstairs windows of the manor, and when Hamilton knocked at the door it was answered, albeit by a Black woman rather than a footman.  Hamilton suspected that she was a slave, and resolved to have a conversation with Burr at some point.

She left him in the foyer briefly to consult, and Hamilton looked about him at the marble busts in alcoves between doorways, the paintings that graced the elegant walls, and wondered again at Burr’s profligacy, his odd priorities.  But before he could get bored of looking at portraits the woman returned, led him into the dining room, and left him alone with his host.

He had dined here several times in the past decade; he was familiar with how the room looked when lit by dozens of candles and oil lamps, their light caught and set to sparkling in the crystal of the candelabras, the polished silverware.  Conversation humming in his ears from multiple directions, along with the chinking of crockery and glasses, gentlemen and ladies dressed in every hue moving about with animation.

It was a very different room with only a pair of candles lit on sideboard and table, the dining table itself almost disappearing into darkness at the far end.  Colonel Burr occupied a chair at one side, a bottle and glass before him, though he rose courteously and immediately as Hamilton was shown to the chair opposite. 

“General Hamilton,” he greeted him.  “Will you join me in a glass of champagne?”

The bottle looked half empty, and though Burr did not seem obviously inebriated his cheeks and the tip of his nose were flushed.  “Thankyou,” said Hamilton as he sat down slowly, feeling strangely wrong-footed.  “Have I missed company?” It occurred to him a moment too late that the company in question might have been female. 

“No, General Hamilton,” said Burr with a slight smile playing about his lips, “I am in fact quite scandalously drinking champagne alone.  It is a celebration, you see.  I have come into funds.”

As he spoke, the Black slave came in quietly with a second champagne coupe and another bottle.  Burr poured a generous portion of the seething golden liquid and slid the glass across the table to Hamilton.

“Congratulations,” Hamilton said, a little cautiously, taking a sip.  It was, of course, excellent champagne, bright and refreshing and almost lemony, sparkling on his tongue.  “A successful investment?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Burr tipped up his glass, drained it, and poured another.  “I have sold Richmond Hill.”

“You have done what?”

“I have sold Richmond Hill to Mr Astor.”  Burr raised his glass.  “À la santé de Monsieur Astor.”

Hamilton automatically raised his own glass and sipped, staring at Burr in astonishment.  “The entire estate?” was all he could think of to say.

“Not quite.”  Burr tilted his hand equivocatingly.  “I retain a portion of the land; I have an idea that it may repay development.  And the cellar, library and my other collections, of course; I intend to write to Mr Alston with an offer, they would be useful in the education of Theodosia and monsieur son fils. À la santé de Theodosia et jeune Aaron Burr.”  He drank again, and topped up his glass with the last of the bottle.  “But the house and furniture and most of the land, certainly.  It is really an excellent transaction.”

His gaze met Hamilton’s, composed although his dark eyes were a little bloodshot.  “So what is it brings you here at this hour, General?  Is it those letters you mentioned?”

Hamilton hesitated for a moment, disconcerted again, then decided to just plunge into business.  “Yes, Colonel.  I have received several letters, asking about the current state of relations between us, from men with whom I have previously been accustomed to deal in mutual respect and in congruity of ideas.  Their intent, though somewhat disguised, is to discover whether we have entered into a political alliance and, to my admitted surprise, they seem more receptive than otherwise towards the idea.”

Burr made an imperative gesture towards the table and Hamilton, his lips tightening at the high-handed assumption, took out the papers and laid them out as Burr took another drink.  Putting the glass down, Burr twitched the papers towards him and scrutinised them, squinting slightly.

“My eyesight is not what it was, tant pis.  May I keep these and return them,” he looked briefly thoughtful, “après-demain?”

“No,” Hamilton said firmly.  He had no desire to see any of his correspondence unexpectedly in print.

“Un instant, then.”  Burr took up the first letter and began reading it closely.  Unable to sit still, Hamilton stood up and started to pace.

Aaron Burr and Richmond Hill.  They went together in the mind like cream with strawberries, Vivaldi with the violin, or Odysseus with Athena.  He had purchased the famously lovely estate in the same year Theodosia his wife died, after several years of renting.  He had spent much of the time since improving it; filling the house with artworks, assembling a collection of books and maps that could genuinely be called a library, landscaping the gardens, even damming the brook to create the ornamental pond at the foot of the rise.  Even though Hamilton knew how deeply the man was mortgaged - none better - it had never occurred to him that Burr would voluntarily part with the home that he had made so much his, where there were so many memories; glittering successes, his beloved daughter‘s childhood, his wife's last days.  Far less that he would do so with such easy nonchalance.

Or seeming nonchalance.  Burr’s blasé demeanour was making him feel very uncomfortable indeed.  He had always known that the Vice President concealed himself even from his political allies.  He was beginning to wonder quite how far that went.

“I see.”  Hamilton looked back towards the table to see Burr leaning back in his chair, looking up at him with a slightly unfocused gaze, turning the stem of his glass in his hands.  At some point the man had refreshed both coupes from the second bottle, and as well as suspicious Hamilton was beginning to feel genuinely worried.  Burr had a famous cellar, but he drank it only moderately.  “I’ve received similar letters,” Burr continued, his tongue stumbling a little over the words.  “It seems that despite Jefferson’s best efforts - or perhaps because of them, I suppose - A. B. still has some friends among the Republicans.  You might be surprised to learn that you are not entirely non grata either; even with - but no, I should not give you names, they risk much by writing openly.  I must give them a cipher.  À la sante de mes amis anonymous.”

“Enough, Burr,” Hamilton said sharply before he had realised he was going to say anything.  Burr paused mid-toast, eyebrows shooting up incredulously at the peremptory tone.  “You are drunk.”

“Un peu seul.”

”Colonel Burr, when you are only a little inebriated you do not mangle French into half of your sentences; and by the by, your pronunciation is execrable.”

“Well, perhaps you are right.”  Burr put his half-drunk glass down, pushed it away from him, and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Let me think.  I assume you are not… you are not wholly opposed, or you would not have shown me these.”

Hamilton gathered up the letters again.  “I have grave concerns, but there are also some opportunities.  Much depends whether any of our political views can be made to agree as well as our personal ones, and that is a conversation that, while some haste is urged, would be hurried only unwisely and at cost.”

“I need to think,” Burr repeated a little vaguely.

“You need to seek your bed, Colonel.  Shall I call for your valet?”

“No, no, young Peter needs his sleep more than I.  I’ll show you out.”  Burr stood up, swaying slightly, and briefly put one hand on the back of his chair to steady himself.

“Please, do not trouble yourself.”  Hamilton headed for the way out of the dining room.  

Burr followed anyway and they crossed the foyer together, Burr’s steps sounding erratic on the marble floor.  He reached the door first and opened it, ushering Hamilton out with a flourish.  “Thank you.”

Hamilton turned back and looked quizzically at the Vice President, who leaned against the door jamb, his dark eyes making an obvious effort to focus on Hamilton.

“For what?”

“Opening negotiations.”  His words were a little slurred.  “I don’t think I’ve ever known you change your mind, General Hamilton.”  He paused.  “J’ 'spère … I hope… this is not still about our affair.”

“It is more complicated than that, and this is not the time or the place, if indeed there is a time and place, to have that conversation.  But no, Colonel Burr.  If I understand your meaning correctly, this is not about… guilt.”

“Tant mieux.   I mean…” he rubbed his face with his free hand.  “Good night, General Hamilton.”

“Good night, Colonel Burr.”  

Hamilton hesitated for a moment, considering saying something more, then turned and walked down to his carriage, hearing the door close behind him.  A few minutes later, as he looked back at the house from the bend in the drive, he was relieved to see the lights in the lower storey going out, one by one.

***

Burr had barely finished dressing when Troup arrived unexpectedly the next morning.  He had him shown into the parlour, and met him there a few minutes later to offer breakfast. 

“Not if it's that muck you're drinking,” Troup said with the ease of long acquaintance, looking slightly askance at the quivering foam on top of the cloudy liquid.  “What is that, anyway?”

“Cream of tartar punch,” Burr said with dignity.  “There is coffee on the stove, and eggs and toast if you desire.”

“I wouldn't mind an egg,” Troup acknowledged.  “And if that's what the stuff you keep recommending to me looks like, I'm glad I never took you up on it.  What were you up to last night to merit the cream of tartar treatment, Burr?”

Burr flicked the question away with one hand. “Folly.”  He changed the subject.  “Did you try that comedy I recommended?”

“Couldn't get hold of an English translation,” Troup admitted, “And you know I haven't your French.”

“You want only application, Bobby.”  Burr regarded his old friend with a familiar fond frustration.  “If you put aside an hour every night, you should get on famously.”

“And until that happy day comes, I shall be grateful I have you to distil the fundaments.  Which, I have no doubt, improves upon the original in any case.”

Burr rubbed at his aching temples, which were at least a distraction from the tedious twinges he still felt in his side, and the more annoying shortness of breath.  “Bobby,” he said evenly, “You know that I love you, and that no visit from you can occasion any feeling but joy and anticipation.”

“But?” Troup asked cheerfully.

“But this morning I am in bad order and I owe you better temper.  Is this a purely social call?”

“What is, these days?”  Troup shifted a little in his armchair.  “That pamphlet you wrote with Hamilton - and that dramatic little affair you announced it with - did the pair of you really have to combine your worst tendencies, by the way? - have made quite a stir, you know.”

“So I have gathered.” After the letters that Hamilton had showed him last night, Burr was fairly sure what this was about.  He sipped his punch, the salty sweetness beginning to settle his uneasy stomach, and waited. 

“If you and Hamilton are no longer on the outs then I am the last person who will complain.  My God, when I heard that you'd actually gone to duel…”  Troup paused, looking into the middle distance with an expression of remembered horror.  Then he returned and looked directly at Burr.  “I never want to know if you went with the intention of killing him, Burr.  Do not tell me.”

Burr had noticed previously, with an ironic amusement, that nobody had questioned him on that detail.  He should have realised that Bobby knew too much to be comfortable with the easy public story, with all its subtle gaps.

“I have no intention of telling anyone anything,” he responded evenly. “I answer to my own conscience, Bobby, and no one else.  You know that.”

“Well…”  Troup paused for a moment as Peggy came into the room and placed coffee and a soft-boiled egg on the low table before him.  He busied himself with knocking the top off and scooping out the little spoonful of white inside.  “Well, anyway, there are a lot of wild rumours out there.”

“Inevitably.  I am sure Jefferson is being quite creative.”  

“The one that worries me most is not one of Jefferson’s.  There are a lot of people interested in whether you and Hamilton are coming to an accommodation beyond that pamphlet.  And what it might be.”  Troup gave Burr a pointed stare over the rim of his coffee cup.

Burr loved Troup, but he was of Hamilton’s party.  He rubbed his forehead, wishing he were not feeling so ill and stupid when he needed to be astute.  “Neither of us will make any accommodation that violates our principles,” he pointed out.  “And those have been at odds severely of late.”

“Was that a ‘no’?”

“Clearly it was not,” Burr said with a trace of irritation.  “It was also not a ‘yes’.  I have been too deeply involved in business lately to consider political matters, especially ones which must properly wait out my retirement from the Vice Presidency to act upon.”

Troup stared at him.  “And what was the gubernatorial election, exactly?  Chopped liver?”

“That is a base phrase and I wish you would not use it.  It also did not affect the national calculus in the way that the President of the Senate making common cause with the leader of the Federalists would.”

“Which part of this did you think of before publishing that damned pamphlet with Ham?”

Burr pinched the bridge of his nose again then took another sip of the punch, hoping it would clear his head.  “Enough of it.  You’re all over the place, Bobby.  What’s really troubling you?”

“You and Ham have spent the best years of your lives half-killing yourselves and lately each other, and don't think I don't know how much your political obsessions have left you both impecunious, either.  God help me, I didn't like seeing what the gubernatorial contest did to either of you, but I'd hoped that at least it meant you were now out of all that and might devote your lives to an honest living at law.”

Burr sighed.  “That's not possible, Bobby.”

“Why, in God's name?” Bobby’s expression of baffled frustration sat oddly on his broad, round face. “And don't give me any of that ‘you hate explanations’ evasion, Aaron.”

Burr turned the glass of punch in his hand, thinking about how long he had known Troup, from their time in the army, to racketing around on circuit together, to Troup's espousal of the Federalist cause.  The ardent young men who had planned to study law and set up house together seemed a very long time ago indeed, and yet Bobby’s good nature had remained an invaluable constant in his life.  Needed, sometimes, perhaps more than Burr cared to admit. 

“Though a man might have everything else in the world,” he said brusquely, “If he has not his own respect he has nothing of any worth.  That is and always has been the basis on which I live my life, Bobby. It should not come as a surprise.”

“Practicing law is perfectly respectable,” Troup said, a little offended.  “It is hardly beneath you.”

It was impossible to be disappointed at Bobby’s misunderstanding.  He was who he was, and Burr was fortunate to have such a loyal friend.  “It will also not provide sufficient emoluments for the situation in which I find myself,” he offered a motive Troup might understand.  “The sale of this house will clear my current debts, but… are you well?”

As Troup finished choking on his coffee, his face slowly returned to a more healthy colour.  “You're thinking of selling Richmond Hill?”

“I am not thinking about it, the thing is done,” Burr corrected him.  “The sale will be complete within the month.  Otherwise, I have some projects in train, which I fancy will repay handsomely, but not soon; and I need credit to invest, which I have not, nor any hope of getting it save by my own energies.  The proceeds of legal work will not suffice.”

“You've sold Richmond Hill now ?” Troup’s abandoned egg sat cooling on its plate, surrounded by fragments of eggshell.

“Is there some reason I should not?”  Burr lifted one eyebrow.

“That it is not yet two months since you were shot in the chest, that I know that ridiculous party you held last week put you on your back for days, and that you asked Van Ness to find someone to take over the cases you’d taken on over summer since you couldn’t… wait, is that why?” Troup stared, horrified, into his friend’s face, seeking confirmation.  “That’s why, isn’t it.  Without any income these last six weeks you have not been able to make repayments.”  

Burr sipped at his cream of tartar and met Troup’s gaze composedly.  “So as you see,” he continued smoothly, “I have many projects in hand that affect me nearly.  Those who have written to you with impertinent questions must wait upon my leisure; and General Hamilton’s, I suppose.”

Troup sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair.  He rarely bothered to fully oil and powder for visits to Burr.  Especially on a day like this, grey and humid.  “I'm going to invite you both to dine.”

Burr tilted his head questioningly. 

“I do not intend to wait until January to find out what you intend,” Troup explained, “and you need a neutral party present when you talk to avoid things getting out of hand again.  Is there one you trust more?”

“No,” Burr allowed.  He considered the idea briefly, and saw a number of advantages to the idea even if Troup were not nearly as neutral as he believed himself.  “Fix it for the second or third week of September.  Unless the General objects, of course, but I think he will not.”

“No, I can calculate postal times as well as the two of you,” Troup said with brief amusement before sobering again.  “Aaron, is there anything I can do?”

“About what?” Burr looked at his friend's face, round and earnest and entirely comfortable and at home in this bright, airy room with its marbles and landscape paintings.  He wished it had been possible for Troup to buy Richmond Hill.

“Helping you move house, as a beginning.  But beyond that, I am your friend.  I know how much you love this estate.”

“I know you are my friend, Bobby,” Burr said gently.  “You have no need to prove it to me.  Though that reminds me…” he shoved himself suddenly out of his chair, immediately regretting the swift movement as he felt suddenly aching and nauseated.  “I cannot find room for all the decorations of Richmond Hill in my house in town.  That Vanderlyn landscape sketch you admired; you must have it.”

“Burr, what are you…” Behind him, Burr could hear Troup levering himself creakily out of the armchair and following as he stopped before a view of the upstate countryside, drawn simply in ink but with consummate penmanship.  It pleased him to think of Bobby sitting at leisure in his own parlour, or maybe study, occasionally turning his head to enjoy it.

“I'll have Peter pack it up and send it round.  And there's my books and wines, of course, if Mr Alston does not desire them all. You could finally improve your French.”

“This is exactly why you never have any money,” Troup pointed out with an odd tone in his voice.  Burr looked around in surprise but he couldn't quite interpret his friend's expression as Bobby came up beside him.  His slowness was probably the fault of last night's wine.

“And therefore one vice my enemies cannot accuse me of,” he said with a slightly bitter satisfaction.  “Come, Bobby, let us see whether I have anything else that might do for you.”

And Troup, sighing, followed.

***

To Aaron Burr, Richmond Hill, New York

Cher père ,

I have not received a letter from you since that dated 30th August, which brought me the happy news that your recovery was assured!  How often have I read and reread over that little piece of paper, for despite your stern admonitions to me how could I fail to be concerned for the one who is the greater part of myself?  Surely there have been letters that have gone amiss, words that are even now edifying the fishes.  Forgive me; I speak nonsense.  My only excuse is that I have been quite distracted by worry and hope.

I am determined to see your good health with my own eyes, for there are none I trust quite so well, in this instance not even your own.  See what ruses I use to force you to write me back?

Young Aaron grows like a sprig, for I will not say ‘a weed’ of one who bears such noble blood in his veins.

Adieu,

Theodosia

***

“…you enjoyed that you may find the latest performance at the New Theatre entertaining, though of course the excellence of the material is still subordinate to the abilities of the troupe,” Hamilton was saying to Jannetje as he scraped up the last of the cream from his dish.

Opposite him, Burr was listening gravely to a story told by twelve-year-old Charlotte, with interjections from the older Louisa.  Troup found himself once again surprised by his ambitious friend’s fondness for children.

He had been expecting dinner to be awkward.  Ham and Burr had always been perfectly cordial at social events - Ham had more than once commented how proud he was that New York politicians had the virtue of keeping their professional and personal views separate - but that was before they had gone off behind his back to try and kill each other.

Troup looked thoughtfully from one man to the other.

Hamilton, of course, he had known since Princeton; brilliant, intense, and a force of nature.  It had been impossible not to be swept along in his wake.  His mobile face showed every emotion he felt; back then it had all been ardent and impassioned, idealism and cynicism both in the same speech, sometimes the same sentence.  Now there was a softness to his mouth, lines of pain and laughter, frequently a bitter twist to his lips.  Too much cynicism, not enough left of the idealism.  But tonight the candlelight was kind to him, giving a warm colour to his fair skin, blurring the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

He was turned out dapper as ever; not a hair escaping the clubbed ponytail at the back of his neck, the sharpness of his bone structure a little softened by the cropped waves that curled around his face.  He wore champagne-coloured breeches and waistcoat beneath a blue-grey tailcoat that brought out the vivid blue of his eyes.  Really, the man was more than a bit of a dandy, Troup thought as he smiled fondly.

Of course, Burr was just as impeccably turned out, though inevitably in black with just a red silk scarf to give him colour.  He suited black.  His hairline might have receded and there were lines on his brow, but the passionate mouth and arresting, deep-set, topaz eyes were exactly as they had been the first time Troup had met him, more than two decades before.  Where Hamilton showed everything he felt, Burr kept too much to himself.  Hamilton’s pride drove him to explain everything to the world; Burr’s pride forbade him ever to explain anything.  Hamilton won cases by eloquent application of diligent legal understanding; Burr won them by finding unexpected angles of surprise attack.

They were both generous, hard-working, charming, stiff-necked and arrogant.  And they had both come expecting a political tête-à-tête rather than a family dinner.  Now that they were disarmed and relaxed, there might be some hope of the former getting somewhere that wasn’t an argument.

Troup caught Jannetje’s eye and she gathered up the children to withdraw, albeit not without some protest, particularly from the girls.  Burr placated them with a promise to call again soon, and shortly the three men were left with their coffee amidst the detritus.

“I feel as though I should give a speech,” Troup joked.  Then he sobered.  “And I ask you to forgive me for abusing my privilege as host to do that very thing.  

“Ham.  Burr.  I flatter myself that there is no one else who holds you both in such affection as I do.  Over the last twenty years I have watched with ever-growing distress how your ambitions have changed you, twisted you out of the true of your sensibilities and honour.“

Hamilton was looking wide-eyed with surprise.  Burr was, of course, unruffled and unreadable.  Troup didn’t have their clever rhetorical abilities, but he had love and desperation, and he hoped they could hear it.

“You have been miserable under the siege of words brought by your enemies.  You have worked harder than men should have to work.  You have sacrificed all that brings consolation: fiscal reward, health, time with your wives and children.  You have both held high office; you leave a proud legacy.  What is there left to prove?  Are there not other men, full of energy and passion, not yet wounded in this fray, who can take on whatever burdens you still feel lie upon you?

“Please, let me sing to you the praises of an honest retirement.  You are the premier counsels of this city, and you know by now that law pays better than politics.  Ham, think of all that time you could spend with Eliza and the children instead of racing around making speeches and having rocks thrown at your head.  Aaron, how much easier would it be for Theodosia to visit you when you are not half your time travelling to Washington’s city and further.  Ride.  Go hunting and fishing upstate.  Come often to dinner.  I am tired of missing my friends.”

Both men were looking at him.  Burr’s gaze was intent and unreadable, but Hamilton’s face was twisted with genuine sympathy.

“Bobby,” he said quietly.  “Bobby, I hope you know the affection and esteem in which I have always held you, the cause of which is exactly this, that you speak to me truly.  But…”

“But me no buts!” Troup said passionately, leaning forward over the table to grasp Hamilton's hand in both of his.  “You are brilliant, Ham.  Look at your defence of the libel trial in the spring, the principles of which will be going into law.  See how much good you can do, still, without exposing yourself to Jefferson's poison.” He could feel Burr’s eyes on them both, but first he had to convince Hamilton, if he could.

“But the Union,” Hamilton said, almost despairingly.  “To this project and no other have I devoted my self entire.  If they break this union they will break my heart, Bobby, and still there are calls for secession - Pickering and the Junto, and if I hadn’t stopped Burr we might have lost New England - I cannot stop, Troup.  I cannot hand on this burden, however intolerable, for there is no other to pick it up.”

Troup leaned back again, letting go of Hamilton’s hand with a defeated sigh.  He looked to his left, at Burr, who was watching the other politician with a single lifted eyebrow.

“General Hamilton,” Burr said carefully, and Hamilton whipped around quickly to face him.  “Why, exactly, are we even here?”

Hamilton frowned.  “Say what you mean, Colonel Burr.”

“‘If you hadn’t stopped Burr’,” Burr quoted lightly and Troup winced inwardly.  “General Hamilton, you have been trying to destroy me politically since 1792, and however much your head may be telling you to make common cause, habit is pernicious.  Can you truly tell me you would trust me as a political ally?”

Troup expected an immediate response from Hamilton and was surprised when his friend rested his elbows on the white tablecloth, propped his chin on his hands, and regarded Burr thoughtfully.  “If you harbour suspicions that I might use an apparent alliance as a ruse to turn upon you or undermine you, you have some excuse for them,” Hamilton admitted.  “I can offer only the reassurance that I am by nature and inclination incapable of such deception.  I have never pretended, even when seeking to safeguard the Union from a present danger, to a political friendship I did not feel.  I have been your enemy since you chose a career in opposition to me, but I assure you that if my enmity has been unrelenting it has been at all times open.  Can you say the same?”

“No,” Burr granted easily, without elaboration.  Troup put his hand over his eyes, wishing either that Burr were capable of justifying himself, or that Hamilton were less paranoid.  “And that did not answer, General Hamilton.”

Hamilton smiled a little.  “I am aware, Colonel Burr.  And I am also aware of quite how much you detest explanations, but this one cannot be avoided.  Not unless we choose now to go our separate ways and avoid coming again within one another’s sphere which, past events notwithstanding, would not be my preference.”

Burr picked up his coffee and took a sip.  “You understand, General,” he said mildly, “That my best hope of advancement is still to raise myself within my party by casting you down, however slender the materials I have with which to effect such a manoeuvre.”

Troup winced again.  “Aaron,” he began, and then changed his mind.  “Ham,” he said instead, urgently, “That was not a threat.”

Burr’s eyes flicked sideways to him in mild surprise.  Hamilton glanced at Troup, then looked back at Burr with the same thoughtful expression as before.  “I know,” he said quietly.  “I know that of all who call themselves politicians, it is Colonel Burr who has consistently sought, by means of personal integrity, fair judgement and moderation, to make not enemies but allies.  It is one of the things that has made him so dangerous, from the first.”

Burr’s expression did not change.  He leaned back a little in his chair and took a sip of coffee, his eyes not leaving Hamilton's face. 

Troup found that his mouth had dropped open, and closed it.  “You knew that, Ham?” he demanded, disbelieving. 

“I honestly do not know.” Hamilton passed a hand over his eyes.  “I have had pressed upon me many insights in a short space of time, and I do not yet have them all neatly arranged in my regard.  What is easier to explain is that Colonel Burr has always been one of the most able politicians in our Union.  Recognising that his opposition to the most necessary measures, such as our National Bank, sprang not from labile want of thought but from a most principled conscience, and that there were few more capable of persuading others into a similar opposition, I felt myself justified in whatever methods would effect his removal.  However one feels about my actions, if we are in agreement the same motives do not apply.  I have only once known him untrustworthy.”

Burr nodded slightly, and Troup wondered again about the Manhattan Company and what had motivated Burr to such uncharacteristic deceit. 

“But we are not in agreement,” Burr pointed out.  “Reform of the legal system, support for small commercial interests, and the raising up of the female species; you despise these things.”

“I do,” Hamilton agreed.  “But would you pledge to hold together this Union, to retain the financial systems that you hate, and to bend all your force towards ending generational bondage?”

“Let us say I might,” Burr said thoughtfully.  “But with what coin can you offer to buy any part of my conscience, General Hamilton?  Neither of us holds office, nor has any opportunity to do so within the next four years.  Even well friended, our influence is limited.”

They were going to do it, Troup realised unhappily.  Like drunkards returning to the public house, or moths flying into a candle.  They couldn't help themselves.  He wasn’t sure whether it was better or worse that this time, they would be doing it together.

Chapter Text

To Theodosia Burr Alston, South Carolina

Ma chère enfante, what foolishness is this, to consider a voyage north at the beginning of the stormy season?  And what of young Gampy; do you propose to bring him on that ship, with all its attendant dangers, into Gamp’s present chaos of removals and rearrangements?  Or had you intended rather to leave him in the unhealthful vapours of the south, without that consolation that he has the premier right to enjoy?  Neither can be contemplated without distaste.

You see, your ruse has met with every success, as you had known it must.  Though what need for a ruse, Gampilla, when all that is necessary to elicit a response is to write?  Have paper and ink failed you?  Must I exert all my energies in denunciation and reformation of the postal service?

The sale of Richmond Hill is accomplished, and I remove within the next fourteennight to my town house.  The crates for mari I load upon the next ship; I expect you to address yourself to the books with diligence, for there is nothing that will so well develop your habits of discrimination and sense.

My health is recovered almost fully, and to reassure you on that score I must tell you how I am neck-deep in the development of various projects, though I have not yet decided which will most repay its investment.  I shall send you a new cipher key before November, and then you will know more.

Adieu,

Aaron Burr

***

The wind blasted full force through the windows of the carriage, whirling snow inside to catch in Burr’s hair and eyelashes.  Half-melted water trickled down his face, soaking his neck cloth and making his shirt clammy no matter how he pulled his greatcoat closer around him.  He was thoroughly glad that Theodosia had not come to him in New York, had not risked herself returning on the waves through this storm.

For a moment he was reminded of another snowstorm, and a much younger Aaron Burr struggling through it towards the guns.  His efforts to lift the dying Montgomery, the man too big, too heavy in the end for his own small frame, the dragging knee-high snow.

The snow must be knee-high out there now.  Burr’s stomach twisted, undoubtedly the fault of the burned coffee at the inn this morning.  He wondered how his coachman could still find the line of the road, reflecting with amusement that while dying in the snow like Montgomery would have a certain dramatic merit, it would rather disrupt the conduct of the Senate’s upcoming impeachment proceedings.  

Another gust of frigid air whirled through the inside of the carriage and he coughed again, bending over and hacking unproductively, the unseasonably chill air irritating tissues he'd thought healed.  He could not feel the gloved hand that pressed his handkerchief to his mouth; it might as well have been a chunk of ice.  It was though his very bones had frozen, and he entertained himself with a calculation of how long it might take the entire carriage to freeze at the same rate, how surprised later travellers would be to see an entire coach-and-four glittering transparent in weak winter sunshine.  He curled in on himself to preserve his body heat, tucking his hands under his armpits and trying to let the buffets that rocked the carriage and blew snow through the windows waste their force on his back and shoulders, setting himself to endure.

They slowed and stopped frequently, presumably to skirt obstructions, re-find the road, or just to let the coachman rest, so it took several minutes of stillness before Burr finally looked up from his misery to see the bulk of a large building looming black against the darkening brown-grey sky.  He straightened up, feeling every muscle stiff and sore, and fumbled with numb fingers at the carriage door.  The ability to direct the Senate seemed a rather petty affair next to his current inability to properly direct his own limbs.

He managed to not quite fall out of the carriage at the same time as his coachman managed to not quite fall down from his seat, and for a moment they steadied one another. 

“Colonel Burr, sir,” the coachman said at last, “I fear the horses are done.  Even if the weather lifts, we cannot go on tomorrow.”

Burr nodded, accepting the inevitable.  “I will enquire about the stage.  Bring my luggage on when you can.  But first get yourself warmed.”

He staggered towards the inn, thinking of nothing more than fire, dry clothes, something hot to drink.

The wind caught the door as he opened it and slammed it back, providing him with an unintentionally dramatic entrance; he knew the bedraggled and unimpressive figure he must be making, framed by snow and darkness.  He pulled the door quickly to behind him, the warmth of the common room feeling uncomfortably hot on his face, and ignored the many eyes upon him as he walked straight to the host.

“If you will pardon the interruption, sir, I bespoke a room by letter, a week or so past?”

“Vice-president Burr, sir!” The man stopped what he was doing, his eyes going wide in astonishment.  “We had quite given you up!  You will want food, hot water… I will show you to your room at once.”

“I would be much obliged.  And a whisky toddy, if you will; I am quite frozen.”

“Of course, of course…” The landlord picked up a candle and led him up the creaking stairs to a room that felt cold after the heat of the common room.  A bed, chairs, writing desk; the hearth laid but not lit.  He placed the candle on the mantle.  “I will send the girl up with dinner.”

“Something light only, please,” Burr requested.  “Soup, if you have it.” He walked into the room and peeled off his soaked greatcoat, dropping it onto the back of one of the chairs.  The door closed behind him and he looked around for a taper that he could use to light the fire from the candle. 

A couple of hours later, much revived, changed into a dry shirt and waistcoat, and with his tangled hair combed and gathered into a simple club that avoided it wetting his neck, Burr returned to the common room below.

It seemed that the other travellers there had learned who he was in the meantime, as that was the only thing that could account for the eyes upon him.  This close to Washington’s city statesmen were a commonplace; this sudden interest in one Aaron Burr must be on account of the duel or the pamphlet.  Which, was of a certain importance.  He normally avoided gossip, but in both politics and war, some niceties had to be sacrificed.

First, however, he went to the landlord to ask about the stage. 

“Leaves at 2 in the morning,” he was told.  “Moonrise, you know.”

Some kind of reaction seemed to be expected; he did not know what.  If that was the time, then that was the time.  “I would be obliged, sir, if you would arrange me a place on it.  Inside, for preference.  There will be no need to call me for the departure, I will sit up.” Then he ordered a bottle of good wine and took it to a table where he crossed his ankles, lit a cigar, and regarded the room with mild interest. 

He had barely taken the first lungful of smoke - rather more carefully than usual, and even so it seemed to burn in his chest - when he was besieged by the curious.  Had he really been shot by Hamilton?  In the chest?  And had he really written an essay with the man who had tried to kill him?  Why?  Surely so much of what was written in the papers could not be lies?

He had been having conversations like these for weeks, and by now they were almost second nature; including imperturbably brushing off the accusations from those who would probably always believe the years of Federalist slanders.  But they never seemed to become less uncomfortable.  He did not like to talk about the duel, or to be reminded of that agonising voyage back across the river, disoriented and struggling to breathe.  And as for those who asked why Hamilton had told so many untruths about him - sometimes mentioning ones he hadn't previously known - he had no answer even if he had wanted to give one.  He simply did not know why his friend had hounded him politically with such zeal.  He did not want to know.  He had only wanted him to stop, and now he had and they could get on.  

Hamilton’s personal revelation, whatever it had been, had come too late for the past, but maybe there was still a chance at the future.  He would need to use his time in DC profitably, if subtly.  In addition to everything else, he needed to convince Wilkinson of the need to alter their filibuster plan; if they could manage it smoothly enough he would be able to virtually ride the wave of the Mexican acquisition into the White House.  Hamilton’s assistance might resolve a number of thorny difficulties, though it would add others.

Burr stayed in the noisy, crowded common room for only an hour or so before retreating to the quiet of his room.  He lit a second cigar, took a pleasant lungful, coughed up the smoke until his chest hurt and there was blood mixed with the phlegm on his handkerchief, and stubbed the cigar out again.  Instead he sat down at the desk, laid everything out from his writing-case, and worked on his journal.

2 November.  Couche at 1, up at 5.  Last night the wind came in in earnest.  At twelve began to snow, and continued most plentifully until night.  My poor coachman was almost perished, and Gamp’s hands were nearly frozen…

At this point there was a tentative knock on the door.  “Enter,” Burr said, pushing his chair back from the desk and setting his quill back in the ink-pot.  As expected, the maid who had brought him dinner earlier slipped into his room.  He met her eyes and smiled slowly, before allowing his gaze to rove down over her full breasts, plump stomach, and wide hips.  “Come here, ma chérie,” he said, patting his lap and tensing his muscles to take her weight.

She settled onto him, putting plump arms around his neck and bending down to kiss him, and with relief Burr felt his concerns dissolve in anticipation of the release he could only find between a woman’s thighs.

Muse.  Très satis.  Pas d’argent.

***

Eliza leaned against the frame of the study door, watching her husband writing.  Hunched over his desk, legs tucked to one side of the chair, pen scratching fiercely in the vain attempt to keep up with his quick mind.  The house groaned as a gust of wind hit the window, and the candle flickered for a moment in the draught, but he did not hesitate or slow.

She preferred Alexander the husband and father, of course she did.  Her heart would twist inside her when she watched her husband’s infinite patience with John and William, how he would take them to his bed and hold them safe and comforted all night.  The pride with which he had welcomed Alexander Jr’s graduation and his beginning to study law.  The relentless solicitude with which he sought joys and surprises that might break through the curtain separating Angelica from reality and bring her back to them.  And of course, the passionate tenderness that he brought to their marriage bed, full of desire and devotion even after all these years.

But this was the Alexander she had first fallen in love with, this man who always had ten plans he was working towards and a hundred things he needed to do to accomplish them and not nearly enough time to do all of it.  This man who thought he could change the world by writing and was, more often than not, right.

Something had changed in him since the duel, and she was not sure how she felt about it.

Duelling was wrong, and she knew exactly how she felt about that.  It was clearly and unarguably against God’s law to take someone's life.  Alexander was a good Christian, and Philip’s death had only drawn them closer together in that respect.  She had thought he was against the horrible custom of duelling - had known he disapproved of it as much as she did.  And then he had come home from his office on a grey summer afternoon like any other, with a mysteriously bandaged ankle, looking so white and distressed that she had feared he had fallen seriously ill.

He had regretted it immediately, of course he had.  Because he was a good Christian man.  And then together they had spent days in waiting and worrying, comforting one another in the spaces between sleepwalking through their daily routine.  She had held him as he had wept with fierce grief and guilt over what he had almost done to Colonel Burr, to their own family, and then he had held her as she had cried exhausted tears over what she had so nearly lost.  Their trials only ever brought them closer together.

She hadn't known why Colonel Burr had challenged him, then.  She still wasn't entirely sure, though she had read their pamphlet, recognised the bleeding betrayal in their friend’s messages, guessed from the evasiveness of Alexander’s responses that there was more reason for that hurt than she understood. 

Alexander was muttering, now, unconsciously tapping one toe as he continued to write.  She still marvelled at it, his ability to write so beautifully and fluently, every thing following logically on from the last with nothing missed out or needing to be changed.

She had spent so much of her life watching him, like this, writing frantically in darkness by candlelight at a desk placed to catch the sun.  For years now it had been truly a metaphor; he had been bitter and angry, fighting defensive battles against people trying to tear down what he had built. 

But since the terrible duel, since he had talked to Colonel Burr, something had changed.  He was frenetic with new ideas, plans, persuasions.  He talked to her, pacing and gesturing, about alliances he needed to build, not conspiracies to undermine.

“Alexander.”

“A moment…” he responded absently, quill pursuing his train of thought.  She waited until he penned a final, emphatic full stop and pushed his chair back from the desk, turning to smile at her with that mobile, expressive mouth that she had always loved.

She walked across the room to settle herself carefully on her husband’s knee and place a short, fond kiss on the deep crease between his brows.  He put one arm gently around her waist and pulled her against his shoulder.  “I take it the hour is late?”

“It approaches one,” she confirmed.  “Come to bed, Alexander, you can finish writing tomorrow.”

He took a deep breath and laid his head against her neck, and for a moment she thought he would refuse; but then he patted her waist and nodded.  “It is in the nature of man to avoid learning present lessons in favour of the repetition of familiar errors, but your virtue has schooled me long enough, my dear Eliza, that I have hope of overcoming even this my most besetting sin.  Lead, and I will follow.”

Much later, sated and happy, she lay within the circle of her husband’s arms and privately thanked God once again for their deliverance.

***

To Chief Justice John Marshall, Washington D.C.

I am sensible of your zealous devotion to the virtue that partisan politics should not, indeed must not, ever override the solemn neutrality of justice, a determination that can only grant you a high place in the estimation of all learned men of law and state, as much as you know you have in mine.  You have already spoken of my new design, one that must prove as dear to your hopes for our beloved Federation as it has become to mine.  That is, a diminution of the rivalries that have, of late, become so commonplace and obtrusive among even those most worthy and esteemed of our brethren on both sides of the divide, that our ship of state, still in its maiden voyage, may be overset and come to ruin.

“Everyone is of opinion that he has a right to steer”, and “if at any time they do not prevail, but others are preferred to them, they kill the others or throw them overboard” - do these not seem, to any man who has in the past years read a newspaper or a handbill, or attended a caucus or other meeting, or dined at the home of any man of consequence, to be words that describe, not an abstract philosophy, but the very ship in which we set sail with such high hopes? 

It will be said of me, and not with injustice, that my part has been as great as that of any other would-be navigator.  I admit that fully, making no apology nor intending any, as I am confident, and can point to many evidences, of my diligent service in guiding our State through many crises without thought of honours or remittances.  However a government rendered dysfunctional through factional war is, however sensible its policies, a bad government.  This I accept, with great sorrow and dismay, to be the position in which we find ourselves. 

There are few indeed who have partaken of government without descending into the gladiatorial arena previously described, and who might therefore be perhaps able to accomplish the stern task of navigating our country through the narrow straits between the Charybdis and the Scylla of the factions that have come to define and divide us.  I have come to believe, though you are in a better position than I to confirm, that Vice-President Burr has shown particular skill and a nice honour in his respect for the impartiality of his high and trusted position.  Although he has frequently been vilified for many and varied flaws, to my certain knowledge, he suffers them in no greater degree than other men and less than many.  It is certain that his very integrity has done him injury in holding him back, from a very proper conception of what is appropriate in a statesman, from the kind of vulgar brawling that has come to dominate our political discourse.

Although the Vice-President does not, in my own opinion, give sufficient credence to the goods of Federalism, yet he has at least avoided the extreme and partisan favouring of goals, incompatible with the wellbeing of our Nation, that characterise more favoured members of the Republican faction.  Nor is it likely that he would fail to attend to advices, urged sensibly and with rational argument, proposed by men upon whose pleasure his ambitions, in part if not in total, depend.  Of this I have evidences.

If this satisfies you in respect of the enquiries lately sent to me, I will set measures in motion upon your favourable response.

Yr obd svt

Alexander Hamilton

***

To Alexander Hamilton, New York

I would have written to you earlier, but this is the first moment I have found since my arrival to attend my letters.  The hubbub is scarcely to be believed, and interest in the vice-president's affairs (excuse the double meaning) greater than he had supposed. 

In addition the president has ceased to permit the V.P. adequate time to pursue such outside interests, instead bestowing upon him the honour of frequent dinners and meetings, whose probable intent you may perhaps guess from the below.

The real work in the Chase business seems likely to start at the end of this month, and the Senate trial early next year.  As the articles will closely concern our present interests, I strongly advise you contact Chase to offer your counsel, if your affairs will allow you to come to Washington.

In fairness I must warn you to expect no solicitude from the bench; the gravity of the charges and the dignity of the court demand the most proper and detached neutrality in arbitration.

Yours,

A. Burr

***

“I could not divine the meaning of your letter, Colonel,” Hamilton admitted openly as he accepted a glass of wine.  Burr’s rooms were warm after the unseasonal chill in which he had travelled, but he still looked forward to returning to his own lodgings, where he had given instructions for extra fuel.

“How so?  You are here,” Burr said without particular emphasis as he took one of the chairs by the fire, and gestured to the other.  Hamilton threw himself down with a sigh, regretting it as the dull ache in his lower back intensified.

“I am entirely a stranger to your Republican intrigues,” he pointed out.  “Words and phrases, used frequently between friends and allies, acquire meanings unique and obvious to them, but impenetrable to an onlooker from beyond the charmed circle.  And so I am entirely puzzled as to your meaning in warning me of your intent to be impartial in the Chase affair.”

Burr looked at him for a moment, his patrician face as uncomfortably unreadable as always, then turned aside to pick up a small box from the mantelpiece.

“Cigar?”

Hamilton looked in some confusion at the half-empty box being waved at him, the wood and spice scent wafting from it surprisingly powerful.  “I thank you, no,” he said, and watched in disbelieving impatience as Burr picked one out and lit it from a convenient candle.  He took a long draw of smoke, looking thoughtful. 

“General Hamilton.” Burr’s gaze focused on him again, finally.  “I am unsure whence this misunderstanding arises, that anything I say must have some different, obscure meaning.  I cannot fault you, for I have encountered it everywhere, even in some I had previously thought allies as well as friends.  However, I beg you to set it aside.  When I say a thing, then that is the meaning I intend.  I find life goes along better that way.” He leaned to tap ash into the fire. 

Hamilton sipped at his wine - excellent, of course - and lightly tapped his fingers on the stem of his glass as he considered this.  “So your purpose in stating your neutrality was…” he prompted. 

“This trial is a partisan proceeding from the first, the tiniest child in Ohio knows that.  If proceedings depart one iota from the strict rule of law, we allow the judiciary and the legislature to be ruled by factionalism, and your own essays lay out clearly the dangers that follow.”

“And yet you called me here,” Hamilton said softly, not quite accusingly.

“Please tell me you are not a part of Chase’s defence team already.” There was a slight, wry twist to Burr’s lips, and Hamilton realised the fine political hair he was splitting in receiving him this evening.

“Not yet,” he said with a soft laugh, conceding the point.  “You are not colluding with the Federalists tonight."

Burr looked sideways into the fire and tapped his cigar into it again before resuming the conversation.

“I called you here partly because this trial is a defence of Constitutional principles as much as of Justice Chase, but mostly because it is a chance to rebuild your reputation,” he said frankly. 

“What is wrong with my reputation?” Hamilton spat, suddenly offended.  “Have I not given everything to this Union?  Did I not bring this country from bankruptcy to a credit so trusted that we may compete on terms even with the great European powers?  Am I not a soldier and leader of men?  Who slanders my reputation?”

“Not me,” Burr said pointedly.  He sipped at his own wine, cigar briefly balanced against the rim of his glass, then simply raised one elegant eyebrow and waited.

Hamilton had run up against the brick wall of Burr’s questioning expression in too many legal strategy sessions.  He could not resist offering a few additional points in his defence, but then accepted the inevitable and paused to consider.  “I know that I have fewer friends than I once did, even among those loyal to the principles of Federalism,” he allowed.  “It has always been my maxim to let the plain naked truth speak for itself; and where men won’t listen to it, they must be contented to suffer for it.  I have never allowed passing considerations to temper my defence of the national good.” 

“You are a divisive figure, General Hamilton,” Burr responded simply, ignoring Hamilton's reasons as though they were unimportant, rather than everything. 

“You dare dismiss my zeal in defence of this Union?” Hamilton snapped.  “You do not think it of any import that I have principles, stern principles which I will not compromise?”

Burr simply watched him, face expressionless, the regard of those remarkable eyes disconcerting.  It made Hamilton angry, that refusal to argue, to openly disagree.  It always had.  Hamilton flung himself out of the chair and paced before the fire, gesticulating as he justified all those other arguments he had had, bitter at the attacks that had come and come, ever since his accession to the Treasury.

Burr flicked ash into the fire and coughed, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to suppress it.  After a moment he took a sip of his wine and returned to watching Hamilton.

Hamilton hesitated, lost the flow of his argument, realised that he could not in truth remember why he had been arguing.  He dropped back into his chair and sighed, tired and sore.  “To rebuild my reputation.”

“I will be blunt, General Hamilton, at risk of your further wrath.”  There was a slight wheeze in Burr’s voice, and he casually tossed the remaining half of the cigar into the fire to burn unsmoked.  “For years you have been an éminence grise at best, at worst a loose cannon.  You are unmatched in legal eloquence; if you can refrain from beating your opponents about the head just because they have the temerity to oppose you, you will permit them to recall your brilliance instead of your temper.”

Hamilton tried to consider this rationally.  He knew he could be vicious when angry, had been warned often enough by Troup and Morris.  That damned Reynolds pamphlet, published in fury and self-righteousness, had been the death of his son, and yet somehow that had only seemed to make it harder to control himself, or even to realise when he should.  He did not like Burr’s words, but… black eyes in a chalky face, falling back against a tree…

“You are asking me for a very great deal of trust,” he said softly.  “I am not sure even you are aware of how much.  Even Washington, with whom I worked hand in glove, could not command my restraint in matters of conscience.”

“I am not seeking to command your conscience.  It is not possible, and if it were possible it would be contemptible.  I simply…” Burr stopped for a moment, rubbed his face with one hand, the day’s regrowth of stubble overlying his porcelain skin like a shadow.  “When was the last time that the aims of our politics and our friendship could be made to coincide?  The quasi-war?”

“I would have put it later than that,” Hamilton disagreed mildly.

“It has not felt so.” Burr did not twist that comment or linger on it, but instead moved quickly on.  “Here I am engaged in both.  As your ally, I would see you restored.  As your friend, I would see you stop expending your health on matters unworthy of you.”

“We have never agreed, politically,” Hamilton began softly, turning his wine in his hand, and was unprepared for the emotion that suddenly rose up in his throat, almost choking him.

“We agreed that did not have to matter,” Burr said equally quietly.  Hamilton did not look up from his glass to see the vice-president’s expression, knew he would not be able to interpret it anyway.

“It was, of course, unthinkable to either of us that we might both be wrong,” he managed to get past the odd tightness in his chest, and finally let his eyes meet Burr’s as he felt his mouth curve in genuine amusement.

For once, Burr did not seem to share it.  “If that means we must part ways,” he said levelly, “I would consider myself indebted if you could tell me so without a day's worth of oration.” His lips quirked a little.  “If you wish, you may write it to me later and I shall promise to be most appropriately moved.”

Unexpected pain stabbed Hamilton’s gut.  Was Burr truly willing to let go almost thirty years of friendship without even token protest?  He almost flared up, but instead forced himself to drain his glass, tried to push the fury back enough to think.  He was too tired for this.  Burr leaned forward to refill their glasses and Hamilton was reminded, suddenly and powerfully, of watching him get drunk on champagne in celebration of the loss of his beloved Richmond Hill.

So, “I do not mean that, and nor do I have any desire for that,” he said carefully, instead, forcing himself to breathe evenly.  “I am trying to understand how it will be possible to reach an accommodation that,” he slowed to enunciate very clearly, “however much I would prefer it, so works against the natural inclination of Man to favour his own ideas and disparage those who disagree, however honestly, with the course of action he knows to be right.”

“Hamilton…” Burr was frowning at him, then quickly tweaked his handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it across.  Hamilton abruptly became aware of how his eyes were stinging, of the sensation of wetness sliding down the creases beside his nose.  He took the handkerchief and wiped quickly at his face. 

“You told me this was not about guilt,” Burr said evenly.  “What is this, General Hamilton?  If you are unwell… you must rest.  Take my bed.”

“No, no,” Hamilton demurred quickly.  “It is merely that… I have realised, while lately reviewing the incidents of my career, that although I am unconscious of any intentional error I may nevertheless have committed many errors…” his breath caught in his throat.

“And you wish me to view them with indulgence?” Burr asked dryly.  “Should I be insulted that you did not take such a courtesy as assumed?”

Hamilton gave a slight laugh, even through his tears.  Of course Burr would recognise those lines from Washington's farewell speech.

“I am not yet reconciled to the inevitability of error,” he continued, a little more strongly, and was relieved to see the corners of Burr’s mouth twitch.  “I esteem your friendship, Burr…” He shook his head.  “We have somehow got into a tangle.  It must be the hour.  Perhaps I am more tired, from the journey, than I had thought.  Let us return to those things that are concrete and agreeable to both of us.  To sum up: yes, I shall offer to my assistance to Justice Chase.  No, I shall not take offence when you aim your questions and instructions at me, without regard for any circumstances, present or past.  Yes, I shall, for all I can, avoid antagonism unless the most tender inmost expressions of my conscience be exposed.  No, I shall not agree with all your Republican ideas while doing so.”  He took a deep breath, trying to settle all the odd and conflicting emotions he seemed to be feeling.  He offered back the handkerchief and Burr took it, slowly, his gaze intent.

“If this somehow distresses you, Hamilton…”

But Hamilton shook his head sharply.  “Never think it,” he said truthfully.  He started to consider what he had agreed to, thinking about the reports he had heard of the case, how to marry it with the points made in what was being called the Duel Pamphlet, how best to call attention to Jefferson's partisan abuses without descending from a position of moral superiority.  He suddenly smiled, tapping his thigh with one hand.  “I will persuade Chase.  I must.  I cannot now fathom how this chance to defend, no, to reinvigorate the cause of Federalism so nearly passed me by.”

Burr coughed again, muffled by the back of his wrist.  “Mr Van Ness and Mr Davis will be handling my public affairs in New York,” he changed the subject.  “They will not be surprised to receive letters from you.  We need to begin to gain ground now from Clinton’s faction if we are to secure the New York votes in four years.  And we must have those, as we will not have Virginia’s.”

“I concur.  And I must establish the current strength of the Federalists, and how many we may be able to persuade.  Much will depend on the selection of the vice-president.”

Burr openly laughed, which was a rarity.  “Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose,” he remarked, then frowned.  “Not you?”

“I said I would never again accept of any office, except to defend my country in war.  When I say a thing, then that is the meaning I intend.”

He felt Burr’s eyes on him, knew exactly what he was thinking.  Profligate, voluptuary, dangerous, Catiline… Those words were different.  Had been different at the time, at least.  Merely a Federalist throwing verbal rocks at a Republican, and Hamilton still didn’t understand how Burr could seem so genuinely devoted to Republican ideology.  He was better than that. 

“So have you spoken to any ghosts recently?” Burr asked wryly.

For a moment Hamilton was utterly perplexed, then it was his turn to laugh, throwing back his head and feeling himself relax.  “Do not remind me.  Of all the times that the thousand tongues of rumour would choose to believe my words entire!  Though you cannot claim yourself to be innocent of any such misstatements.”

“I am ever grateful that your pamphlets never attacked me where I was truly vulnerable, and that Bobby is still ignorant as to the true fate of his steel pen,” Burr acknowledged.

“Are you still convinced that you can put the pieces back together?”

“If I ever find them.”

Hamilton laughed again, recalling the so-called filing system that Burr’s office tended towards when his clerks were otherwise occupied.  This time he was the one who leaned forward to top up their glasses, while Burr took advantage of the pause to clear his lungs again.

“If we are going to reminisce,” he said, “Then what about the time…”

The extra fuel in the fire in Hamilton’s lodgings had burned itself through by the time he finally returned to them.

Chapter Text

To Alexander Hamilton, Washington D.C.

The latest news from New-York has engaged all of my solicitude for your affliction, and it is a bitter circumstance that forbids my offering my sympathies in person.

As I know that the affection between yourself and General Schuyler approached the filial in degree, so the loss must be likewise.  The only consolation in such extremity can be the indestructible recollection of an amity so strong and long-lasting as to be able to furnish such pains.  

Though the General and I were never on intimate terms, I respected him as a soldier and politician, and know that all of New York rightly joins and upholds your family in its time of grief.

As seems most proper to you, please convey my sympathy also to Mrs Hamilton.

Yours,

A. Burr

***

Burr and Wilkinson walked together down the street from the White House towards Burr’s lodgings.

“...stood there like a grinning idiot as she took back everything in her letter,” Burr said, gesturing easily, feeling a little light-headed from Jefferson’s free-flowing wine.  “So of course I went home, spent the whole night thinking until my head spun, and decided to match her by taking back everything I’d said as well.  I think in the end I offered to court her three times, and I’m still not sure whether she said ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to any of them.”

By the end of the story Wilkinson was almost doubled over with helpless laughter.  “Burr the dangerous rake!” he got out at last between whoops.  “Lock up your wives and daughters safe from this artful seducer!”

Burr grinned, then coughed sharply as he took an unwisely deep breath of the freezing winter air.  Maybe, he thought absently, he should experiment with smoking a pipe instead of cigars, see if that was less provoking to his lungs.

“What I still don’t understand,” Wilkinson continued, “is what you want with a wife.  Surely that would be much like tits on a bull?  You’d have to give up your amorous adventures, and then you would have far fewer stories with which to amuse your friends.”

“You should have more confidence in me, James,” Burr disagreed, fishing for his keys.  “You will find me more than capable at any form of folly I turn my hand to.”

Wilkinson chuckled as the door opened, and they went up the stairs to Burr’s rooms.  “I do trust in that, Burr,” he said, taking off his hat and holding his hands out to the banked fire.  Burr tossed a log onto the fire, sending up a shower of sparks.  Flames started to lick around the wood almost immediately.

“Cigar?” he asked.  “Tea?”

Wilkinson looked at the fire with an experienced eye.  “By the time you could heat that kettle, I intend to be back in my own bed.  No, I’m quite comfortable.  Say what you like about Jefferson, he knows how to host a dinner.”

Burr made no response to that but tossed his own hat to a side table, used a taper to light the candles from the growing fire, and went to his writing desk, pulling out a lower drawer and feeling for a set of papers that were almost invisible under a ribbon-tied sheaf of letters in various different hands.

“You keep our plans with your love letters?” Wilkinson asked incredulously, coming up to look over the much smaller man's shoulder. 

Burr hunched his shoulder to block Wilkinson’s sight, and pushed him back slightly as he retrieved the papers and closed the drawer.  “It simplifies matters if I ever need to burn my correspondence.”  He walked across to a side table and spread out pages covered with his fluid scrawl, interspersed with numbers and diagrams.  “I have been recalculating; I will need to be able to return East by early 1807, which requires increased promptness in our preparations.  We must be completely ready to seize the opportunity when it arises.”

“Why such a hurry?” Wilkinson asked, with an odd edge in his voice.  Burr could sympathise with his startlement.

“I have plans.”  He sorted through the papers, pulled out one from the middle.  “We can recruit larger numbers in a shorter time if we have a trusted ally to handle our affairs in New England.  You can follow my reasoning here.”

Instead of taking the page, Wilkinson folded his arms across his broad chest.  “And who do you have in mind to ‘handle affairs in New England’, Burr?”

Burr turned around to meet Wilkinson’s suspicious gaze, resting his hip back against the edge of the table.  “General Hamilton,” he said matter-of-factly.

“...huh.”  Wilkinson looked thoughtful.  “Have you spoken to the General?”

“No, and nor can I until this impeachment trial is done.  But he will certainly appreciate the opportunity.”  He crossed his own arms, mirroring Wilkinson.  “General Hamilton is a soldier at heart.  He will understand our strategy and the political considerations.  He can manage the finance.  And his reputation will help carry the British aid, and that is critical.”

“Oh, I know all that,” Wilkinson said slowly.  “It's why I approached him back in ‘98.  He turned me down.”

Burr stared at Wilkinson for a moment, assimilating this.  It made sense, he concluded.  So much sense that he wondered whether Adams hadn't had a thought towards a more official strike West when he created that little standing army, if international affairs had fallen out differently.  “Well, that will save me some explanations,” he concluded, letting his gaze unfocus a little while he mentally re-evaluated. “I shall bring him up to date after the Senate session.  I think that without the responsibilities of office, he will be easier to persuade.”  He nodded slightly to himself before continuing.

“The change in timing means that I am unlikely to be able to return East to handle affairs here until all is concluded.  So you see we will need General Hamilton, if only to liaise with Mr Merry.”

“Burr, stop.  Please, stop.”  Wilkinson rubbed his forehead, looking worried. 

“What is the matter?” Burr asked, calming his tone and deliberately suppressing his wine-buoyed enthusiasm.

“You're going too fast.  Let me follow this through.  You've spoken to Mr Merry?”

“Yes.  No word from London, yet, but he has given fifteen hundred dollars in earnest.  We shall have the ships.”

Wilkinson nodded.  “All right.  Those are the plans for your suggested new timetable?”  He held out his hand and Burr passed the page across.  While Wilkinson examined his proposal, Burr removed his greatcoat and sat sideways at the desk, idly flicking through his unanswered correspondence.

“I don't like this,” Wilkinson's deep voice broke the comfortable silence at last.  Burr turned in his chair and awaited the remainder.  “It all looks good on paper, but I mislike it.  If war does not come…”

“War will come,” Burr said flatly.  “It is spoken of everywhere, by all men of education and experience.  And if Jefferson carries through on his intent to appoint you to Louisiana, you will be better placed than I to be sure of it.”  He saw Wilkinson wavering and gentled his tone.  “I do not disregard the wisdom of caution in an affair of this delicacy.  Think further on it, James; call upon me with what questions arise to you, and we shall improve our ideas together.”

He stood and walked across to stand by his friend.  “Here, I have prepared this cipher copy; if further concerns occur to you once we part, you may use these codes to berate me for a blockhead without fear should the letter miscarry.”

Wilkinson took the sheet slowly, and Burr felt his brows pull together a little in concern.  “Your engagement in this project bears upon me with no less solicitude than my own,” he said softly.  “Trust me, dear James, that I take no risks more than I deem necessary for our success.”

“I do know,” Wilkinson said thoughtfully, studying Burr.  “I would not have come to you had I had the slightest doubt of your ability or reticence.”

Burr made himself clap his friend briefly on the upper arm, in the sort of display of affection he knew Wilkinson appreciated.  “Then we are well,” he said confidently.  He spun back to the table, suddenly all business. “I have also had some thoughts about our need for intelligence…”

Apparently convinced, Wilkinson joined him and they discussed details of their bold project so late into the night that the kettle even heated enough for tea. 

***

To Peggy Gartin, New York

You may assure the family that I never was in better health; and if I were not, Dr Hosack’s medicines would prove tolerably efficacious in rectifying any disorder. 

I received your letter of the 29th this evening. Let nothing hinder you from going punctually to the school you spoke of. Make the master teach you arithmetic, so that you may be able to keep the accounts of the family. I am very much obliged to you for teaching Nancy. She will learn more from you than by going to school. 

If I am to be at home this year it will be about the beginning of March, when I will make you all New Year’s presents.  However it is likely that I must travel, in which case I shall send further instruction.  If you receive in New-York any message from Williamson in England, send it to me promptly here in Washington, and separately write me a letter to tell me you have done so.

You must write to Mrs. Alston about the neighbour’s child. Enclose your letter to me. I hope little Peter is doing well.

A. Burr

***

Hamilton couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to his first sight of the new Senate chamber.  The old Senate chamber, in Philadelphia, he had of course known painfully well.  He had stood before that semicircle of hostile familiar faces so many times, reporting on the state of the Nation, passionately arguing for what was necessary to put it on a financially sound footing, defending himself against attacks on his integrity while his vision swam and gut ached and head pounded with exhaustion.

He did not know whether the new chamber would be similar enough to wake any of those recollections.  He was prepared, almost eager, to test himself against it.  And besides, rumour had it that Burr had commanded some spectacular alterations for the purposes of the trial; he was as susceptible as anyone else to the human frailty of curiosity.

Rumour had not been wrong.

Hamilton and his colleagues walked into the room from a side door and down a narrow aisle before the Senate, who were arrayed on crimson-covered benches at the front of the chamber.  On his left the main part of the chamber was filled with spectators, from members of the House of Representatives seated in the space normally reserved for the Senate, to members of the public crammed onto the galleries above.  There were even green-draped temporary galleries supported by pillars over the Senate floor, where women - really, Burr? - stood with as much apparent interest in proceedings as the men in the permanent gallery.

Flanking the focal point of the room, between Senate and spectators, were the boxes for counsel.  The house managers were already there, Hamilton noted, seated behind their blue-draped table with expressions of smug confidence.

Anticipatory mutterings and applause mixed with jeering rose from behind him as he found his seat, facing the Vice President who sat all but enthroned between the lines of Senators.

Burr should have looked ridiculous.  He was a small man, no taller than Hamilton himself - smaller, if anything, Hamilton was fairly sure - and slender with it, seated in a chair whose designer had clearly been trying too hard to impress by its immensity.  He probably found it uncomfortable just to put his hands on both arm rests at once.  But he didn't look uncomfortable.  In his sombre clothes, with an upright, patrician bearing and an aloof expression as his dark eyes raked the room, he looked instead forbidding and commanding.  Hamilton tried to think whether he had seen Burr in quite this aspect before, and he wasn't sure he had.  He wondered whether he should reevaluate some of his assumptions about Burr’s old war stories.

The other counsel gathered around Hamilton, and then Justice Chase himself limped slowly in, into the open space in the centre of the chamber that had been left to dwarf him.  He turned to face the Vice President.  Chase was a big man, in height as well as girth, but somehow their relative positions still gave the impression that he was looking up at Burr.  Burr was certainly looking down his nose at Chase.

Hamilton felt his eyes narrow.  Burr had written about neutrality, had supposedly asked him here in furtherance of that aim; but every aspect of this court seemed intended to shame and discommode the defendant.  Rumours had been flying around Washington since the New Year, about Jefferson's sudden warmth towards Burr, the appointments that had recently gone to his friends and relatives.  Those were inducements indicative of an arrangement that would be much more palatable to a good Democratic-Republican than the complex and delicate alliance Hamilton was trying to build.  How far could he trust Burr?  Really trust Burr?

“Before proceedings begin,” Chase said suddenly, “I must request the indulgence of the honourable court, that I may be seated.  Sensible though I am of the precedent set by the criminal trials of England, which should requite me to face this hearing upon my feet, I am no longer young and I am plagued by ill health.  I think this small indulgence not improper.”

Burr regarded him for a moment then glanced left and right, quickly taking the temperature of the Senate.  He nodded, once.  “Sergeant, fetch a chair for the respondent.”

He waited, no expression on his face, until Chase was seated.  Then he spoke formally, raising and pitching his smooth tenor voice so that the entire room could hear it.  Hamilton, listening anxiously for any hint of the hoarseness that still sometimes plagued him, was relieved to hear him sound so comfortably resonant.

“Mr Chase.  This court has given you the indulgence of one month, a full 31 days, in which to prepare your answer.  Are you now prepared to give it in?”

And it had been a very long month, Hamilton reflected.  The red-faced Chase was just as choleric as his size and complexion indicated.  They had had long arguments over this answer, Chase advancing on him with his face red as bacon as he shouted, trying to intimidate with his size like a common bully.  Mr Martin, interposing, had become lead counsel by common consent as the only one who could deal with their client without punching a wall or leaving to find a friend to send with a message.  Hamilton had somehow managed to hold himself back from either, although he had occasionally allowed himself free and vituperative rein of his tongue.  But bully though he was, Chase still deserved an impartial hearing and a sound defence against Jefferson’s attempt to render the judiciary more amenable by removing an outspoken Federalist.  And Hamilton was tooth-grittingly determined that he was going to receive at least that defence. 

“I move for permission to read my answer, by myself and my counsel,” Chase was saying. 

“This is the answer upon which you mean to rely?” Burr probed, and Hamilton was a little surprised by his pedantic meticulousness.

“It is.”

The Senate voted - the result was a technicality, but Hamilton relaxed at the familiar sense of legal ritual - and Chase began to speak. 

“I, in my proper person, come into this honourable court to make answer to the most grievous of charges, that I have committed high crime or misdemeanour against the very law that the trust of great men has placed in me to uphold.  Protesting that there is, in the said articles of impeachment, no such high crime or misdemeanor to which I am or can be bound by law to make answer; and saving to myself now, and at all further times, all benefit of exception to the insufficiency of the said articles; I submit the following facts and observations by way of answer.”

He gestured towards the box and one of the other counsels stood to give their agreed response to Article I.  Hamilton leaned forwards, propping his chin on his forefingers, and examined the reactions of the Senate.  The Southerners mostly looked unconvinced by the arguments, which was no great surprise.  This was one of the articles that he was most concerned about; there could be no doubt that Chase had been loudly and unwisely opinionated. By all reports, he always was.  But Hamilton was heartened to note that even some of the Democratic-Republican senators seemed sympathetic to their argument that poor judgement was not in itself a crime.  The Ohio senators, about whom he knew least and therefore worried most, looked encouragingly thoughtful.

His gaze returned, inevitably, to Burr.  The vice-president sat erect and dignified, his dark eyes flickering intently between the current speaker and Chase himself.  And Hamilton, inevitably, could read nothing in his expression at all.

Between them, the other defence counsels continued laying out the precise grounds on which they intended to argue for Chase’s innocence (though innocence was not a word that seemed entirely appropriate to this situation).  Time passed and Hamilton started to grow stiff and cold, even though the crowd that shuffled, coughed and sniffed behind him also warmed the chamber beyond what must be its normal early-February chill.  He distracted himself from that, and from the familiar ache in his lower back, by concentrating on how each member of the Senate reacted to each point of their rebuttal, making mental notes of which points appeared to carry best with which men, who whispered asides to whom, who was distracted.  Finally, their response to the individual Articles ended and Hamilton stood.

“The respondent has now laid before this honourable court all the circumstances of his case, with a surety that he has, to the best of his knowledge and abilities, discharged all his official duties with justice and impartiality.  He is confident in his own conscience that he has committed no crime or misdemeanour, or any violation of the constitution or laws of his country, neither intentionally nor through unintended misstep,” he declared.  Martin had wanted to soften this statement, hedge it around a little; but this would form the heart of their defence, and he would raise their flag with confidence.

Defence did not require abasement.  Nor did standing as a Federalist before a packed Democratic-Republican court.  Hamilton faced the Senate directly, holding the gaze of each member in turn.

“The sanctity of our constitution is here intrusted to the judges of the Senate, into whose impartial hands is confided both the reputation and the potential ruin of the respondent.  Never shall such officers be swayed from reasoned judgement by the warmth of partisan feeling; nor tempted to betray for inducement, paltry in comparison to their exalted office, the immortality of their high honour; nor influenced by the bonds of political attachment; nor moved by the temporary humours of the crowd from strict defence of the liberty that this Union has declared the birthright of all free men, and for which we fight with no less potency in this theatre of war than those on which we more visibly bled.”

The crowd was muttering behind him.  He knew the gauntlet he was throwing down, that he had just dragged the shadow of Jefferson into the contest without ever speaking his name.  But everyone here knew it was the president they were really contending against.

“The respondent is satisfied,” he continued, “that every member of this tribunal will observe the principles of humanity and justice, presuming him innocent, unless his guilt shall be established by legal and credible witnesses; each rendering that justice to this respondent, which he would wish to receive.”

The point was made, and would be driven home, over and over.  Now to temper the veiled accusations with a little humility.

“The respondent does not allege freedom from error,” he acknowledged, “For what man is?  Yet his intent has always partaken of the most zealous devotion to supreme justice, and he confides to this honourable court the trust that where ‘his means be just, his conduct true’ his judges will make allowance for the imperfections and frailties incidental to man, which cannot by any precedent or reasonable interpretation be assigned the aspect of criminal.

“If it shall appear to this honorable court, from the evidence produced, that he has acted in his judicial character with wilful injustice or partiality, he neither expects nor desires any favor, but expects that the whole extent of the punishment permitted in the constitution will be fairly and reasonably inflicted upon him.

“The respondent now stands not merely before an earthly tribunal, but also before that ultimate Judgement whose presence fills all space, and whose all-seeing eye more especially surveys the temples of justice and religion. In a little time, his accusers, his judges, and himself, must appear at the bar of Omnipotence.  He makes this solemn demand of each member, that if he shall wilfully do this respondent injustice, or disregard the constitution or laws of the United States, which he has solemnly sworn to make the rule and standard of his judgement and decision, he shall have voluntarily renounced by the oath he has taken all his hopes of happiness in the world to come.”

Hamilton sat.  The chamber went quiet.  Then the house managers stood to demand time to prepare a response to the response.

“The Senate will take the request into consideration,” Burr said levelly.  “This court will be suspended while the honourable members withdraw to confer.”  He stood, triggering an end to the day's proceedings.

And Hamilton still had not the faintest idea whether he was still a friend, or had been convinced into renewed enmity.

Chapter Text

Every morning Hamilton walked carefully across the refrozen slush of the streets to confer with his colleagues and eat an early dinner before the court session began at noon.  It occasionally made for an uncomfortably painful afternoon, but he had to eat sometime, and Burr had made his opinion on snacking in court quite clear on the second day of the house managers’ response.

Hamilton still smiled privately at recalling the discomfiture of the mainly Republican senators, as they had been forced to put away their apples and cakes like disobedient schoolboys beneath Burr’s cold glare and acid remarks.  The way in which the usually charming and reserved Burr could also verbally flay someone with a few precise words was something that had always fascinated him.  On occasion, appalled him.

The house managers brought forth their array of witnesses, and Hamilton settled to the familiar task of methodically dissecting their testimony.

“...Judge Chase threw the papers on the table,” said the latest witness.  “The throwing of the papers on the table and the address of the judge caused some degree of agitation at the bar.”

Hamilton was certain it had.  If a judge hearing one of his own cases had so contemptuously delivered his own written interpretation of the law before he as counsel had even started speaking, he would have been livid.  It might technically be legal, but it was certainly not appropriate or ethical.  His already low opinion of his fellow Federalist dipped a little further.

Randolph, leading for the house managers, rose to begin questioning his witness. “You have stated that the written paper thrown down by judge Chase on the table produced a considerable degree of agitation. What would you say caused that agitation?”

Hamilton had had enough.  He was on his feet before the witness could draw breath to reply.  “Mr President,” he addressed Burr, as President of the Senate and arbiter of this court.  “I must ask the opinion of the court, at this stage of this business, as to what we are to consider proper testimony.  Yesterday, opinion and argument were interwoven throughout the statements given; and here we are faced with the same once more. While I have all the appropriate respect for the opinion of the witness, I request a decision of the court as to whether it is acceptable to admit it as though it were evidential fact.”

He caught Burr’s gaze, challenging, but Burr did not hold it; his eyes flickered sideways.  

Burr’s step-son had just been appointed a superior court judge in New Orleans, Hamilton remembered with a nauseating twist of disappointment.  His friend Wilkinson was to succeed to the Governorship of the Louisiana Territory.  Reliable whispers said that Burr himself had lately been offered the ambassadorship he had wanted for years; an appointment that would have been offered before the caucus if Jefferson had intended it on merit.  He waited tensely for his objection to be overruled.

“Mr Randolph,” Burr said evenly to the house manager.  “Please alter your question to an enquiry of fact.”

To his shame, Hamilton missed the entirety of the next question.

“Mr Randolph,” Burr was saying firmly when he had pulled his wits back together, “Please submit your question in writing so that the court may vote on whether it is permissible.”  Had Burr just objected to the restated version by himself, without a word from the defence?

Randolph scribbled quickly.  “In the course of your practice, which we understand to have been long and extensive, did you ever witness a similar proceeding on the part of the court?”

Burr ran through the senators with practised efficiency, collecting ayes and nays, coughed briefly, and gave the result.

“The question in this form is permitted,” he said, and this time his eyes did meet Hamilton's.

Randolph repeated it and the witness responded: “I have been in the practice of the law for thirty-one years, and have no recollection of a similar proceeding.”

Which was not at all the evidence the house managers, with the shadowy figure of Jefferson behind them, had been aiming to produce.

Hamilton sat down again, suddenly, painfully aware that he was watching the Vice President quietly setting a torch to any hopes of rekindling his political career under the Democratic-Republican party.

He spent the rest of the session staring at Burr, trying to see anything of the strain his friend must surely be under.  But Burr was focused on the testimonies, and his dark eyes never met Hamilton's. 

***

The National Intelligencer and Washington Advertiser, February 1805

This week continued witness testimonies in the trial of Justice Chase, ably presented by the House Managers led by the renowned Mr Randolph.  It cannot be doubted by any learned men, hearing the testimonies of respected members of the bar, that Justice Chase has been most rightfully presented by the honourable members of the House of Representatives, for shewing a distressing partisanship in conduct of the duties upon which we are all most at risk of relying for fair arbitration. 

The Vice President has earned wide comment for the rigour of proceedings, being spoken of by some as a veritable martinet with more attention paid to the outward decorum of the court than to its worthy substance.  In the name of fair hearing much latitude has been granted to the Federalist counsel, in despite of the evidence, already adduced to and by the honourable House of Representatives in long deliberation, and the further testimonies, of undoubtedly arbitrary and unjust proceedings on the part of Justice Chase.

It will no doubt be remembered that the Vice President previously conspired in an attempt to defraud the public of the just rewards of their suffrage by preempting, with trickery, the very office of President in the extraordinary events of 1800.  His conduct of the present trial, seeming to seek the approval of the Federalist faction, shews an unrepressed ambition with little restraining principle that must be considered worrisome in any one who aspires to high office. 

***

Burr could certainly see why Jefferson wanted Chase removed from the Supreme Court.  Any reasonable human being would want Chase removed from the Supreme Court.  Washington should never have appointed the man; though that excited in him no surprise, but only a dull contempt that Washington had.

The difficulty was that there were no legal grounds for his removal.  Some irritations, one simply had to bear with dignity.

(As an intellectual exercise, he had proposed to himself a few strategies that might be used to remove an incompetent Supreme Court Justice without setting a precedent for abusing executive power.  Had Jefferson come to him two years ago - but he had not.)

He listened closely to the prosecution witnesses, tallying their statements in his mind, noting any weaknesses, almost out of habit.  It was a pleasure to watch Hamilton dissect them with his questions, as punctilious and methodical in establishing times and actions as he had once been in establishing taxes and institutions.

“...I went round to the place where judge Chase lodged,” the witness was saying, “and found him in his chamber alone, in which I thought myself very fortunate. We then talked over the application I had made for an injunction; while talking on it, Mr Smith, the then marshal, stepped in with a paper in his hand. He said that he had the panel of the petit jury summoned for the trial of Callender. Judge Chase immediately asked, ‘Have you any of those creatures called Democrats on the panel?’”

What?  Burr focused his full attention on this witness, a Mr Heath.

“Mr Smith hesitated for a moment,” Heath continued, “and then said that he had not made any discrimination in summoning the petit jury. Jude Chase said, ‘Look it over, sir, and if there are any of that description, strike them off’. This is all I know of this affair.”

And that was clearly a lie.

Burr glanced towards the house manager, Randolph, who had slipped this witness in to support a general charge of ‘manifest injustice, partiality, and intemperance’; which while objectionable was not illegal.  Whereas interference with jury selection in order to create a biased jury was actively unconstitutional - if true.  

That Randolph was sneaking this statement in under the vague wording of Article IV, rather than making it a separate article of impeachment in itself, rather suggested it was not.  He clearly didn’t want this testimony examined too closely.  But if he could make the Senate believe it now, he could come back to rely on it later and Jefferson’s contemptible attempt to subvert the judicial branch of government was home and dry.

Burr had used similar strategies himself, when working with weak evidence.  It was legal.  And he wasn’t here for Chase, any more than he was here for Jefferson.  He was here to establish, whatever it took, that the ultimate and only authority in these proceedings was the law.  He deliberately watched the witness, giving no indication of what he had noticed.

“At what time of day was it that you went to the judge's chambers?” broke in Hamilton’s light voice, and Burr let himself glance across at his friend as he rose and approached the witness, looking, in his immaculate dress of conservative greys and blues with matching clocks in his stockings, as if he had been created just to speak in this chamber.

“It was immediately after breakfast. I think it was between 8 and 9 o'clock.”

Hamilton prowled before the witness, his lips pressed together, his hand occasionally tapping his thigh in obvious agitation.  He looked up at Burr, but Burr met his eyes for only a moment before returning his gaze to Randolph.  He was going to play no games of secret signals and meaningful looks.  The defence must make shift for itself.

“Who was present at the judge's chambers at the time of this conversation between judge Chase and Mr Smith?” Hamilton asked next, his disconcertingly bright eyes now fixed entirely on Heath.

“No other person was present but myself. When I came in I found the judge alone, and I thought myself fortunate in so finding him. We had been in conversation by ourselves for ten minutes or nearly before Mr Smith came in.”

Hamilton glanced across to his colleague Martin, who made a note.  Interesting.  But Hamilton continued to push.

“Did you at any time mention this circumstance, and to whom did you mention it?”

“As soon as it happened,” Heath said self-righteously.  “I considered the conversation improper, and I thought I had a right to relate it, as I had visited Mr Chase as a judge in his judicial character.  I mentioned it to Mr Hugh Holmes, also to Mr Meriwether Jones.  And I have since mentioned it frequently to others; I never kept it a secret.”

So there should be corroboration of this story, if only at second hand.  And yet while Hamilton wasn’t actively smiling, the creases in his cheeks had deepened slightly.  Burr concluded that the defence had a witness who would disagree.

“Did you say that you made this communication to those gentlemen immediately after the conversation occurred?” Hamilton asked mildly.

“On the very day, and within an hour afterwards,” Heath confirmed.

“Was this conversation on the day of the trial of Callender?” Hamilton pursued, a little fussily.

“Mr Hamilton,” Chase interrupted at this point, and Hamilton could not conceal his irritation as he whirled and was forced to retreat to his client.

***

“Mr Chase?” Hamilton hissed impatiently with the bare minimum of politeness, bending down to confer.

“You are prolonging this unnecessarily,” Chase rumbled, his jowls trembling with the force of his anger.  “Mr Marshall will prove that I said nothing of the sort, and that Mr Heath certainly wasn’t noising this nonsense about at the time.  Let the court move on.”

The man’s gout was clearly paining him, Hamilton told himself, but he felt no answering pang of sympathy.  Had Washington consulted him before appointing this fool to the Supreme Court?  Had he agreed?  It had been almost a decade ago, and whatever their reasons may have been at the time, all Chase was to him now was an obdurate client who needed to leave his defence to his betters.

“Mr Chase,” he said softly and swiftly, “If this testimony can be set forth unchallenged in his close, Mr Randolph will be able to claim that you violated the sixth amendment to the Constitution.  And though not strictly within the Articles he brought forth, that alone will be sufficient to carry a majority of this Senate.  Our defence must be spirited and strong, and the more supposed facts that are brought forth, and the better our command of them, the better able we shall be to contest them.  You are not the judge of this court; be guided by your counsel.”

“Mr Hamilton, I have never…”

“Mr Hamilton?”  Burr cut in pointedly, and Hamilton was suddenly very aware of the very large and illustrious crowd that was currently watching him argue with his client.

“My apologies to the honourable court,” he politely addressed the Vice President as he straightened.  “The defence has further questions for Mr Heath.”

“Then please continue at your convenience.”  Burr’s tone was mild, and yet Hamilton tightened his lips at the reproof.   He pointedly turned his back on Chase and returned to the witness.

***

“Was this conversation on the day of the trial of Callender?”

“I do not recollect whether Callender was tried that day; I mentioned before that I did not attend the trial.”

“On what day of the week was this?” Hamilton tried again, and Burr could see that he was growing irritated.

“I do not recollect.”

“How many days was it after your motion to the court?”

“I do not recollect.” Hamilton stared at the witness with incredulity, then spread his hands in a public demonstration of disbelief.  “But I think,” Heath added hurriedly, “it was a few days after Callender had been arrested.”

“So am I to understand that it was after Callender appeared in court?” Hamilton asked, more mildly. 

“I do not say so,” Heath said very carefully, evading the trap.  “It was after Callender was brought forward by the marshal. I think it was immediately after; but I do not recollect whether a day or two after.”

Callender had been brought to Richmond on the 27th of May, Burr recollected without checking his papers.  The panel from which his jury would be chosen would have been summoned shortly after.  A day or two was consistent.

Hamilton apparently concluded the same, as he abandoned that line of questioning.  “And did you go to judge Chase's chambers on any business more than that one time?” he said instead.

Was Hamilton hoping to claim that Heath had confused one occasion with another?

“No,” Heath said sturdily, apparently suspecting the same.  “I never did more than that one time.”

Hamilton paced silently for a moment, tapping his chin.  Burr could hear the senators on either side of him shifting in their seats, and took a breath to admonish the defence to move things along.

“I will now proceed to show,” Hamilton said, his voice suddenly hard, “That Mr Heath, in his strong anxiety to get judge Chase impeached, has remembered things which nobody else remembers, and has heard things which nobody else heard.”

There was a collective gasp from the representatives seated on the chamber floor, and Burr felt his eyebrows lift almost against his will.  Shouting broke out in the crowd and Burr immediately rose and glared into the public galleries.  “I will have order in this court,” he snapped, tensing his belly to support his voice as it threatened to crack.  He lowered his volume and pitch a little in a technique he had learned the hard way, commanding rebellious soldiers at the Gulf.  “This chamber lies at the heart of governance and merits the highest degree of respect and attention.  Any person incapable of the decorum proper to these proceedings shall be removed.”

The hubbub began to moderate as the mob unconsciously quieted itself to make out his words.  He waited, catching the gaze of individuals and staring them down, until the chamber was tolerably quiet.  Then he slowly seated himself again and turned his head to acknowledge the house managers, who had leapt to their feet as one at Hamilton’s accusation and were now almost quivering with restrained fury.

“Mr President!” Randolph protested the moment Burr’s eyes met his. “Are the witnesses we have called not under the protection of the court?” 

“They are.”  Burr looked levelly at Hamilton.  “If the managers, in the testimony they summon, come up to what they state they can prove, they will not be subject to reproach,” he warned the defence counsel.  Then he glanced back to Randolph.  “But if they do not, they merit it.”

Randolph took the hint and modulated his tone.  “I have no objection to the counsel impugning the veracity of one witness by the evidence of another,” he allowed, before continuing stridently, “But I think they take an improper liberty when they undertake to say, before it is proved, that what is stated by a witness never occurred.” 

Burr resisted the urge to either sigh or pinch the bridge of his nose.  Either would be beneath the dignity of his office.  Instead he said, firmly, “I understand the gentleman to say that he will prove with the word of another witness that what has been stated never occurred.”  He stared meaningfully at Hamilton.

“That is precisely what we shall do,” Hamilton agreed, almost pleasantly, but the smile on his face was more triumphant than polite.

***

Letter to The National Intelligencer and Washington Advertiser

Dear sir,

It is with the utmost solicitude that I read the late attacks upon the integrity of our Vice President.

Often have Col. Burr’s detractors claimed that he has been all things to all people, however, never have I encountered such a confusion of ideas that submits he is all those things to every person at one and the same time.  In this esteemed organ alone I have seen it said, when he chides the honourable House Managers, that he has, through the operation of base ambition, become suddenly a Federalist; when he corrects the counsel for the defence that he has been bribed, to represent, the very party which he was elected to represent, the Democratic-Republican; when he favours neither he is temperamentally so indecisive as to be incapable of committing to either temptation; I momentarily expect to hear that he has had the folly to don a hat to go out of doors, by which cause he will be said to have crowned himself King of England.

It surely lies beyond the credulity of any rational man to believe that one person may be at the same time a Federalist, a Democratic-Republican, and none at all, without that he somehow split himself in three.  Such rumours give only increasing credence to the claims of that pamphlet, recently written, that certain parties, unwilling to submit their own individual power and judgement to the collective precedence of the people, instead destroy, by unprincipled means, the democratic choice that was made and replace it with an insidious form of despotism by slander.

It is an insult, both to our President, to claim that he would stoop so basely as to proffer inducement to affect the outcome of a matter of high principle as well as law, and to the honourable members of the Senate, to claim that they are so lacking in mental force and discernment as to be led in judgement by the court directions of a single man.  No less is it an insult to the people of these United States to state them so foolish as to have elected, to highest office, so many whom they may not rely upon to perform the necessary responsibilities of that office.

These practices so far exceed the usual though unjustifiable licenses of party artifice, that even in a disposition the most candid and tolerant, they must raise sentiments of voluntary and unreserved indignation.

‘Labienus’

***

Hamilton was preparing to take his seat in the defence box at the start of the next session, the scraping of the wooden legs on marble tile barely audible above the noise of the settling crowd, when Burr crooked a finger in the peremptory summoning gesture common to all judges.  

“Mr Hamilton.  A word.”

Surprised, Hamilton approached the chair, feeling curious eyes upon them both.  Burr leaned forward, his soft mouth unsmiling, his brows a little lowered over eyes that they shadowed almost to black.

“In the future, kindly moderate the vigour of your defence,” he said sternly, loudly enough for nearby senators to overhear.

Hamilton felt himself smile, a little.  “No decent man could moderate himself, Mr Burr, in combating persecution,” he responded with quiet defiance, and returned to his box to join Martin in preparing the witnesses for the defence.

***

“Did any thing ever pass between you and judge Chase, respecting the jury summoned to try Callender?” Martin asked their witness.  Hamilton turned his quill between his fingers as he watched the house managers, the soft barbs occasionally catching on his writing calluses.

“I object to this question, Mr President,” Randolph protested, as expected.  “It is not to the point.”

“Submit the question in writing, Mr Martin,” Burr ruled.  By this point in proceedings, the practice was familiar; Hamilton quickly dipped his nib and had a written justification ready to hand to Martin in the time it took Martin to sigh and return to their box.  Martin scanned it, nodded, and handed it to Burr to read out.

“Testimony on the part of the prosecution has been given, tending to show that the respondent had a corrupt intention to pack a jury for the trial of Callender.  Judge Chase offers in evidence other declarations of his, made during the proceedings, showing that his intentions were not only pure but even favourable to Callender.”  Burr quickly took the vote of the Senate, then nodded to Martin.  “Counsel may proceed.”

“Did anything pass…?” Martin repeated to Marshall.

“In the evening of, I think, the 27th, I was at judge Chase's lodgings. Judge Chase said he wished a certain celebrated member of Congress would remain, and serve in Callender's case; in fact he wished that Callender might be tried by a jury of his own politics; but it would be improper for him to interfere.”

Martin smiled.  “And now please inform the court at what time, if any, you were at judge Chase's chambers, when a certain Mr John Heath was there, what passed, and what did not pass.”

“It was about ten o'clock, when I went to Mr. Chase's lodgings. I went, I think, but am not positive, with Mr Smith the marshal. I found Mr. Heath in judge Chase's chamber, or in the passage; he was, I think, in the act of leaving the room, he had his hat in his hand, and I met him outside the door.”

“Can you state the day of the month?” Burr inquired from the chair, leaning keenly forward with his elbows on his desk and his lips pressed against his forefingers.  From Heath’s testimony, it should have been the 28th or 29th; as Burr was clearly aware, it mattered whether Marshall agreed.  Hamilton sighed regretfully, remembering his conversation with this witness some weeks before. 

“I cannot,” Marshall said apologetically, “although I think it was the day before the second judge arrived.”

And unfortunately, between the house witnesses and the defence witnesses, they had four different statements about what day the second judge had come to town; some before the list of candidates for the petit jury had been drawn up, some after.  They simply could not say anything about Heath’s timing.

“Did any conversation take place between yourself and Mr Heath at that time?” Martin inquired.

“I do not specifically recall any conversation, although of course the greetings normal upon any meeting of gentlemen were exchanged.”

“Did you hear any thing, from either Mr Heath or from judge Chase, about ‘creatures called Democrats’?”

“I had no conversation with Mr Heath at that time, and I never heard the judge say anything about the jury, except instructions to summon twenty four jurors above twenty five years of age.”

Hamilton smiled to himself.  Heath had claimed there was nobody else at Chase’s lodgings; he had not mentioned Marshall.  He had claimed to have spoken widely and immediately about this conversation he had considered improper; but he had not said anything to this man he had met during what was supposedly his first flush of indignation.

Mr Martin drove the point home: “Did he say any thing of the description of persons, relative to parties?”

“I do not recall that he said a word.”

Marshall’s testimony was not definitive, but it did not need to be.  Heath’s bold image of a corrupt judge striking off names to bias a jury, had been reduced to the uncertain word of one man against another.  The house managers could not convict on the basis of such doubt.  As Martin called the next witness, Hamilton began to annotate their draft of the closing statement.

***

To Aaron Burr, Washington D.C.

Cher père,

How can you expect me to write to you for an hour every day when all I do is sit here, prisoner of my weak health?  Of what could I possibly write?  You would complain indeed if I sent you a letter so dull!

But even when I am so low, my boy brightens my spirits.  Only today I left out my quill after writing - please do not be angry, for it was on your business I forced myself to labour - and see what a pretty scrawl your gampy has made!  I had to promise to send it to grandpa, for he still remembers that name and attaches it only to you.

If you follow through on your latest intention and make a journey to the south this summer, only tell me where to come and your Theodosia shall be there, if I must invent a way to grow wings.  I know that mari also wishes to communicate with you on your new projects.

I have corresponded with µ and his respect for you has only increased since your interview with Genl Hamilton - an interview the story of which, by the way, I shall perish unless I hear all in full from your own lips.  He has written feelingly of his desire to do you any service that might reverse the insults you have so nobly borne. There is much interest generally in the current situation in X, owing much to the hope of developing land; I have not been able to learn the specificity of ideas regarding a § , but if I am not completely fooled it would earn you all the admiration your valiant soul merits in a project of such grand design.

Upon the other project, you know we here rely upon ⊗ no less than does ◊ and any overt move towards the terms of the agreement you spoke of must result in some loss of amity.  However ‡ is not loved here as much as in ◊ and you need only show your face and demonstrate the decision of your character to attach to yourself the love of many who could do you good.

Adieu,

Theodosia

Chapter Text

“…the great principle for which we contend, and which is so strongly supported by the clause of the constitution already cited, that an impeachment is a criminal prosecution, and cannot be maintained without the proof of some offence against the laws, of which this court has heard none,” Martin concluded.

Hamilton tried not to show his frustration at such a lacklustre close.  It would no doubt serve; it had methodically demolished the house managers’ - the Democratic-Republicans’ - Jefferson’s arguments with an exhaustive discussion of precedent and constitution.  But it had not been the speech he would have given, of which fragments of disconnected prose swept restlessly through his mind like leaves in a whirlwind.

Burr looked to the senators seated on both sides, and drew breath to speak.

And Randolph stood up.

“With the leave of the counsel for the respondent,” he said deceptively mildly, “I would offer one or two observations, which might save those gentlemen and the court some trouble.

“We know we cannot lay much stress on the testimony of a single man, rebutted by that of another respectable witness.”

Hamilton snatched up his quill as though it were a weapon and then paused, stymied.  His fingers picked frustratedly at the barbs.  It was very clear which witness they meant.  In this unexpectedly impartial court the house managers’ arguments about party and behaviour had been systematically dismantled, and they were not going to meekly accept defeat.  Convincing the Senate that there had been a violation of the Sixth Amendment was now their only hope.  Jefferson's response to the unanticipated legality of proceedings, was clearly going to be to spring upon them some kind of last-minute vindication of Heath’s testimony about jury packing.

“Mr Holmes,” Randolph continued, “the speaker of the House of Delegates,” and yes, he did stress that title, its implication of trustworthiness, “did not attend this city until after the evidence on the part of the prosecution was closed. That honourable and respectable man is, however, now in the lobby.  Mr Holmes is ready to prove that pending the trial of Callender, Mr Heath did declare to him as having passed in his presence, and immediately upon its conclusion, such a conversation as the witness has stated.”

Hamilton registered with a small part of his mind that he had stood up and walked out of the box to stand in front of Martin.  His mind buzzed with calculation.  Randolph's request was an impertinence to the court and the defence was expected to refuse it.  But if they did, most of those present - senators, representatives and public all - would be convinced that they were protecting some weakness in their own evidence.  He had watched the Senate closely during the closing speeches, and even with the constitution and legal precedent on their side the vote on Article IV would be close.  Too close to allow such doubt.

“It is not for us to say how the honourable managers shall proceed in conducting this prosecution,” he said, lifting his voice in a fine dignified contempt, sharply shaking his wrist as Martin grabbed surreptitiously at his cuff. “We have no objection to Mr Holmes being examined.”

He felt his lips widen in a tense smile, a frenetic energy starting to fill him as he committed Chase’s future and the rule of law in this country not to legal technicalities but to his own quick wits.

“How long has Mr Holmes been in the city?” he added, almost idly.  He could feel Burr's eyes upon him, and was slightly surprised that the President of the Senate had said nothing yet about this highly irregular set of proceedings. 

“For three days,” Randolph said, trying hard not to sound as if that were an admission. 

“Then his testimony might have been given before the defence on the part of the respondent was made?” Hamilton laid the trick bare to the court.  Still Burr only watched, his gaze flicking back and forth between them.

“We had not wished to interrupt the counsel for the defendant in their questioning of the witnesses for the defence,” Randolph batted back almost virtuously. “We had thought the character of Mr Heath stood too high to be impugned,” he added, a little bitterly.

Now Burr cut in, his expression still revealing nothing.  “The honourable house managers’ tenderness to the character of Mr Heath can have no weight with the court,” he stated flatly.  “The only reason that can be assigned for the admission of Mr Holmes’s testimony is whether it is material.”  He arched one eyebrow at Randolph.

“I hold it to be the right of either party, at any stage of the trial, when the evidence of a witness is called in question, to justify it by the testimony of another witness,” Randolph said defensively.  “I ask the court to therefore receive Mr Holmes's testimony as a matter of right, not of favour.”

Burr closed his eyes very briefly, then turned to the Senate.  “The question has been put,” he said neutrally.  “If the honoured gentlemen will give me their vote.”

To nobody’s surprise, the senators were too curious to resist.  The side door was opened and Mr Holmes walked in, alone and erect, the soles of his shiny black shoes tapping loudly on the pale marble, to be sworn in in front of the rapt crowd.

“I was at Richmond when the circuit court sat there,” he said matter-of-factly when given leave to begin. “I left Richmond on the Sunday following.  In the time between Wednesday and Sunday Mr Heath told me in substance what I understand has been related to this honourable court. That he had business with judge Chase of a judicial nature, and waited upon him; that while he was there Mr Smith came in; that he brought with him the panel of the jury for the trial of Callender. The judge asked if there were any persons of a particular description, I think Democrats, on it.  Mr Smith said there were.  The judge then said, no such persons must be on the panel.”

It was not, quite, a confirmation that Chase had actually said it.  But it was a confirmation that Heath had been telling the story at Richmond, at the time; that it had not been invented for this court.  The Democratic-Republicans in the Senate would take it as confirmation enough.  And they would carry the vote.  Hamilton turned on his heel and stalked to his own box and back, giving himself a moment to think.

“Were there any persons present when Mr Heath gave you this information?”

“I think judge Brookes and Mr Meriwether Jones.”

That was very much not the answer Hamilton had been hoping for.  The implication of corroborating witnesses made the defence’s situation worse, especially as one of the names agreed with Heath’s own account.

That left only the timing of this disclosure.  The timing that Chase had, earlier, told him not to bother to push for.  He glanced across at his client, who was suddenly pale beneath his florid complexion, and gave him a brief, pitying grin.

“You were in Richmond for the circuit court,” he said to Holmes.  “When did they sit?”

“They sat on the 22nd of May.”

He had it.  Hamilton stopped dead, then took a pace towards the witness.  “And you left Richmond the Sunday following?”

“I think so.  It is possible that I may be mistaken.”

He had to be certain.

“Did you leave town on the Sunday before or after Callender was tried?”

“I left town before he was tried.”

Hamilton almost crowed in triumph.  He stalked away, and then back again, lifting his eyes to Burr, who was… not smiling, but who had one eyebrow very slightly cocked and was finally meeting his gaze.

“Mr President,” Hamilton said exultantly, “The testimony of Mr Holmes completes the overthrow of Mr Heath, whom it was offered to support. It adds the last clench to the nail, by which his testimony is fixed on high. This honourable court will recollect that Mr Heath declared, that after the supposed conversation about striking those ‘creatures called Democrats’ from the jury, he went immediately and related that conversation to Mr Holmes. This, consequently, must have happened before Mr Holmes left Richmond.  But Mr Holmes tells us that he left Richmond on the Sunday after the 22nd, that he was definitely gone before the trial; but we know that Callender was not brought to Richmond until the 27th of May.  And we know that a jury is not summoned to try an offender, until he is before the court.”

He paced along the line of the bar that lined the benches of the Senate, meeting the gaze of senator after senator.

“Consequently at the time when Mr Heath informed Mr Holmes, that he had heard the respondent tell the marshal Mr Smith to strike off all the ‘creatures called Democrats,’ it is perfectly certain that no jury had been summoned; that the marshal had not taken Callender; and that no such circumstance as Heath related to Mr Holmes, could possibly have taken place.”

At the end of the line he whirled and returned to the centre of the chamber, turning to address not merely the court, but the representatives and people gathered to witness Jefferson’s prosecution.  He raised his voice to soar to the galleries; all the way to the high ceiling.

“It was greatly to be desired, Mr President, and might have been confidently expected, that in a case every way so important, where it so greatly concerns the public happiness, that the decision should command the public confidence, nothing would be presented to the view of this honourable court in aid of the prosecution, except the law which ought to govern the decision, and the proofs relied on for supporting the allegations. But it has not so seemed good to the honourable managers. They have thought proper to introduce into the discussion the political opinions and party connections of the respondent; for the purpose of throwing a shade of doubt over his motives, and of establishing inferences unfavourable to his character. How far this conduct ought to be commended, I will refrain from expressing an opinion. But my confidence in the justice and discernment of this honourable court forbids me to apprehend that it can be successful.”

He paced, very slowly, across the small space in the centre of the chamber to which the defence of the constitution, of the rule of law, had somehow narrowed down.

“I see two honourable members of this court who were with me in the convention, in 1787, who as well as myself, perfectly know why the power of impeachment was invested in the Senate. It was because, among all our speculative systems, it was thought this power could nowhere be placed where it would be less likely to be abused.  We then believed and contended, that the powers relating to impeachments are an essential check in the hands of this body upon the encroachments of the executive.” Jefferson. “We then, nor do we now, apprehended no want of a disposition in the Senate to punish the abuse of their confidence or to vindicate their own authority.  Then, as today, we placed our trust in the pride and the virtue of this chamber.”

Well.  To within an approximation that he doubted any here would care to dispute.

“And that is why,” he concluded angrily, “this last subterfuge will not avail the prosecutors. This honourable court, adhering to the principles of the constitution, the positive rules of law, and the plain dictates of justice and common sense, will require, before it convicts, the clear proof of a criminal intent, manifested and carried into effect, by some act done, in violation of the laws. Under the shield of this great principle, our honourable client stands secure. In full confidence that you, Mr President, and the members of this honourable court will be guided by it, I cheerfully submit the case to you; and when you retire to deliberate on it, remember that posterity will sit in judgement on your conduct; that her decision will be pronounced on the testimony of impartial history; and that from her awful sentence there lies no appeal.”

He turned on his heel and tilted his head slightly upwards to regard the assembled senators with defiance.  For a moment there was silence in the court, not broken even by shuffling or coughing from the crowd.

Into that silence Burr rose, with studied dignity, and glanced briefly about the chamber before his gaze came to rest back on Hamilton.

“We thank the honourable counsel, and the honourable house managers, for their learned presentations.  If there are to be no further surprises for the court?” he asked with delicate irony.

Then he turned his head slowly to address the arrayed senators to either side.  “Gentlemen.  You have heard the evidence and arguments given on the trial of Samuel Chase, impeached for high crimes and misdemeanours.  You will now proceed to retire, in order to consider what has been placed before you and to pronounce upon your judgement.”

***

The Washington Federalist, March 1805

[...]

The President of the Senate rose and said, on the first Article fourteen gentlemen have pronounced guilty, and twenty not guilty; on the second Article six have said guilty, and twenty eight not guilty; on the third Article sixteen have said guilty, and eighteen not guilty; on the fourth Article seventeen have said guilty, and seventeen not guilty; on the fifth Article there is an unanimous vote of not guilty; on the sixth Article four have said guilty, and thirty not guilty; on the seventh Article, eight have said guilty, and twenty six not guilty; and on the eighth Article, fifteen have said guilty, and nineteen not guilty.

Hence it appears that there is not a constitutional majority of votes finding Samuel Chase, Esquire, guilty, on any one Article. It, therefore, becomes my duty to declare that Samuel Chase, Esquire, stands acquitted of all the Articles exhibited by the House of Representatives against him.

[...]

***

“Mon ami!”  Gallatin was a little surprised to hear a knock at his front door, so late at night.  He was even more surprised a few moments later when the Vice President was shown into his parlour.  He stood, grasped Burr by the upper arms, and brushed cheeks in greeting.  “I had given you up.”

“Je suis désolé,” Burr apologised, looking a little pink.  “I had forgotten to wind my watch.  Is the hour too late?”

“Not at all.”  Gallatin stepped back, not letting go, and looked him over. “Ça va?”

“Oui, ça va bien.  Et vous aussi? ”

“That I have difficulty believing.  Fighting duels?  Publishing pamphlets criticising the administration, with Hamilton of all people?  Allowing that scoundrel Chase to be acquitted?  Your friends are worried, Burr.”

“I am fortunate in the solicitude of my friends.”  Burr gently shrugged off Gallatin’s hands.  “Did you truly expect me to conduct that trial any way other than I did, Albert?” he asked with a slight frown.

Albert examined Burr closely.  The elegant dress, the keen eyes, the quiet and composed demeanour; nothing looked any different now from the last time they had met, before what was said to have been a close brush with death.

“Asseyez-vous.”  He sighed and sat down, gesturing to another armchair.  “Perhaps not.  I did tell Mr Jefferson it was useless to attempt to bribe you.”

Burr took a quick, relieved breath and waved away any potential thought of complicity with a restrained gesture of one hand.  “No gift from the President can possibly be ‘useless’.  I am sure Mr Bartow will gain great use from his new appointment.”

Gallatin could not resist snorting, but sobered quickly.  “You have made him your enemy.”

“That changes little.”  Burr leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  “It is my friends who concern me more,” he said, meeting Gallatin’s eyes intently.

“Eh bien,” Gallatin surrendered.  “I am not surprised if the rumours are true that you seek to form a third faction.  I know that Marshall would have worked with you in 1801 had you given him the slightest encouragement, and you still have some sway with the moderates in our party, despite the result of the caucus.  Clinton has never had the popularity elsewhere that he does in New York.  But Hamilton?   The man who tried to bar immigrants from office?  You once defended me from him in the Senate, Burr!”

“And I would again,” Burr replied immediately and decidedly.  “You claim the United States as your country; you put your great intellect at its service; you are a citizen; we are fortunate to have you and will and must defend you.  Quod erat demonstrandum.”

“And Hamilton?  Tell me, Burr, was it as bad as we heard?”

“That depends on what you heard.” Burr shrugged.  “We shot at one another like gentlemen, and then we talked at one another like politicians.  That does not mean I agree with his views, Albert, and far less would I seek to return him to your Treasury.”

Gallatin sighed and relaxed a little, acknowledging to himself that Burr was right, that was at least part of what he had feared.  For the rest… “And you are well , Burr?”

“Kindly stop that.  I am, as you see, as healthy as I have ever been.  I have neither died, and nor have I lost my wits.  Hamilton has been my friend for a very long time, whatever else he has been, and however foully he has abused me.”  Burr took a pipe out of his pocket and started filling it with tobacco.

Gallatin sighed again, this time with frustration.  “You are too trusting, mon ami.”

“True.”  Burr tilted his head slightly, regarding Gallatin for a moment.  “Here I am, trusting a member of Jefferson’s cabinet.”  He looked away to tamp down the aromatic shredded leaf with one finger, and tilted the bowl of the pipe against a candle to light it.  “At least, I assume Jefferson’s antipathy to all things associated with A.B. has not extended so far?”  He glanced quickly up at Gallatin as he put the stem between his lips, his expression unreadable.

“Oh, you need not fear on that account,” Gallatin reassured his friend with a slight laugh.  “There is not another one of our faction he can trust with more than two plus two, and he knows it.  But you…” he frowned.  “This might be a good time to travel south.  Away from your base of power.  Appear unthreatening.”

“I had been considering it,” Burr admitted, looking into the air as he blew out a curl of fragrant smoke.  “I have not seen either Theodosia or jeune Aaron Burr in more than a year.  He wrote to me, you know,” he added with sudden animation.

Gallatin frowned.  “Your grandson?  Surely he cannot be more than three years old?”

“Two years and a half.”  Burr set the pipe down briefly on the arm of the chair and rummaged in his pockets, finally fetching out what looked like a small piece of scrap paper, which he turned in his fingers as reverently as though it were a sacred relic.  He unfolded it carefully and offered it to Gallatin, who took it with some reluctance.

“Oh, he does not write letters yet, not having been taught them,” Burr continued as Gallatin stared at the meaningless inky scrawl, “but see with what firmness of character he forms the lines.  I had a friend who used to insist that as much could be inferred from a person’s handwriting as from their face; he was able to tell the letter of a man of great fame from that of a knave, simply by one mark at the end of a word.”  Burr rose, pipe still gripped between his teeth, and peered over the top of the paper to touch one of the abstract marks - which looked to Gallatin exactly like all the others - with one light forefinger.  “I am sure that this scratch of jeune Aaron’s is of exactly the same form, and surely more may be presumed from the unrestrained natural effort of one untutored than one who has laboured at cultivation.”

Gallatin stared at Burr’s face, the soft, unguarded smile that he had only ever seen in brief fragments when Burr talked about his daughter and grandson.  He was entirely unable to tell whether his friend’s wry humour was just more understated than usual, or whether he actually believed that the unremarkable scribble showed genius.

“Surely no scion of your blood could be anything other than a remarkable intellect,” he temporised politely, returning the cherished scrap.

“When he is older I will have him brought to New York,” Burr said, tucking it back in his pocket, his demeanour and voice returning to normal.  “The opportunities of education and society will be much the better; especially if you move there.”

Gallatin smiled at the old refrain.  “We cannot all move to New York, Burr, you would depopulate the country.”

“Then I suppose I must permit Clinton to move out by way of exchange.”

Gallatin snorted again.  “Was that your ploy all along?  Get rid of him by foisting him on the Senate?”

“And I invite you to admire my magnificent success.”  Burr took the pipe from his mouth for a moment to cough briefly.  “Are Mrs Gallatin and the family still comfortable in Philadelphia?”

“For now…”

Gallatin relaxed into the back and forth, enjoying his friend's ready wit, and very much relieved that the incredible events in New York did not after all seem to be a sign of incipient madness.

***

When Hamilton arrived at the Senate the next day, it was to be informed that the body was discussing executive business and the doors were closed to the public.

He could, of course, simply have departed again.  He had wasted enough of his life watching small-minded men argue and compromise over trifles; he honestly had little stomach for doing so again. 

But… but he had spent the last month watching as a man he had laboured extensively to ruin quietly enforced the spirit of the constitution he had helped create, at no insignificant cost to himself.  Two weeks ago Burr had presided impartially over the counting of the votes that elected his enemy Clinton to replace him.  And at the end of today, even what little influence Jefferson had permitted him would be gone.  Hamilton felt… not responsible, because he was not.  Definitely not guilty.  It simply seemed to him that it would be the act of a friend to share in the proceedings, however unremarkable, of Burr’s final day in office. 

He could, of course, ask Burr for special permission to enter the chamber, but he had no particular desire to receive an acerbic rejection.

Instead he chose to wait, pacing the lobby, arguing heatedly with the staff out of frustration and boredom more than any real hope they might relent.  He had better things to do - a letter to write to Eliza, meetings to arrange with other influential Federalists before they left town, anonymous attacks to rebut - but he needed to speak with Burr anyway.  He might as well wait for him here.

He was half aware of the faint, indistinguishable sound of voices from the other side of the wall, the familiar rhythm of individual speakers occasionally interrupted by jeers or applause.  A part of his mind registered when that rhythm fell into silence before giving way to a single voice.  But he did not become fully aware of the change until he heard the short, unmistakable clunk of the main door being unbarred from the other side.

The executive business was done.  The session was being opened.  Hamilton broke off his argument mid-sentence and ran lightly up the steps to the gallery door, slipping in quietly so as not to interrupt.

The changes made for the trial had not yet been dismantled; it was difficult to see the full semicircle of senators below the obscuring temporary galleries.  But from here he could easily see Burr, standing before his chair to address them.  He did not look up; he had probably not noticed that anyone had entered.

“...that I must at times have wounded the feelings of individual senators,” Burr was saying calmly.  “But from the time I was elected to this honourable company I determined to pursue a conduct which my judgement should approve, and which should secure the suffrage of my own conscience, and so in presiding over the deliberations of this chamber I have never considered who else might be pleased or displeased.” 

Was that a jab at Jefferson?  But Burr’s tone was so matter-of-fact that it seemed hard to interpret his statement as a criticism of anyone.

Burr took a slow breath and continued, his voice measured and even.  “I do not depart even now from this resolution, but it is only justice on this occasion to thank you for your deference and respect to my official conduct - the constant and uniform support I have received from every member - for your prompt acquiescence in my decisions, and to remark that you have never descended to a single motion of passion or embarrassment.”

Burr lifted his head and clearly met the gaze, one by one, of several individuals whom Hamilton could not quite make out below the green-draped stalls.  “I do not apologise for my defects,” he said flatly.  “On reviewing the decisions I have had occasion to make, there is not one which, on reflection, I am disposed to vary or retract.”

Hamilton realised that his mouth had dropped open, and he closed it again, thoughtfully.  Had he thought himself honest?  Here was an honesty, arrogant and unapologetic, that he did not think anyone else in the government could or would dare to match.

“I have always avoided entering into explanations at the time,” Burr continued, “because a moment of irritation is not a moment for explanation; because my position, as chair, rendered it impossible to enter into explanations without the obvious danger of consequences which might hazard the dignity of the Senate, or prove disagreeable and injurious in more than one point of view.  I therefore prefer to leave my justification, if any seems to you to be necessary, to your reflections.  On my part I have no injuries to complain of; if any were ever done or attempted, I am ignorant of the authors, and if I had ever heard, I have forgotten.” At this distance Hamilton could not see whether he smiled, but there seemed a slight softening in his tone.  “For, thank God, I have no memory for injuries.”

Was it truly that easy?

Because Burr was lying, he had no doubt of that.  In four years at the centre of government, while he was slowly and visibly being frozen out of the President’s favour, there would have been injuries aplenty.  Rumours, lies, broken promises, smiling viciousnesses; Hamilton knew them all, and their insidious effects.  And yet here he stood, unstintingly offering forgiveness.  It could not be genuine.

(Was Burr’s forgiveness of him genuine?)

"I do not doubt but you have found occasion to observe, that to be prompt is not therefore to be precipitate, and that to act without delay is not always to act without reflection.  Error is often to be preferred to indecision, and my errors, whatever they might have been, have been those of rule and principle, and not of caprice.  It cannot be deemed arrogance in me to say that, in my official conduct, I have known no party - no cause - no friend; if it is the opinion of any that the discipline that I have established approached to rigour, you will at least admit that it was uniform and indiscriminate.”

And that probably was true, Hamilton realised.  He had seen it for himself throughout the trial.  It would have earned Burr no friends, and many enemies.

And Aaron Burr, he was starting to suspect, genuinely didn’t care.  He stared down at the slight figure who stood erect and alone at the front of the room, and felt something turn over in his belly.  A strange dizziness, like putting on spectacles and seeing the world go strange and then snap into a different focus.

"The ignorant and unthinking may affect to treat as unnecessary and fastidious a rigid attention to rules and decorum,” Burr was saying austerely, “but there is nothing trivial in anything that touches, however remotely, the dignity of this body.  You will know from your own experience the justice of this sentiment; that there is danger in making the smallest relaxation of the habits which I have endeavoured to establish, for on full investigation it will be discovered that there is scarce a departure from order but leads to or is indissolubly connected with a departure from morality.

"And the considerations with which I challenge your attention here are more momentous than those that regard merely your personal honour and character; they are nothing less than the preservation of law, of liberty, and the Constitution. This house is a sanctuary; a citadel of law, of order, and of liberty; and it is here - it is here, in this exalted refuge - here, if anywhere, will resistance be made to the storms of political frenzy and the silent arts of corruption; and if the Constitution be destined ever to perish by the sacrilegious hands of the demagogue or the usurper, which God avert, its expiring agonies will be witnessed on this floor."

The chamber was so silent that it could have been empty.  Hamilton struggled to breathe past the stone clogged in his breast.  This was a raw and empassioned belief in the ideals of the government that shamed his own, who had helped to draw them up.

He had spent so long claiming Burr had no ideals, and yet here they were.  Exactly, he finally admitted to himself, where he had always known they were.

He could feel tears starting to trickle down the creases in his cheeks, and he felt no shame.  Only, suddenly, a fierce gladness that he was here, feeling the hurt of a limb reawakening from frozen numbness.  And a savage, baffled fury that this brilliant and formidable man should have stood against him all their lives.

"It is with a poignancy that I do not think improper that I now contemplate my final separation from this august body; a dissolution, perhaps for ever, of those associations that I hope have been mutually satisfactory.  But I take some consolation from the reflection that, though we shall be separated, yet we will still be together engaged in the common cause of disseminating principles of freedom and social order.  I shall always regard the proceedings of this body with interest and with solicitude, and shall feel for your honour and for the national honour with which this chamber is so intimately connected. My heartfelt prayers and wishes shall attend you always.  Adieu.”

Burr descended from the slight platform and walked down the aisle towards the main door, his quiet steps tapping evenly on the marble.  Hamilton rubbed furiously at his face, clearing his vision enough to see several senators simply staring with blank faces at the empty chair of their now-former Vice President.  Another had his head buried in his hands.  There was no applause, no murmur, no sound at all.

Burr disappeared from view beneath the temporary galleries, and after a few moments more Hamilton heard the main door creak open and then softly thud closed again.  The silence continued as the Senate grappled with seeing the quality of the man laid bare in the moment their government lost him.

More tears welled into Hamilton’s eyes, and he felt himself clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles went white and his fingernails cut into his palm. He had never wanted to punch someone so badly in his entire life.  But he could not tell whether that person was Burr, or himself.

Chapter Text

Alexander Hamilton, Washington D.C.

My dear Husband,

Your letter of the 23rd was received and greatly Relieved my mind, for you know how solicitous are your friends and family for your health, especially in what touches so close upon the Government business that, we all still recall, once gave you so much Vexation.  The newspapers here speak of your eloquent defence in the Trial and impute to you, what they expect to be proved, an Acquittal on all charges.

My Loss continues to bear upon me but I daily remind myself of the Consolation that you wrote to me with such loving kindness, that I am a Christian and will one day be reunited with my Father in Heaven.  The Troups have been assiduous in their attentions, though Mr Troup says often that he misses you and does not know how to proceed, in whatever Work you have in hand, without your more knowing Guidance.

The children are as well as can be expected, even including Angelica’s sad Affliction, for she is comforted in the belief that Philip travels with you in Washington’s city and this has given some Relief to all from her piteous questions.

With the conclusion of your Business I am bold to hope for you to return before long, for you can only guess at how much you are missed.

Ever your affectionate

Eliza

***

Theodosia Alston, Charleston

The enclosed newspaper is just now put into my hands. It is true, as is there said, that I made a talk, as was decent and proper, to the Senate on leaving them formally. There was nothing written or prepared, except that it had been some days on my mind to say something.  The story in this newspaper is rather awkwardly and pompously told. It has been gathered up, I presume, from different relations of the facts. May God have you in his holy keeping.

A. Burr

***

Burr finished addressing the envelope just as Hamilton was shown into the room.

“My apologies, General Hamilton,” he said as he turned in the chair and stood.  “I am behindhand with my correspondence.  I am sure my landlady is less so with dinner.  Wine?”

“Only a little, please.”  Hamilton seemed to have dressed as carefully for a private dinner as he had for arguing a case of national importance.  Not a strand of his natural hair colour showed under the white powder, his neck cloth was tied intricately and precisely, and Burr was amused to note that the green clocks in his stockings once again matched the colour of his waistcoat. He also looked tired.

Burr poured wine for them both, and handed one glass to Hamilton.  “That was a bad business, very bad.  And well averted.”

Hamilton took a sip and smiled at him.  “Were you as strict with your regiment, Colonel Burr, as with the Senate?”

“I have always found it the best way to avert mutiny.”  Burr sipped his own wine.  An acceptable vintage.  His mind was so full of Mexico, it was hard to find his usual fluency with small talk.  But this was not yet the time to broach the subject.

Hamilton was looking at him with an expression that he could not quite interpret.  Hamilton’s reactions had been odd since their affair.  No matter how many times Hamilton claimed that he did not feel guilty for shooting Burr - and he shouldn’t, for they had both known what they were risking - he clearly regretted something.  Burr wished the man would just put behind him whatever was eating at him. 

“I take it your continued attendance here means that all is well at home?  Did you pass on my sympathies to Mrs Hamilton, by the way?”

“I did,” Hamilton confirmed.  “She has now returned from Albany.  Angelica is with her so that they may console one another, but I must go back to New York soon.” He paused for a moment, then gave Burr a sideways, lightning-quick smile.  “Alexander Junior has received an invitation from Higginson, to start his progress towards our profession.”

“Mending bridges?” Burr caught his meaning.

“We need every ally we can get.  And there is much work to do to rehabilitate your reputation.”  Hamilton gave him a look that could almost be described as a glare.  “Do none of your friends know how to write, Colonel Burr?”

Burr’s brows rose almost to his hairline - a greater distance than he liked to reflect - at that criticism coming from Hamilton, of all people.  “I leave my actions to speak for themselves,” he said firmly, “And to my character to confound the fictions of slander.”

“Your character is known only to your friends, Mr Burr,” Hamilton pointed out.  “You cannot deny me the chance to…”

At this point there was a short knock on the door, and Burr’s landlady came in, carrying two small plates.  She passed through to the dining room and Burr gestured for Hamilton to follow, perforce cutting off the argument.  Davis and Van Ness had said the same thing, repeatedly, and he was tired of it.

General Hamilton was even less inclined to obey.

“Colonel Burr,” he began again, a few minutes later, as he set down an empty oyster half-shell.  “Those who know you personally, know your character.  Those who do not know you, hear of the actions that should bring you their respect only through newspapers, pamphlets and rumour.  If those sources should also speak of actions that are dishonourable, treacherous and unmanly, how are these strangers, even cautious and reflective strangers, to distinguish truth from fiction?  Imagine that man in Ohio who reads, perhaps sent by a friend, a newspaper that speaks of your impeccable conduct in this trial we have both undertaken…”

Burr preserved an expression of politeness as he allowed Hamilton to build an edifice of oratory between them.  He squeezed lemon onto his plate and lifted up an oyster shell, slurping the contents and enjoying the mixture of sour and briny flavours while he simultaneously appreciated the clear but impassioned way in which his friend made his case.

Hamilton finished speaking and watched him intensely.

“Your eloquence notwithstanding,” Burr said with careful courtesy, “it ill behoves a gentleman to descend to such unseemly squabbling, and nor will I abet it.”

“Please clarify to me, Colonel Burr,” and now there was a note of anger in Hamilton's voice, “What you consider to be unseemly squabbling.  For I feel it not unjust or conceited in me to consider myself as distinct in more than degree from creatures such as Callender or Cheetham.  You may recall that I have before defended what I held in high regard, using as my weapons only what truth and learning I had it in me to give voice to.  Nor, I flatter myself, was it considered that I did poorly or presumptuously in attempting it, neither at the time nor even to this day.”

“The States hardly need eight-five essays about their former Vice President,” Burr replied dryly.

The corners of Hamilton’s mouth twitched, almost despite himself.  “If you wish the people to judge you by your character, Colonel Burr,” he said, leaning forwards over his dish, ”you must permit them to know your character.  They cannot do so while falsehoods are everywhere ranged against you.  And you will find, I think…” he sighed, suddenly looking oddly sympathetic, “...that merely absenting the most diligent part of the Federalist mind from the fray results in a lesser effect on the whole than you might have supposed.”

“What of absenting myself from the fray?”

“What?”

There was a brief and ill-timed interruption as the landlady brought up gently steaming plates of stew and bread.  Hamilton looked furious.  Furious and oddly unhappy.

“We had an agreement, Colonel Burr,” Hamilton said after the landlady had left, clearly picking his words with unaccustomed care.  He closed his eyes for a moment, and Burr noticed again how dull his skin looked, the slight pouches under his eyes.

“I am not breaking it,” Burr interrupted firmly.  “But you know, General Hamilton, that we have several intractable problems.”

“I am aware.”  Hamilton relaxed a little, but the slight movement only emphasised how tense he still was.  Ignoring the savoury smell wafting up from the table he continued, more slowly and carefully than Burr had ever known, “If I may delineate them as I see them.” He did not wait for a reply, so Burr took the opportunity to take a forkful of beef and vegetables, his gaze as intent on Hamilton as Hamilton's was on him.

“Firstly, the administration is unfriendly to both of us.  You will receive no appointments, nor will any measure or preferment that may be connected with you be approved.  This limits your influence even among your friends.  Secondly, we can expect the Democratic-Republican party to put up a Virginian candidate once more at the next election; I expect that will be Mr Madison.  Your northern origin is seen as a defect among southern electors, and if Virginia is against us then the more paramount it becomes to secure votes among the other states.  Thirdly, it will prove a task of great delicacy to balance the views of the moderate Republicans against we Federalists; there is much distrust between us, and it is as likely that our factions will shred one another into rags as it is that they will combine behind you.  Fourthly, there is the matter of your reputation; the slanders that have pursued you these ten years and more have had the effect, even where they are not so widely circulated, as the dripping of water upon a stone.  Mere volume and repetition has cloaked them with a kind of believability; your probity and virtue are put to the question.  Do you agree?”

Burr was darkly amused by the way Hamilton carefully avoided the issue of the authorship of the slanders, but he knew better than to smile at it.  “I do.  And our position on removing the institution of slavery worsens matters.  It will take more than pamphlets to carry the South.”

“Or New England, come to that.  Even supposed abolitionists are often more ardent in accusing others of a lack of virtue and humanity, than in applying those same principles to their own Negroes.”  Hamilton tore a chunk of bread from the loaf, but turned it in his fingers rather than eating it.

“It is a case where the general will is in conflict with the individual will,” Burr agreed, ignoring the pointed subtext.  He set his fork down and watched Hamilton's face closely. 

“We can overcome many of those problems at once, General Hamilton, with a successful filibuster into Mexico.”

Hamilton dropped the bread onto his plate, and droplets of bouillon scattered onto the table and spotted his waistcoat.  He didn't seem to notice, his face suddenly as white as his hair.  “No,” he said breathlessly.  “Do not do this, Colonel Burr.”

Burr scooted his chair back from the table, giving himself room to move if his friend showed any sign of faintness.  “You look ill, General Hamilton,” he said with surprised concern at the extreme reaction.  “What is wrong?”

“What is wrong.  What is wrong?” Hamilton shoved his chair back from the table and it went over in a crash.  He started to advance on Burr and then whirled, laughing a little as he paced agitatedly, gesturing violently with his hands.

“What is wrong is that after the space of twelve years - an impossible gape of the jaws of time - our politics no longer thrust us apart, Colonel Burr; I no longer feel that indescribable sense of betrayal that I have carried since first my good friend, whom I greatly admired, turned against me; that finally, finally we are working in harness and for a moment I could expect all the joys that result from collaborating with a colleague of superior capability with whom I might confound the enemies in Congress; but that once again that friend in whom I had reposed such confidence and affection would prefer to go south and die rather than labour at my side.  What is wrong, Colonel Burr?  How dare you ask me that!”

Burr leapt up, took two strides across the room, and grasped Hamilton by the upper arms.  “General Hamilton!  You are clearly distraught, sir, but I do not understand you.” He could hear the frustration in his own voice.

Hamilton clamped his lips together so tightly they went white, and Burr could feel him trembling.

“You cannot go south,” was all Hamilton said at last.  His eyes flickered down to Burr’s hands.  “And you will please unhand me.”

Burr did so, and took a very cautious half-step back.  “I have some confidence in my ability to survive a journey into the southwest,” he said evenly, caught between anger and concern.

“I am sure you do.”  Hamilton took a couple of steps across to the table and leaned on it, breathing deeply.  “Why did you not tell me of this monstrous plan of yours in September?” he asked at last.  Burr could not see his face, but he could hear the tremble in his voice.

“I could not betray the confidence another gentleman had placed in me, without his cognizance.” 

“So this is not only your project.” Hamilton was staring down at the table; Burr could not see his face.  “Was it even your idea?”

“You border on insult, sir,” Burr said warningly.  “But…” he sighed, “you are not entirely wrong.  The bones of the idea are the same that were proposed to you by Wilkinson, at the time of the difficulties with France.”  He waited to see Hamilton’s reaction.

“So he went from me to you,” Hamilton breathed.  He straightened up from the table, staring sightlessly at the opposite wall.  “Just as the Essex Junto went from me to you.”

Burr took another step back so that he could see Hamilton's face.  He leaned his hip against the table and watched intently while his mind returned to the words of that initial outburst.  What betrayal could Hamilton mean?  Burr had never turned against him, not until forced; and if he had come out of that rather better than Hamilton in the eyes of most Americans, he had paid for it.

Who had gone south and died?

“I cannot endure this again,” Hamilton said softly.  He straightened and fidgeted with his cuffs, scratched with one nail at the little grease spots on his waistcoat, patted at his hair, before turning back to Burr.  “You will forgive my outburst,” he said with careful, fragile calm.  “As we have a great deal to do in the next three years, you must understand that I am startled to learn that you intend to absent yourself, out of communication, for what cannot be any small amount of time, in order to perform illegal manoevres.”  By the end, his voice was pure acid.

“I understand that with the obstacles that are ranged against us, we would be fools to expect success by known and predicted strategies,” Burr said evenly.  “In your mind you have already made the case against; now make the case for.”

“I have no desire to make any case in favour of this ridiculous idea,” Hamilton snapped.  “It is invidious.  You shall not find the men to carry with you; if you find the men, no war shall be declared; if war is declared, then you shall die on the field of battle; if you live, you shall be tried for an illegal act; no man shall ever call me over-cautious, but a strategy so hedged about by failures is a strategy of folly.  The Mississippi is your Rubicon, and the moment you cross it you commit yourself to destruction.  I will not…”

“Thankyou, Mr Hamilton,” Burr cut across what was becoming a speech.  “I am obliged for your clarity.”  He stared unseeingly at the wallpaper as his mind raced.  Van Ness and Davis could handle much of the party organisation, but they simply did not have Hamilton’s national network.  Nor could they deal with Merry.  If he returned to the original plan with Wilkinson, he broke his agreement with Hamilton and postponed any attempt at the presidency until 1812 at the soonest.  If he did not, he lost a golden strategic opportunity.

He had been so sure that Hamilton would be willing.  What had he misunderstood?

“I have not finished,” Hamilton breathed.  He took a step forward to grasp Burr by the wrists; Burr took a sharp step back, twisting his arms, but could only free his right hand without escalating to an unseemly brawl.  “You know they speak-”

“Mr Hamilton!”

“You know they speak of Wilkinson as a Spanish spy?  What if this is an intent to put you in the hands of a hostile power?”

“Wilkinson is my friend, Mr Hamilton.  To suspect him of such treachery towards me is unworthy of him, and unworthy of me.”

“And am I not your friend?”

Was that what this was about?

“You are also my friend, Hamilton.”  Burr stopped struggling.  Instead, with a split-second calculation, he stepped forward, breast to breast, and forced himself to put his right arm around Hamilton.

Hamilton dropped Burr’s wrist as if burned, then Burr could feel his arms come up around Burr’s ribcage, his hands pressing between his shoulder blades as he embraced Burr tightly, letting out a small, choked sound.  They stood there for a moment, Burr feeling awkward and uncomfortable, before Hamilton released him and stepped back.  There were tears on his face, but he was no longer shaking.

“Mr Burr-”

Another split-second decision.  Burr cut across whatever he was about to say.

“Aaron will suffice.”

Hamilton closed his eyes for a moment.  “Aaron.  I know you hate explanations, but… I think you are owed some.  And also an apology.”

“I begin to doubt that we are friends.”  Burr watched Hamilton closely.

Hamilton laughed, a little breathlessly.  “I have given you enough cause to doubt that in the past - yes, I know - but we are, and that is the difficulty.”

He sat down, ignoring the cooling plate of stew, the lump of bread going slowly soggy on top.  Burr followed suit, still watching Hamilton, every muscle tensed for action.  He was not sure he had not preferred it when they had been trying to kill one another.

“I apologise for my behaviour tonight,” Hamilton began evenly.  “I was surprised; my passions were roused; it was insulting to you and unworthy of me.”

Burr nodded shortly and continued to wait.  The meaty, rich smell coming up from the plate suddenly turned his stomach, and he pushed it aside.

“Do you recall the LeGuen case?” Hamilton asked quietly.

“Bien sûr.”

“Then you recall my animadversions against Bobby and Morris.”

“In specific, no.  That there were hard words used, yes.”

“I was furious that they insisted on fighting the case against me when it was so clear that their client was in the wrong; that they were in the wrong; that as such they must ultimately fail.  We cannot exist as lawyers without a separation, a curtain wall, between personal opinion and professional duty, but nevertheless it is iniquitous to defend, once understood fully, that which is not morally defensible.”

Hamilton paused for a moment but this did not seem like a moment to speak.  Burr waited.

“And so I was furious at Bobby and Morris for their moral error, and more so that they continued in their denial of that error even when it was brought to their attention, repeatedly, over such a long time.  You understand, it was not personal.”

Burr raised one eyebrow in response to the faint irony he heard in Hamilton's voice. 

“Your allegiance to the vile Republican faction was also an immoral choice.  You appreciate that it must be, for nothing but a measured consideration of certain principles could provoke in me, overcoming my rigid scruples, such a righteous anger.  Personally, of course, I always considered us friends.”

Hamilton paused again, and looked aside.  “I do not entirely understand from what motivation my actions sprang; I cannot explain it to you; I cannot imagine you would require me to.  When I almost killed you, I felt such pangs, such a degree of solicitude that I could not, on rereading what I had written in the days before, quite reconcile my own reasons for bringing us to such a pass.  When I heard your speech to the Senate…”

“That over-written report,” Burr disclaimed with a short gesture of one hand. 

“No.”  Hamilton shook his head and met Burr’s eyes with a smile.  “They opened the doors at the stop of business, Aaron, though I was the only one present to take advantage.  I heard you speak.”

“It was the solemnity of the occasion and the interest of my listeners that inspired whatever was said.”

“I think not.  But in any case, it is not germane to the matter.  Suffice it to say that I was struck forcibly by the magnitude of the error that I had made, for it was as impossible for me, as it was for the Senate, to hear you speak to such purpose and yet believe you to be without principles.  I have since become strongly disposed, to reclaim as great a part as I can of the intimacy that our political differences had so long kept in germ.

“And so with that understood, it must be clear that I entertain the strongest possible animus against your absenting yourself from our project and the society of New York, and flinging yourself into a mire of military and political confusion that seems certain to end in your depriving me of your acquaintance, not merely in the short term, but permanently, through some foreseeable disaster.”

There was clearly much that Hamilton was not saying.  Burr was glad of it. 

“The greater the admiration, the greater the desire to do hurt,” he summed up.  He regarded Hamilton thoughtfully.  “A sentiment with which I can sympathise.”

Hamilton’s brows drew together slightly, and Burr sighed and rubbed his temples.  He could feel a familiar ache starting to develop.  

“We are both soldiers, Hamilton.  There is no reward without risk.  I ask that you at least look at my plans before you dismiss them.  If you do not wish to be involved…” he stared at the opposite wall for a moment, now understanding the only currency he could offer, then blew out his breath with decision, “I will give up the western project.”  He clenched his jaw at the thought, of not going down to New Orleans, not commanding troops, not going into battle again, leaving the tempting ripe apple that was Mexico on the tree… the tension started a pounding in his head and he forced himself to relax.  “I cannot do both without your aid.  Perhaps it would be for the best,” he told himself as his mind raced.  “It would be easier as the legal venture of the executive.  But we will need something to offer the South when we remove their slaves.”

“Another intractable problem,” Hamilton agreed.  “Something similar to the Pennsylvania Act might be passed, but there would also be years in which it might be repealed without ever having practical effect, or freeing so much as one Negro.”  He took a sip of his wine and broke off another chunk of bread.  Burr kept his eyes up, on his friend’s face, beginning to wish he hadn’t eaten those oysters.

“I have some avenues of action I should like to propose to you, but I think they must await another day.  First we must agree on the western venture.”

Hamilton sighed.  “Will you, then, show me the plans?” he conceded, pushing his untouched plate to one side and rising, bread in hand.

“Come.”  Burr led him back into his parlour/study and unrolled the maps he had placed ready earlier, while Hamilton chewed and swallowed.  Brushing breadcrumbs from his fingers, Hamilton examined the maps closely as Burr pointed out the believed locations of mines and forts, and potential access routes.  His questions were perceptive, his extensive experience with military logistics revealing weaknesses Burr had not considered, but also offering better solutions to some of the difficulties he had foreseen.  Burr’s head pounded, slightly out of rhythm with his pulse, as he made mental note of the changes.

“You would need naval support…” Hamilton said, frowning as he examined the coast to the west of New Orleans.

“Merry is willing to supply vessels,” Burr said shortly.  “He has sent to Westminster.”

“I mislike involving a foreign power.”

“As do I, but I can hardly commandeer the navy.”

“How far up is the Washita navigable?”

“Unknown.”  Speaking caused pain to spike between his temples, but Burr forced himself to explain further.  “Wilkinson has sent out expeditions, ostensibly for the President’s information; we will have better maps soon.”

“It is not a bad plan,” Hamilton finally acknowledged, slowly.  “But… no, I said I should think it over, and that I shall do.  You understand, Colo- Aaron, it is not your ability that I distrust.”

“I know.”  Burr rubbed his forehead and swallowed down a wave of nausea.  “I have written plans, but I should prefer it if they did not go out of this room.”

“You will recall that I have some experience of handling confidential documents.  You need not fear that they shall escape my hands.”

“As you will,” Burr capitulated, increasingly impatient for the interview to end.

At that, Hamilton looked up from the map, frowning.  “You do not look well.  One of your headaches?”

Burr made an impatient gesture.  “This is more important.”

“In that case I have, I think, enough understanding to make a determination.  If you will allow me to engage to call upon you again tomorrow?”

“Of course.”  Burr fought through the pain coalescing behind his temples to remember his engagements.  “At three?”

“At three.”  Hamilton was looking at him with concern; Burr met his gaze politely.  “Can I be of service?  Should I call someone to assist you?”

“I have no wish to trouble you.  I have everything I need.”

“Then I shall allow you to rest.  I sincerely hope your indisposition is but passing.”  Hamilton clasped his hand briefly.  “Good evening, Aaron.”

His friend departed with a speed that in other circumstances might have been impolite, leaving Burr thankfully free to immediately snuff out the candles, vomit up what little he had eaten, and fall upon his bed fully clothed.  As agony ballooned in his skull, he tried to imagine how he could break the news of his betrayal to Wilkinson, if he was not to go south after all.  The thought was almost worse than the migraine.

Chapter Text

Hamilton did not, of course, require any time to make a determination on Burr’s plan. 

Strategically, it was more or less brilliant. 

It was too early to go to Burr’s lodgings, but impossible to stay cooped up in his own.  Hamilton swept on his topcoat and went out to pace. 

He had never had much to do with Burr during the war.  Their paths had crossed only in the chaos of New York and, later, Monmouth.  Washington had thought Burr a useful officer, but untrustworthy; and remembering his high-handed assumption of command at Bunker’s Hill in the retreat, Hamilton had not disagreed.

That he and Burr had both thought it proper for officers to study strategy, they had only discovered after the war, and they had whiled away the odd evening in New York discussing the great battles of antiquity over drinks.  They had not discussed the Revolutionary War itself since Burr had voiced his opinion of some of Washington’s tactics and Hamilton had perforce leaped to his mentor’s defence.

He was older now than Washington had been at the start of the war.  That was a strange thought.

Coming to the end of the pavement he turned to walk back the other way.  The slush had melted and the day was dry, if dull and cold from the grey clouds that clogged the sky above. 

To his surprise, he had to admit that Burr’s plan had a high chance of success.  With Spain distracted by the rebels, a small force, moving swiftly and properly targeted, could prise much of Mexico from its fingers.

Except that this military masterpiece was built on a logistical and administrative foundation of porridge.

Hamilton struck his forehead as he thought about Burr’s confident explanations last night, facts and calculations at his fingertips.  It wasn't that he was wrong, it was just that overconfidence ran through every assumption like base metal through counterfeit coin.  The men of Kentucky would flock to the scheme.  Merry would talk his government into providing ships.  The British ships would trustingly put themselves under Burr’s command.  There would be war with Spain to legitimise the entire enterprise.  Wilkinson could be trusted…

Hamilton reached the cross street and turned back again.

Burr was not a fool.  Underhanded, sometimes, yes.  Altering the Manhattan Company charter, courting Tammany Hall, making lists of voters to convince; they were all acts Hamilton still disdained as unworthy of his friend.  But they had been soundly planned and successful.  This plan with Wilkinson? It was even more of a will o’ the wisp than it had been years ago when Wilkinson had brought it to Hamilton.  Why was Burr doing this?  Money?  Military glory?  Ambition?  Whatever the reason, its hooks had embedded themselves deeply enough in him to blind him to practicality.

If you do not wish to be involved I will give up the western project.

Unlikely.

Hamilton stared unseeingly for a moment at the horses and coaches passing in front of him, then whirled and turned back on himself again, snapping his fingers.

There was no man alive who could simply give up a thing he desired so wantonly and rashly.  Hamilton himself had paid off that cur Reynolds rather than give up Maria.  (He still didn’t know how long Burr had known and said nothing.)  Burr might burn his plans, but they would still exist in his meticulous mind.  He would pick over them and resent Hamilton for preventing him.  No man could do otherwise.

I cannot do both without your aid.  

He was more right than he knew.  And now that Hamilton knew the flaws in Burr’s plans it was tempting, very tempting, to see if they could be corrected.

***

The Enquirer, Richmond, April 1805

…

Extracts of letters from William Dunbar, Esquire to General Wilkinson

The Washita river is nearly parallel to the Mississippi, and about 25 miles from it as high as the Post of Washita.  The hot springs are numerous, and we are not acquainted with any other springs in America to be compared with those in respect to temperature.  By analysis the water contains lime and a small portion of iron; it is a very agreeable tasted water either hot or cold.  In the temperature of 130 F I found both vegetable and animal life. 

We have taken courses and distances all the way from the mouth of the Red River to the hot springs, upwards of 500 miles. 

News from New Orleans

From hearsay, which I did not credit, I having wounded a Turkey Buzzard, stuck a pin in each of his eyes, and was much surprised on perceiving the day after, that his sight was as good as ever…

***

It was actually two days before Hamilton was able to see Burr again, having been met at the appointed time with the news that Burr was incapacitated by his headache.  He winced inwardly in sympathy, but it was not entirely unwelcome news; it gave him more time to develop the outline of his failsafes.

When he called again he was welcomed into a surprisingly dim study.  A glance showed him that the curtains were partly drawn across the window, undulating gently in the cold draught that curled in along the bottom of the raised sash.  The room smelled faintly of rain, street smells, tobacco and toast.

“Hamilton,” Burr welcomed him with a clasp of one hand.  He still looked almost as bloodless as he had at the close of their previous meeting, and though his black hair was pulled severely back and neatly gathered at the nape of his neck he had not bothered to have it powdered; the strands of silver running back from his temples were entirely natural.  His palm felt slightly tacky, and Hamilton resisted the urge to wipe his hand with his handkerchief.

“Aaron,” he said instead, keeping his voice low.  “If you are still suffering some indisposition, it is no burden upon me to return tomorrow.”

“No, thankyou Hamilton,” Burr replied, ushering him to a seat before the fire.  “I am quite well now, and I had rather we concluded our business.”

Hamilton had become painfully familiar with Burr’s ideas of ‘quite well’ during their work on the pamphlet together.  “Do you have the wherewithal for a mustard poultice?” he inquired as he sat down.  “I believe the application of a mixture of vinegar and lavender can also bring some relief.”

“I thank you, but there is no need to trouble yourself.”  Dark eyes regarded him.  “And are you well, Mr Hamilton?”

“Just Hamilton, please.”

“Of course.”  Burr closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed the back of his neck, confirming Hamilton’s suspicions about his current level of acuity.

“As well as I ever am,” he answered honestly.  “I confess I am not looking forward to the return to New York in the stage.”  He smiled at Burr.  “Your malady has at least put off that horror by a day, for which I thank you.”

Burr also smiled slightly, and reached for a cup on the table beside him before suddenly pausing.  “Can I offer you something to drink?  Tea?  Wine?  Or I believe I smelled coffee roasting earlier, if you would prefer.”

“No, I am quite comfortable,” Hamilton demurred.

Burr lifted the steaming cup and sipped from it.  Faint sounds of horses’ hooves and conversation seeped in from outside. 

“I have the papers set out, if there is anything more you wish to examine,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

“No.”  Hamilton leaned forward.  “I still believe this plan to be flawed,” he said frankly, “And I do not trust General Wilkinson.  However I do also see many potential advantages.  In our last conversation you asked me to elucidate them, so I now shall; that way you will see that I have considered matters in as full a light as you would wish.”

Burr was regarding him intently, a faint vertical line between his brows. He coughed against the back of his wrist, the lines around his eyes deepening briefly, then nodded slightly.  Hamilton continued.

“Success would adhere to our nation the country of Mexico, which is rich in natural resources, and in particular silver, that can be mined in quantities that rival those from Potosí.  The advantages of such an increase in both land and wealth do not need to be detailed, however I deem it appropriate to explicitly remark upon the two that are of most interest to our future proceedings; the first being the interest of the southern states in additional land, in a location together with workers that can break and farm it, and the second being that a full treasury would provide a means, were it considered desirable, to provide some compensation to the owners of slaves upon their emancipation, thus making the blow to the agricultural economies less severe and their beneficiaries more amenable.”

He paused briefly, looking at Burr, whose gaze seemed to be focused somewhere beyond him.  Then he blinked and was looking at Hamilton again.  “Yes,” was all he said.  Hamilton wished Burr’s eyes weren’t so dark, or that the light were better; he couldn’t tell whether his pupils were showing the constriction characteristic of laudanum use.

Part of him wished his friend would rest as he clearly ought to.  Part of him was grateful that Burr was less astute than usual.

“The liberation of those enslaved by the occupying Spanish is a moral good too obvious to require further discussion,” he continued.  “To move on to the advantages that more personally concern our project; the man who led a force into Mexico and delivered those in bondage, not to mention adhered to our nation such a valuable asset replete with both men and resources, would be widely lauded.  If he were also a man of known legal and political talents, it would seem natural to many that he should be recommended to a position of leadership, and few indeed would be those who sought to act the Canute against the rising tide of the general mass.”  He hesitated, his own words feeling sour in his mouth.  “Our leaders should not be so chosen by the floating passions of the multitude,” he parenthesised.  “It is a danger against which I have always warned.  It concerns me deeply that a man could, in all probability, attain a position of true influence based upon naught but a flouting of authority and some good fortune in the tides of battle.”

He paused briefly to leave space for a sarcastic remark from Burr, but Burr simply inclined his head and waited for him to continue. 

Hamilton stood up and began to pace.  “There accrue other advantages to our nation, but these are the main ones that concern us.  They apply only if the expedition succeeds.  However it can be argued - and I am sure you would so argue - that even the attempt may have value. 

“Firstly, we have few contacts in the southern or western states, and are little known there except by what reputation is carried by newspapers.  In visiting, you would inevitably make friends, facilitators who could agitate on your behalf in your absence and send information that is pertinent, and timely, about events of import and rumours of concern.  Secondly, you would be able to personally oversee the creation of those… political mechanisms… by which you extend your party and create them of like mind to yourself.”

The Democratic-Republican clubs were an underhanded way to operate.  Men's allegiance should be freely chosen, their party created by the coming together of like minds of high ability rather than a mob swayed by the influential.  It sickened Hamilton that the Republicans were so willing to court the multitude, and that his own Federalist ideals suffered for it.

Burr finished the cooling liquid in his cup.  “That is not so simply done as you imagine,” he observed. 

Hamilton waved a hand.  “I am sure.  But had you no intention of it?”

Burr just met his gaze.  “Go on.”

“Thirdly, by merely passing through with open eyes and ears, you would apprise yourself of the concerns of those states, further from the capital, in raw and unfiltered form, which must be a valuable resource in the formation of policies that will cause them weal, or at least convince them that the divide between north and south is not so great that you must wish them ill.”

“You expect a great deal,” Burr murmured.

“You expect a great deal from me, Aaron,” Hamilton pointed out. 

“I am willing to speak with Merry,” he continued.  “I shall work with whomever you appoint - Van Ness I suppose - to coordinate our various political strategies until your return.  And I shall oppose whatever slanders your enemies seek to spread about you-” he cut Burr off with a gesture as he began to protest, “In line with the principles we published together, but you must know, as a soldier, that it is impossible, without engaging in combat, to gain victory in battle. 

“But I still have the gravest doubts about the wisdom of this plan.  Should all go ill, I shall be as much a principal as you; I stand or fall by your actions.”

“You know I shall guard your honour no less tenderly than my own,” Burr interposed, looking up to meet his eyes steadily.

“That is not perhaps as reassuring as you intend,” Hamilton teased gently.  To his surprise Burr dropped his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck again.

“I had expected you to refuse.”

“I do have some conditions.”

“Go on.”  Burr glanced up at him briefly before reaching for the side table, pausing in obvious confusion, then looking about the floor by his feet and half-rising to check behind the cushion of his armchair.

“What are you looking for?”

“Cigar box.”

“On the mantlepiece,” Hamilton gestured, and waited a moment while Burr extracted one of the cigars and reseated himself, not quite singeing his cuff in the process of lighting the cigar from the fire.  Hamilton twitched with the effort of not intervening.

“Your pardon,” Burr apologised as he returned his full attention to Hamilton.  He closed his eyes a moment, his lashes very black against the slightly bruised and puffy skin beneath.  “You were specifying the price of your assistance.”

Hamilton started pacing again.  “Firstly,” he ticked off on his fingers, “You will commit to nothing irreversible until London confirms Merry’s agreement to supply naval vessels.”

“I have been wondering,” Burr began thoughtfully; his eyes widened fractionally as Hamilton made an emphatic gesture of negation.

“I do not even desire to know what you have been wondering, Colo- Aaron.  This scheme is complex and chancy enough as it is.  I learned the necessity of naval support for coastal actions during the war; ships of the necessary quality can only reasonably be supplied by the British navy or our own; it would be neither legal nor ethical to suborn American vessels in the case of war against Spain; therefore we need the British aid, and cannot proceed without it.  If the ships cannot be had, you must cease the project.”

“You are very passionate.”

“I am reluctant to abet in this harebrained scheme at all.”

Burr took a long mouthful of smoke, then breathed it out again to make coils in the air currents.  “Very well,” he agreed neutrally, as Hamilton had known he must if pushed.  Hamilton somehow managed not to smile in triumph.  There was his brake, should he need it.

“Secondly, and likewise, if war with Spain does not break out you will do nothing.”

“Will I not,” Burr said dangerously.

Hamilton flung himself into his chair.  “I do not seek to insult you, or to command you as though I were your superior officer,” he said, not quite managing a conciliatory tone.

“Mm-hmm.”  Burr had raised one elegant eyebrow.

“But without an existing war, Aaron, an expedition into Mexico would be nothing but simple crime.  We should be rousing a great power into fury against our nation; we could not expect anything but a retaliation that brought bayonets and cannon to our shores, blood in the streets of New Orleans.  Our enemies might accuse us even of levying war against the United States, by some tortured construction of those terms; if not, still it would be a vile and calumnious act that strikes at the very heart of the liberty, peace and prosperity for which we both have put our bodies and souls at hazard.  I take no liberties in assuming those are still your values.”

Burr tapped the ash from his cigar into the fire.  “I had not intended you to apprehend that I would essay an invasion without the provocation of war,” he said coolly.

“And what else is there that is worthwhile?” Hamilton threw up his hands frustratedly.  “Everything you do in the southwest comes with cost , Aaron.  At the worst your life,” and there was an unpleasant twisting in his gut at that thought, “But at the least, time and labour that are essential to building alliances and negotiating for emancipation.  These are not things to which you can devote only a part of your energies.  I had apprehended, when we spoke at Bobby’s dinner, that you proceeded in our alliance with as much fervour as I.  Was I deceived?”

Burr considered him, expression as unreadable as ever. “You distress yourself unnecessarily,” he said at last.  “If you feel you need my oath to assure yourself I will commit no treason against my country, you have it.”

Burr’s tone was dry, but Hamilton had the sense that he was missing something.  Unable to determine what, he pushed the thought aside for later and carried on.

“And thirdly… the third is merely a request to your own good judgement, which I entrust, without further assurance or security, to your honour alone.

“It is usually considered, rightly, an act of virtue to trust one’s friends.  How indeed could it be otherwise, for no man will deliberately unburden his heart to those of whose loyalty and affection he has any doubt.  And yet it does happen that even those who seem most worthy of that confidence, who enter into all our most intimate counsels, may yet prove, to our infinite pains, rotten at the core when tried.  I speak, as you know, not from some abstract principle, but from personal experience that caused me great losses, both financially and in the eyes of the world.

“In this enterprise, you place yourself in the hands of General Wilkinson.  He is the final arbiter of when and whether the Spanish incursions become worthy of reprisal, he supplies your guarantees with the militias; if he prove false, he can do you - do both of us, now - a great deal of injury.  I shall not ask you not to trust your friend; but I can and do ask you, insure against the possibility that he chooses to pursue a safer course at our cost.”

Burr closed his eyes and took a long draw from his cigar, before coughing out most of the smoke.  He flicked the end into the fire and rubbed his temples.

“Does smoking tobacco always cause you such paroxysms?” Hamilton could not prevent himself asking.

“Not always.”  Burr’s voice was a little hoarse again.  “Ça s'améliore.”

“Perhaps you should consider refraining, at least until the seasonal air is less provoking?”

Burr’s lips curved in a small, oddly sweet smile.  “Ah, but I enjoy the flavour.”

As quickly as it had come, the smile vanished.  He met Hamilton’s eyes.  “Wilkinson will be enmeshed in the project too thoroughly to disown it.”

Hamilton considered protesting further, but he already had the emergency leverage he needed, almost without argument.  He nodded.  “I will trust you in this, without request of further surety.”  He stood again, feeling restless.  “You shall give me letters of introduction to your agents?”

“I have them already written.”  Burr rose as well and went across to the desk, where a great mass of papers fluttered in the draught from the window, pinned beneath various impromptu paperweights.  Under a silver paper knife was a sheaf of sealed letters, addressed in a fluid scrawl even less legible than usual.  He picked up the letters, slender fingers fumbling briefly as he removed a few extraneous papers caught up with them, and offered them to Hamilton.  Hamilton accepted the letters, and leafed quickly through them to check for the presence of the names he expected.  

“Is there anything else that you require?” Burr inquired with reflexive courtesy.

“Is there some secure way that we can communicate?” Hamilton tried to think back to his days during the war and after, the fragments he had heard of the Culper Ring.

“Ah, my apologies.  I had meant to prepare you a cipher key.” Burr stared into the distance for a moment.  A few short strands of hair had escaped his queue to curl damply on the pale skin beneath his ear.   “When do you leave Washington's city?”

“I had intended, the day after tomorrow.”

“I shall call upon you with it tomorrow, then,” Burr decided.  He glanced at his pocket watch.  “We also need to discuss how we are to levy enough change in the general will to make some species of manumission Act practicable.  I suggest…”

“What hour is it?” Hamilton interrupted.  Burr’s current distraction had been useful in affixing his own strings to the Mexico project, but he wanted his friend’s full, formidable intellect engaged when formulating their anti-slavery strategy.

“It lacks a little to four.”

“We must pursue this tomorrow, or in our correspondence.  I am engaged to dine shortly,” Hamilton exaggerated smoothly.

“Well, and so am I,” Burr arrested the gesture he had begun towards his bookshelf and instead leaned back against the desk, his back to the window. “I do hope your dinner company is as agreeable as mine.”

Hamilton’s mood abruptly soured at the implication; a distasteful reminder of Burr’s vices.  “The honourable Mr Marshall is hardly to be compared to some woman of low virtue,” he said stiffly.  “Especially as I will be seeking to persuade him of your merit and integrity.”  He busied himself tapping the edges of the letters neatly together and tucking them into his pocketbook.

Burr was simply looking at him with one raised eyebrow.  Then he rubbed the back of his neck again and collected himself.  “You are quite right, there is no comparison,” he said dryly, before pushing himself off the desk and walking Hamilton to the door.  “Thankyou, Ge- Hamilton.  You shall not regret the choice you have made.  I will do all in my power to make it so.”

“I know.  Good afternoon, Aaron.”  And Hamilton decided not to comment that he must now also do all in his power; to get Burr back to Washington, preferably triumphant, but at all events alive.

Chapter Text

The Commonwealth, Pittsburgh, March 1805

The Pittsburgh Democratic-Republican Club was last night favoured by a visit from Col. Burr, lately Vice-President and survivor of a duel against the well-known prominent Federalist Gen. Hamilton.  In an amusing incident, Col. Burr, seeking to observe the proceedings privily, took a seat at the rear of the meeting and was not known until a gentleman, lately returned from Washington, recognised in him the President of the Senate whom he had admired during the late impeachment trial of Mr. Chase.

Upon Col. Burr’s discovery those present would not permit him to return to the role of disinterested observer, but instead he was persuaded to join in the debate then under way concerning the court case of Mr. Fries in 1799.  Despite his disadvantages in being unprepared to be so called upon, Col. Burr showed such clarity in argument and command of the precedents there used that his disposal of the former Sedition Act was unanimously declared to have carried the evening.

***

It had been several months now, but Eliza still felt a gap in her life.  Her father had always been there, like the earth beneath her feet.  And though of course she had known he could not live forever, except in Christ, it had still somehow been a shock when that solid earth had reverted to dust and ashes.

She was no stranger to grief, not after Philip, or Peggy, or her mother.  But it was the first time Alexander had not been at her side, nor she at his.

“Eliza?” Jannetje’s voice cut into her reverie.

“Oh, I am sorry, Jannetje,” she said apologetically.  “I was woolgathering.”

“Not entirely inappropriate,” Jannetje said with a gently teasing smile over the knitting needles in her lap.  “If you could woolgather in military blue, I should declare it perfectly delightful.”

“Stockings,” Eliza said with a slight shake of her head.  “I don't know how you do it, Jannetje.  All that labour, and then they go all to holes in less time than it takes to knit them.”

“But I enjoy the making.” Jannetje took up her needles again, not even glancing down as the fine ivory lengths twisted precisely in her fingers.  “Just as much as you enjoy your children.”

“All mothers enjoy their children,” Eliza pointed out as she sifted through her rag-bag for something suitable to patch little Phil’s night shirt.  He would need a new one soon, he was growing up so fast.  They always did.  The thought gave her a familiar pang for the child who had entered the adult world too soon, too headlong and heedless, too like his father...

“I didn’t just mean the children you gave birth to.  Whose was the new face I saw when the youngest were running through the corridors this morning?”

Eliza made a small moue of displeasure at the memory of their disobedience, but she didn’t really mean it.  “An orphan who needs a home, at least for a little while.”

“And that is exactly what I mean.  They are quite a handful for you, Eliza.”

Jannetje was being quite transparent, and Eliza smiled at her.  “You have something on your mind.  Why not just tell me what it is?”

“There is a Negro lass lately come to New York from the south,” and Eliza knew what that meant.  “Bobby can defend her, of course,” Jannetje continued, “but she has no family here, nor means; nor, I understand, skills or education.  But she likes children.  I thought of you.”

If Alexander had been here she would already have known of this woman; he was always at the heart of Manumission Society doings.  But his absence was no barrier to her Christian conscience.

“We will try her,” she said decidedly.  “You are right, a help with the young ones would be useful.  Especially…” she sighed, “if Alexander is to be away more often, again.” 

“Well, that would at least reduce the likelihood of more children,” Jannetje said mischievously. Eliza looked at her in horror and she tried to school her expression; after a moment Eliza felt herself start to laugh, still a little shocked.  But that was one of the reasons she loved Jannetje almost as much as Alexander loved Troup.

“You should not say such things,” she scolded half-heartedly.

“Oh, we are both married women here,” Jannetje dismissed cheerfully.  “We know where children come from.”

“Speaking of which,” Eliza speedily changed the subject, “I doubt I will be able to make the next meeting of the Poor Widows society; I expect Alexander back any day, and he is often unwell after long journeys.  But I have some suggestions for receiving the first approaches of those newly in need; if I write down my ideas, would you speak them for me?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Jannetje demurred with a slight blush.  “But I am engaged to sit with Susan tomorrow, and she might be willing?  If it cannot wait?”

“I had thought she was still in Albany…”

As Eliza carefully rearranged her responsibilities to accommodate her husband’s needs, she scolded herself for feeling a little resentful.  She had missed her Alexander so much, and wanted him back with her so badly; it was only proper that that came at the cost of once again putting her own small projects aside to help with his.

***

Burr skilfully worked the room.

Pittsburgh was something betwixt and between; not close enough to the coast to benefit from the new ideas, fashions and people constantly coming from Europe, but too well established to be much different from the cities he knew.  In a place where the newspaper was still running the transcripts from Chase’s trial more than a month after its end, a duelling politician from New York was a novelty much in demand, and he could use that.

The first part of that evening's entertainment had been a pleasant enough diversion; dancing provided ample opportunity to enjoy the company of women, though none here had the wit or education of the ladies he had courted back in New England.  But once the evening had devolved into card playing it was time for the serious business of sounding out potential allies.

Burr picked up his hand and evaluated it with a glance.  Three trumps, but low; the spades might run, depending on the card distribution; an annoying low singleton diamond; decent clubs.  He led one of the lower spades and hoped his partner would pick up on his hint.

“I intend to go all the way to New Orleans,” he resumed the previous conversation.  “The west is the newest part of our new nation; if anywhere most thrives the spirit of liberty and daring that characterises our country, I expect it is along the Mississippi.”

“Liberty and daring?  Not with the Spanish breathing down our necks, sir,” the man to his right commented, exceedingly helpfully, as he played the Ace and took the trick.  Burr automatically made a mental note of where play suggested the other honours might lie as he followed the lead with his pointless diamond, glad to be getting rid of it early and innocuously.

“Is there much interest, in Ohio, in goings-on to the south?” he asked in an apparent tone of idle curiosity as the game proceeded.

“Unless great roads be built, Colonel Burr, the Ohio and Mississippi are the very veins of our state,” the man informed him, as he had already been informed several times this evening, and more often before that; every time he had found an innocuous way to introduce the subject in conversation.  “The Spanish threat on the very threshold of New Orleans is iniquitous.”

“Not so,” the man to his left disagreed as Burr considered whether to play his King now or hope to outwait the Queen he suspected was held on his left.  “New Orleans is far distant, and the mainstay of our trade is to our neighbouring states, and to the East.  You will have seen yourself, Colonel Burr, how good is the access between here and Washington.”

He played low, and his partner unexpectedly covered with the Queen and led back the nine of hearts; an elegant way to draw their opponents’ trumps.  Burr raised an eyebrow at her and she smiled at him confidently.

“I prefer to leave seeing the road to my driver,” he responded dryly.  “The journey was not onerous, though, especially with such a pleasant destination.”  He allowed himself to catch his partner’s eyes oh-so-briefly before he continued addressing the gentleman who had just taken the trump truck with his Ace.  “Unfortunately the other end of the road is at present far less congenial.”  He waited to see if anyone took that bait.

By the end of the rubber he had won a dollar and twenty cents and engaged himself for later conversations of very different natures with each of his opponents.  He excused himself and accepted a glass of wine as he moved to the edges of the room with the others who were waiting to change partners, or merely taking a break from play.  From this perspective he could observe who spoke with whom, who gathered an audience, who found themselves on the peripheries.

Who approached a fallen ex-Vice President, and who did not.

“I will not conceal that the President has little love for me,” he replied collectedly, for the third time that evening, “since Mr Jefferson has made little effort to do so.  But I am unaware that I have given any ground for his animadversions in my conduct of those duties that the public confidence reposed in me.”

Honesty.  A measured criticism of the administration without the appearance of overt bitterness.  Straightforwardly polite behaviour.

“I have seen you lauded in the Federalist press for your conduct in the impeachment case,” one of the taller gentlemen said, a little snidely.

“Indeed?” Burr said coolly with a slight lift of one eyebrow.  “I do not, myself, read the Federalist press.”  The others in the group chuckled at the insinuation as the tall man flushed.  Having made his point, Burr allowed his tone to warm.  “I conceive that I showed only a neutrality proper to proceedings, but should be ashamed to usurp the right of interested parties to make their own determination from the transcripts.”

“Of course.” The tall man looked a little embarrassed, so Burr did not press the point.

“And yet you did publish a pamphlet with General Hamilton, did you not?” one of the others in the group asked.

That damned pamphlet.

Burr shrugged.  “The behaviour proper to gentlemen and statesmen is not a subject on which Democrats and Federalists disagree,” he said simply, then gave a slight smile.  “And should the general government seek to legislate it, I expect we shall, Democrats and Federalists, all find ourselves united in opposition.”  General appreciation of this sally moved the conversation on from the momentary awkwardness.  “As we must surely be to the depredations of the Spanish on our borders,” he added, watching the faces around him for their reactions.

By the time the party broke up he had made the positive acquaintance of numerous gentlemen, and felt thoroughly enervated.

“Colonel Burr!”

He turned at the unexpected address and inclined his head politely to his whist partner from earlier.  “Milady of the hearts,” he said gravely.

She smiled, appreciating the openly playful flattery.  “I believe we travel in the same direction, Colonel; might I offer the convenience of my carriage?”

Burr’s fatigue dissipated.  “Je vous remercie.”  Then, seeing her look of confusion, “Thankyou; you are generous to a stray adrift in your city.  You are not conversant with French?”  He courteously offered his arm, and she laid one cool hand on his sleeve.

“I am not, sir, never having had the opportunity.”

He handed her up into the carriage and stepped up easily after.  “It is my opinion that everyone should have some understanding of French,” he said as the carriage shuddered on the cobbles.  “So many interesting and educational books are published in that language.  I expect to be in Pittsburgh for another week or two, if you are interested in learning a little?”

“That is an exceedingly generous return for a small kindness,” she said with a slightly teasing expression, and his heart beat a little more quickly.

“I hope, madam, that the transaction would be highly agreeable to us both.”  He caught her eyes and held them with his own for just a moment longer than was entirely usual.  “When may I call upon you?”

“If you are leaving soon we should make good use of the time.  Perhaps in the afternoon tomorrow?”

Burr smiled and leaned across the carriage to lift the lady’s hand and press a courteous kiss to her fingers.  “Then I consider myself engaged.”

***

The Enquirer, Richmond, April 1805

We have of late heard clamour of a third party, but are encouraged by the knowledge that in this state there has been, and can be, no separation between Republicans upon questions of principle.

If such a party should ever become established it would necessarily be composed of individuals purely in search of personal aggrandisement.  Men of sound morality and elevated honour are indissolubly attached to one or another of the great parties that have alternately presided over administration of our affairs.

The specious name of moderation may be used to cover the most dark and desperate designs, and in its implication of indifference to principle it invites every profligate adventurer.  Unnatural coalitions and the indecency of betraying old friends to pursue new connections would speedily terminate in ruin.  The insubstantial pageantry of power could never be united into a firm, harmonious and consolidated body, far less one able to bear public trust without dissolution.

An American Citizen

***

Normally Peggy would have sent Peter on an errand like this, with his youthful legs, if only to get his exuberant energy out from underfoot.  But Master Burr’s instructions had been very definite, and it was not actually unpleasant to take a walk on this bright spring day, albeit one where the wind swept in cold and blustery from the sea.

So it was she herself who tapped at the door of the office, and before long she was being shown into a small, dark room lined with books and ledgers, much like Master Burr’s room in his own law offices.  Mr Hamilton was bent over his desk, scratching frantically at a paper; after a moment he made a decisive dot, dropped the quill in the inkwell, and looked up.

“Mistress Gartin?”

“I bear a letter from Mr Williamson, sir.  Master Burr gave orders that any we received here should be brought to you.”

Mr Hamilton leaned back a little in his chair, and held out his hand for the letter.  She handed it to him, careful not to accidentally touch him, but he made no move to open it.  “And who is Mr Williamson?”

“A friend of Master Burr’s, currently in England.”  Peggy suspected rather more than that, but she didn’t know how much she ought to tell this sometimes-friend, sometimes-enemy, who was looking at her with a disconcertingly piercing gaze over his aquiline nose.

“Ah.”  That seemed to mean something to Mr Hamilton.  He began to break the seal of the letter, then paused, placed it on the desk instead, and looked up at her.  “Please sit down, Mistress Gartin.”

She had heard that Mr Hamilton was an abolitionist.  He probably meant well.  Nevertheless… “I'm quite comfortable standing, sir,” she said. 

“However I am not comfortable looking up at you,” Mr Hamilton said, “and I have been desirous of conversation with you for some time now.  Please do sit.”

She obediently perched on the edge of the chair, feeling suddenly nervous.  It was rarely good news when a white man noticed a black woman, though she had never been pretty and was no longer young. 

“You are a slave belonging to Colonel Burr, are you not?” he asked, though after all this time he must surely know. 

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been in his household?”

She thought back.  “It must be more than twenty years, sir,” she said. “Before that I was with Master and Mistress Prevost.”

“What sort of duties do you perform for Colonel Burr?”

These were intrusive questions, and the sort that a man might ask if he were considering a purchase. 

“I am his housekeeper, sir.”  Would Master Burr sell her, if asked?  She believed not.  But there was a sudden tremulous uncertainty in her belly, and the thought made her angry.

“How did you know to bring this letter to me?  Did Mr Burr give instructions when he left New York?”  There was a suspicious edge to Mr Hamilton’s voice, and she began to wonder whether this might not be about something else entirely.

“No, sir.  He wrote to me, just a matter of weeks ago.”

“He wrote to you?”  Mr Hamilton looked astonished.  Peggy lowered her eyes for a moment, appropriately demure in case Mr Hamilton should disapprove of her accomplishments.  “You can read?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And write?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you come to learn?”

That was none of his business.  But it was not something Master Burr concealed.  “Master Burr had us all taught, sir.  He insists that anyone in his household should be able to read and write, at the very least.”

Mr Hamilton looked utterly astonished for a moment and then started to chuckle.  “Of course he does,” he said in an oddly fond tone.  “And has he insisted that you learn Latin and French as well?”

That did not sound like a serious question, and for a moment Peggy warmed to Mr Hamilton, despite the duel, despite all the times before when Master Burr had tossed a newspaper or letter aside with a droll comment that made light of the latest slanders against him.  She answered it anyway.  “No, sir.  Just a little geography, history and religion.  And I am trying now to better my arithmetic.”

Mr Hamilton leaned forwards and steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk.

“Has Burr ever spoken to you about freedom?”

She felt lightning race along her nerves.  This was a dangerous conversation.  She looked down at her hands, grounding herself in the sight of her calloused black fingers clasped nearly over the bleached cream of her apron.  “No, sir.”  She had read the will.  Some discreet questions, over the long winter, had led her to the understanding that its terms implied her freedom.  But it did not say, in so many words, that she would be a free woman on Master Burr’s death.  The others certainly wouldn’t.  And he had never spoken to any of them about it any of it.

“Would you like to be free?”

“No, sir.  I am happy as I am, sir.”  As if any slave could give a genuine answer to that question.

“I am not making an attempt to entrap you, Mistress Gartin,” Mr Hamilton said gently.  “I am secretary of the New York Manumission Society, and Colonel Burr and I are currently engaged together in a project to bring freedom to negroes throughout the States.  You will understand, given that, why it is a matter of some interest to me that he should have spoken for universal emancipation in the New York Assembly, and yet keeps you in bondage.”

“I wouldn't know, sir,” Peggy lied.

“You are clearly an intelligent woman, Mistress Gartin. If ever you have need, I hope you will apply to me, or to the society.”

“I understand, sir,” she said, with no intention of doing anything of the sort.  The law said she belonged to Master Burr as clearly as his horses did, and nothing would change that unless she ran far away from everything and everyone she knew.  And though she had of course considered it, once or twice, she had been younger then.

“Thankyou for bringing this letter,” Mr Hamilton said, and called his clerk to escort her out.  Almost as though she were a person.  And for a moment she detested herself for feeling grateful for it.

***

The Washington Intelligencer and National Enquirer, April 1805

How long will it be before we shall hear of Col. Burr being at the head of a revolution party on the western waters?

This bold, adventurous and ambitious individual, having failed in his incessant and invidious attempts to usurp power in the east, has now gone west; who among us has folly enough to imagine that he seeks there a vegetable retirement?  We hear rumours that this Cataline now attracts adventurous and enterprising young men from the Atlantic states; such defectors from good family and firm government are to become part of the “union of honest men” by which Col. Burr seeks to rise once more with the aid of the despised Federalists.  If these rumours be true, the government must act or face insurrection.

A Concerned Patriot

***

To Harman Blennerhassett, Marietta

Sir,

I regret that your absence has deprived me of the opportunity of improving our personal acquaintance.

Though you are surrounded here by all the comforts of life, I cannot but feel that your talents and acquirements seem to have destined you for a more active exercise of the mind, and since the first hour of our acquaintance, I have considered your seclusion as a fraud on society.  Your growing family, too, must demand of you superior advantages over those to be obtained in your pleasant but unpolished neighborhood.

There are, I project, a number of opportunities by the wise management of which you might enhance your fortune, and rise in the estimation of society.  With this view I pray to be informed of your intended movements the ensuing season, and in case you should visit Orleans, at what time, and at what port you may be expected on the Atlantic coast.

Some estimate of the views and temper of our Government may be formed from the proceedings of the House of Representatives, with closed doors. A copy of that part of their journal is sent for your amusement. Accept, dear sir, assurances of the great consideration and respect with which I am,

Yours obediently,

A. Burr

***

“You must write in his defence.”

“I?”

“My own efforts are bent towards the persuasion of my own faction.  Besides, I could write the most perfect letters in praise of Colonel Burr’s motives, but the arguments I would make, arising from my own principles and being alien to Republican sentiment, must fail of their mark.  I have great affection for my friend, but you know I consider his political allegiance, and yours, deluded at best; and nor will his party friends respect my words.  I may be able to assist with my own experience in knowing to what influence letters might be best sent, as an antidote against the poison now dripping from the fangs of an embittered executive, but they must be penned by a member of your own party.”

“You know he would forbid any such endeavour.”

“And he may remonstrate with us upon his return.  I am aware of the tenderness of his scruples - none more so, as you have good reason to know - but it does him no honour to remain silent while his character is traduced in the eyes of the world.  Nor does it do any honour to his friends to suffer it.”

“I agree.”

“Then you will write?”

“Well, I will try.”

Chapter Text

Representative John Adair had never expected to meet the ex-Vice President of the United States. Burr was supposed to be a political creature of the east; according to his enemies, a voluptuary of the most sophisticated dissipations.  And yet the formidable Burr seemed entirely at ease strolling with him through muddy streets, beneath a shared umbrella that was proving entirely inadequate against the soft drizzle of a mild Kentucky spring.

“All of this has been achieved since 1780?” Burr asked, his resonant tenor voice coming as a slight surprise from his diminutive frame.

Adair was also slightly surprised that the ex-Vice President knew the town’s founding date without telling.  “It may seem hard to credit,” he said, regarding the elegant wooden buildings they were walking past with some pride, “but such is the energy and industry of our people.”

“I would be glad of such brave company in a project I have in hand,” Burr commented.  “It can be of no doubt to any man that the state of our western borders is tenuous and unsatisfactory,” he began, and Adair’s mind leaped eagerly ahead.

“Ah!  Can it be that the government is finally turning its attention to Mexico?”

Burr turned his head and gave him an assessing look.  “Do I take it you would support such an enterprise, General Adair?”

“I have been urging it for some time, Colonel Burr.  This North American continent belongs by right to we who have created our nation here; it is insupportable that the Spanish not only occupy a territory as rich as Mexico, but interfere with our commerce and constantly make incursions onto our sovereign land.  It is past time for a reckoning, and I know Governor Wilkinson is similarly disposed.”

“There will be a need for local men, and finances,” Burr said matter-of-factly.  “It is hardly to be expected that there will be a great enthusiasm on the part of the federal government to fund a western venture.  But those involved can expect to profit ten-fold or more on their stake; and receive the reputation of heroes and patriots.”

“Do you lead this enterprise yourself, Colonel Burr?”  Adair knew that Burr had, like himself, fought in the Revolutionary War.  Casting a glance over his contemporary, he estimated that the man still looked vigorous enough for active service.  The water droplets that beaded his clothes and skin somehow failed to bedraggle him.

“There are other men of standing involved, but those I recruit shall serve under me,” Burr confirmed as they reached the open fields at the edge of town.  Between green pastures were smaller brown fields, feathered green with the new shoots of as-yet-unidentifiable crops.  “They will, of course, be joined to a core of trained soldiers, from both the army and from state militias.  Thus we can establish discipline more quickly.”

“I am glad you have considered that.”  Adair’s own experience against the Indians had taught him much about the difficulty of working with half-trained troops.  “When do you move?”

“Next spring, most likely.  The expedition must be manned and outfitted - and in secret, lest the Spanish learn our plans.”  Burr had turned to regard him fully, his expression inscrutable.

“That is why you have formed the Indiana Canal Company? As a smokescreen?”

One side of Burr’s mouth curved into a slightly ironic smile.  “Well, that and a genuine desire to invest on this side of the mountains.  I am also looking for land - for which cover, I am sure you have seen, my bona fides are well established.”

“I make it a principle not to believe the newspapers,” Adair waved away the reference to the stories about Burr’s profligacy and addiction to land speculation.  “I prefer to make my own judgements.”  And he was more impressed than he had expected to be by this collected, confident man.

“I impose on myself the same rule.”  Burr’s intent gaze made Adair feel favoured despite himself.  “May I expose my intentions to you further, General?”

“Please do.”

***

To Alexander Hamilton, New-York

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There is widespread disaffection with the administration, and no little enthusiasm for secession.  I have assumed you would prefer such talk discouraged.  23 2 - 23 - 15 9 - 23 10 - 19 14 21 7 16 - 23 16 - 11 11 24 4 2 - 16 1 - 9 15 8 24 19 24 - 8 11 - 25 10 18 15 - 23 16.

Anything you write me, address to New Orleans; I shall be there by June.

Yours,

A. Burr

***

To Anthony Merry, Washington’s city

I write to you as a friend to Colonel Burr; you shall see by the enclosed letter that I am, being deeply in his confidence, trusted with and charged to expedite those consequential matters that you discussed over the course of the winter.

I hope and trust that my involvement in this adventure, given my experience in the requisite areas of administration, offers a sufficient vouch, if any were needed, for the chances of an outcome as appealing to your government as to ours. 

Unfortunately my health, as well as my duty to my family, and to my clients, forbids me from travelling frequently to Washington.  If Colonel Burr has agreed with you a cipher, you may send me the key; or I shall send confidential communications by a messenger who is known to me personally and in whom I place my complete, and merited, trust.

Yr obd svt

Alexander Hamilton

***

They were late. 

Burr checked his watch again; he was due to dine with the officers of the local militia this evening, and must leave soon.  And yet still he lingered at the window without his hat or coat while his host awaited him downstairs. 

He had been explicitly clear that they were to arrive in Lexington the day before yesterday.  He had calculated the time the journey would take precisely, and advised when to leave.  One day might be explained by some minor accident; two, with this day making nearly a third, could only mean an avalanche in the mountains, or the coach swept away fording a swollen river.  He had done poorly to agree to tonight's engagement.  He should instead have bought a horse of good bloodstock and ridden it east at the best speed it could make.

“Colonel Burr?” There was a light tap on his door.  “We are awaiting you, sir.”

“I am coming.”  He put his head out of the open window one last time; wait, was that equipage familiar?  Were those mud-splashed horses, harnesses rubbing their sweat into lather, a set of matched bays? 

He snatched his hat and flew down the stairs, past the startled Adair and a man in uniform - “Captain,” he offered with a polite tip of his hat as he passed - and out into the street where the coach was drawing up. 

“Mes enfants!” he cried.

The door of the coach opened a crack.  Burr pulled it wide and wrapped his arms around the waist of the slender, dark-haired woman within, lifting her down to the ground, trying not to wince as the unaccustomed exertion pulled a muscle in his chest.  He kissed her on the cheek.  “Why were you not here two days ago as I instructed?”

“Don’t be angry, papa,” Theodosia begged as he held her at arm’s length to examine her; she was too pale, too gaunt, and his heart sank.  “It was not for want of trying.  But I was taken ill, and we were forced to stop two days while my indisposition passed.”

“I have met with a learned doctor here…” Burr began, then caught a flicker of white in the corner of his eye.  Quick as a whip he lunged to grab the escaping toddler before he could get any closer to the restive horses.  As young Aaron drew in breath to protest at being checked, Burr straightened up and tossed him into the air, catching him again with a grunt and another wince, and watching the little boy’s face crease into a joyous smile instead of a scowl.  “And well met again to you, Master Gampy,” he said with grave courtesy, holding the child for a moment longer to drink in the boy’s features, his Theodosia’s eyes peering out of that round, unformed face.  Then he placed the child in his nurse’s arms before turning to greet his son-in-law.

“Colonel Burr,” the young man said with careful courtesy, extending his hand. 

“Mr Alston,” Burr returned, clasping it firmly, without allowing himself to show any of the conflicted feelings he always endured on seeing this man.  Alston cherished and adored his Theodosia, but he should never have been permitted to marry her.  “I fear,” Burr continued, “I have placed myself in a position where I cannot but give offence, and must throw myself on the mercy of family as being obliged to overlook it.  I have a dinner engagement that I cannot honourably delay.”

Indeed, Adair and the captain of militia were coming down the steps now.  Burr took his daughter's hand in his own - too cold, too fragile - and gently drew her towards them, Alston accompanying them.

“Gentlemen.  General Adair, Captain,” he regretted not knowing the man’s name, but he had smoothed over greater awkwardnesses in the past.  “Allow me to introduce my son-in-law, Mr Alston, a gentleman of distinction from South Carolina.  And his wife, my dear daughter Theodosia.”  His eyes flicked across to the captain.  “I had expected them previously, but they were delayed on the road.”

“The fault is mine entirely,” Theodosia said with gracious apology, quickly apprehending the difficulty.  Burr felt himself warm with pride and love as his clever daughter effortlessly charmed the two men.  A short conversation later, she had smoothly relieved Adair of his obligations as host, releasing the three men to go to dinner while the Alston household settled itself into the house alone.

“Come to me the moment you wake,” Burr ordered Theodosia as he pressed his cheek against hers in a swift and reluctant farewell.  “Ensure you bring the boy.”

“Of course, papa,” Theodosia said with a smile that looked almost indulgent, and he raised a reproving eyebrow at the presumption.  “He has spoken of nothing but seeing his grandpa for days,” she added, and he forgave her immediately.

“Do not wait up,” he instructed her as he pulled away and joined the other two men, nodding to each.  “Gentleman.  Let us walk quickly, or we shall be late.”

***

The Washington Intelligencer and National Enquirer, April 1805

I read with growing concern the fears of an insurrection of third partyists arising out of the west. If the western half of the nation can be triggered to rise in insurrection at the mere passing through of one man, then I must indeed mourn the chaos and incompetence of the government that currently prevails.  Are we truly to trust our affairs to a President who can apparently be surprized by the disaffection of a full half of our people?  And how has he supposedly failed to discover, for a full term of government, that his own Vice President is a Pied Piper whose flute draws educated men to run heedlessly after him into dissolution?  If the abilities of Col. Burr are indeed so great, I wonder that the whole population of Washington was not drawn into a rebellion during his long late presence there.

I can detect no sort of concern, or indeed patriotism, in a “Concerned Patriot” who hides behind a pseudonym for the purpose only of spitting calumnies intended to rouse the country to fear and anger against a man of the highest genius, once second only in our regard to the President.  I ask myself who benefits from the savaging of a man of acknowledged talent, in forcing him out of any service to the public good?  Or in the widening of the divisions that already exist in our public discourse?  For I make so bold as to venture that the final beneficiary shall not be we, the people.

Veritas

***

Theodosia stood at the top of the steps and watched her formidable father, the bravest and noblest man in the world, kneeling bareheaded on the grass playing with toy soldiers to amuse his three-year-old grandson.

Snippets of their conversation drifted up to her.

“...cut off my retreat!  Oh no!” “...goin’ to get you, goin’ to win…” “...unseemly to gloat, but indeed…”

The feeling of heaviness and pain in her lower belly still had not lifted, and it had been difficult to walk down the stairs this morning.  But she felt lightheaded with release from the other heaviness, the one that had stuck in her chest since last summer.  That had flown away like a bird the moment her papa had lifted her down from the carriage and she had seen that he really was completely recovered.  And again this morning, when he had spoken of his western project with all the keenness and authority with which he had planned the election campaign of 1800.  Her glorious father never suffered defeats, only setbacks.

Not that she was going to let him off without reproach after coming so close to losing his life, again.

Footsteps approached from within the house, and she recognised Joseph’s tread, and the smell of his sweat and cologne as he joined her.

“Do you think I should interrupt?” he wondered after a moment.

“I believe he has forgotten the time.  Papa!” Theodosia called.  Her father lifted his head sharply and regarded her with clear irritation.  “It is nine of the clock!”  He nodded shortly and bent his head back towards his grandson.

A few moments later Burr rose to his feet with a comment to the boy, and then started jogging slowly towards her. Young Aaron scrambled up and chased after him, overtaking him a few feet before the house; aided by a sudden mysterious slowing of his grandfather’s steps.

“Thankyou, Theodosia,” her father acknowledged as she smoothly captured her son.  “Mr Alston,” he continued, greeting his son-in-law with as much self-possession as if he had not been playing in the dirt just a few moments before.

“Colonel Burr,” Joseph replied with an expression so blank he could only be struggling to conceal some other emotion.

“I have some matters to discuss with you before the other gentlemen arrive,” Burr said with decision, “but first I must ask you to grant me a few moments with my daughter.”

He crouched down to speak to his namesake, and Theodosia heard his knees crack a little. “Gampillo, go in to your nurse now.”

“Stay with grandpa!” young Aaron refused, and Theodosia laid one hand on his soft brown hair to remind him to mind his behaviour. 

“You have been told, Aaron,” her father said in a calm but authoritative tone that for a moment threw her back to her own childhood.  “You will see me at dinner.  Now, you will go to your nurse.”  He stood, and Joseph took one of his son's hands in his own.  

“Come, young Aaron.  I will take you.”

Burr’s eyes followed them for a moment as they walked back into the dimness of the house.  Then he turned to her and raised an ironic eyebrow.

Theodosia was practised in interpreting her father's minimal cues, though even now it often felt like a test.

“Another duel, papa?” she asked, allowing her reproach to show. 

“I commend your patience, my Minerva, in waiting this long to chide me,” he said with mild amusement.  “Shall we walk?” He extended a crooked arm.  “You know a little exercise will bring a bloom to your cheeks.  You are too pale, and it concerns me that your letters say little about your health.”

She placed her hand lightly on his forearm, the black silk of his tailcoat far more comfortable against her skin than scratchy, quickly-heating wool would have been.

“I try, but it is often uncomfortable.  But nothing can be uncomfortable in your presence.”  They went slowly down the steps, and she revelled in feeling the steadiness of his arm beneath her hand as she leaned a little on his support.

“I have also tried not to worry,” she said at last, “but you cannot grudge it to me, papa.  If you were to exit this world, so too would the better part of myself.  And to think of depriving our boy of your guidance, to say nothing of the world that would be made lesser!  I feared that your letters, knowing the unhappy fragility of my mind, might be over-solicitous.

“So now tell me, for I have braced myself to bear it; what is the state of your constitution, father?  And do not seek to lie to Minerva.”  She smiled up at him, daring to tease, and he briefly leaned to kiss her temple.

“I am well, Theodosia; let that be an end to all worry.  My force is completely restored.  I am left with only a small intolerance of bad air, and a very ugly scar.  The latter of which is more provoking than the former, for there is not a rencontre but comments on it.”

Theodosia laughed a little, knowing her father's vanity.  “And now you are working with him?”

“An experience scarcely more restful than working against,” Burr commented dryly.  “But you know I have always held the highest estimate of Mr Hamilton’s powers.  And while his political enmity has been insupportable, he has otherwise behaved as a true friend ought.”

“In what way?”

“That is not your concern.”

She blinked in shock, his flat words like a door suddenly slamming in her face.  For years, her father had confided in her everything, from his political ambitions to his romantic follies.  What had she suddenly stumbled across, that he would not tell her - but would share with his rival?

She glanced across at his face, but his expression was composed and aloof, telling her nothing.  “And does he know of the Mexico project?” she recovered herself smoothly.

“We work in concert,” he assured her.  “With his assistance in the east, I am relieved of the need to return for men and correspondence; or to test the temperature of executive opinion.”

Theodosia thought about this, looking down at her black leather shoes, moving as slowly and heavily as giant beetles through the short grass.  She felt herself a little fevered, tiring quickly.

“You are much given to trusting,” she said carefully.  “It is a mark of your great soul, but it makes me fear.”

“Les grands projets appellent des grands hommes,” Burr pointed out.  “Except when his mind is deranged by argument, Hamilton has unimpeachable integrity, a generous loyalty, and enough political acumen at least to come in out of the rain.”

“Speaking of which...”  It was not quite raining, but the dry grass was slowly becoming damp as humidity seemed to develop around them.

“Minerva will not drown in a little rain,” her father said amusedly, but turned them anyway, and let their steps quicken a little towards the house.

“But Jove came out without a hat,” she pointed out, and saw him jerk and touch his hair with his free hand, having clearly forgotten.

“And so I am schooled again.  Let us go in, then, with utmost despatch, as I fear my poor pride will not take a third such knock.”

He helped her up the steps and into the house, his support unwavering, before taking his leave to go and speak to her husband.

Theodosia watched her father close the door behind him and wondered when all his ambitious projects might allow enough time for her to be with him again.  She thanked God that her boy was consolation enough for them both.  She went to find him.

Chapter Text

The yellow light flickered, casting the page suddenly into shadow before brightening again.  Hamilton continued to write, the structure of the argument clear in his mind, needing only the words emerging from the tip of his quill to place that clarity, that obvious rightness, first onto the paper and thence into the minds he needed to convince. 

The light flickered again and he realised the candle was guttering.  He looked at it in surprise, now just a knobbly disk of wax surrounded by a sticky, solidifying pool of fluid.  The wick was black and hooked inside the dancing flame; had he not trimmed it?

There was clearly not time to change candles properly before it guttered out, which meant he would have to clean out the holder later.  A messy, frustrating job.  For now he pushed himself up from the desk, then just stood hunched over for a moment as his back spasmed.  He shuffled across to the cabinet, extracted a new candle, and returned to the desk to light the wick from the old one and then simply tamp the base down on top of it.  He held the candle in place for a moment to allow the mess of wax at its base to soften into shape and then harden to hold it, and then turned his attention to forcing himself to straighten up.

Now that his attention was no longer focused on writing, he felt stiff, cold and ill. He deliberately stretched, curving backwards into a bow and trying to touch the ceiling with his fingers, and felt his joints and muscles give with a series of pops and cracks.  His ears were sore from the rubbing of his spectacles so he took them off, folding them and placing them on top of his unfinished page while he rubbed his tired eyes.  He rotated his right wrist, but it did little to help the burning sensation inside. 

Worse, his belly was still cramping, as it had been all day.  Following the diet prescribed by Dr Hosack, and taking his preparations, reduced these attacks but did not prevent them entirely.  He walked back and forth across the office, one hand gently massaging his gut, hoping that a little mild exertion (and not being crouched over his desk) might relieve his symptoms.

The words still bubbled up into his head; he needed to get them written down.  The Spanish interference with trade along the Mississippi, the armed incursions along the border that gave the Spanish Dons both intelligence and confidence.  The isolation of New Orleans, perched precariously between Mexico and Spanish Florida, so easy to cut off.

J will be persuaded by pressure of the public will, Burr had said, curt as always.  Hamilton knew exactly what he feared; that Jefferson would temporise - would wait until he was sure what would promote his own reputation - until Spain had gained too great an advantage and must be appeased at the cost of the United States’ treasury and international reputation.  It was true that in the past Jefferson had manifested a positively culpable desire to take the part of France even when peace was to be preferred; but Hamilton rather suspected that that had proceeded as much from France’s popularity with the masses as from actual sentiment, and his zeal had certainly cooled along with that popularity.  Jefferson had not fought in the Revolutionary War, and he was not naturally a hawk in foreign policy. But the reverse face of his attendance to the popular will was that he might be persuaded by popular clamour into a war that he did not want - but that was necessary.

The war was also necessary to Burr’s filibuster, of course, but that was not the primary consideration.

The candle on the desk flickered as Hamilton paced repeatedly past it.  There was a clock on the wall, but he did not look at it; it did not matter what it said.  This article had to be finished before morning, so that he could send it to the Evening Post before he entered court for what was likely to be a long session.

Eliza accused him of overworking himself, and Dr Hosack had also said his health would be improved if he rested more.  He would certainly like to spend more time in the country, with his family.  But he needed to pay back the loans he had taken out to build The Grange, and for James and John’s schooling - William’s too, soon enough - and he also needed to guide his party and his country.  Rest was simply not an option yet.

Moving was starting to make him feel nauseous.  Hamilton sat down at his desk again, and donned the spectacles that helped reduce his eyestrain in the point glare from the candles.  A few more paragraphs and he would be done, and could go and stretch out on the couch until it was time to revise his brief for tomorrow’s case.

***

The Enquirer, Richmond, May 1805

Next to our own internal government, and with which, it must be acknowledged, this subject is closely connected, there can be nothing of greater interest or importance, offered to the consideration of an American, than the policy of the United States towards foreign affairs. 

There is no more auspicious time for our nation, which has freedom as its very foundation stone, to strike a blow that happily combines both our secular interests and our republican ideals.  It cannot be reasonably argued but that the Isthmus of Darien is, both geographically and culturally, the proper boundary between North and South America; and it is not visionary to say, that the emancipation of the whole of the country south of Paraguay, Panama and Terra Firma, is very much to the advantage of our wealth and our security to effect, and in addition completely within our power.  Our peace and happiness have been too long hazarded by the over-close propinquity of an insidious friend, and the conclusion is inevitable that the time has matured for expelling these marauders from the soil of Columbia.

It is noteworthy that while we have been watching with increasing solicitousness the increasing boldness of the Spanish irruptions, the last advices from England indicate, that our differences with that country are in a train of amicable and satisfactory adjustment.  Such being the felicitous state of affairs with this country, I do not hesitate to say that it must be the sensible policy of the U.S. to form an alliance offensive and defensive, with Great Britain for the express purpose of opposition to Bonaparte, whose grasping ambition forms the motive force of both our Spanish enemy and the French antagonism to Britain.  It is not a castle in the clouds but a reasonable belief to anticipate that we could secure the powerful and invincible aid of the British navy, in return for what we could give her, without loss to us, but of unspeakable advantage to herself; for with our alliance, Britain could conquer and retain the whole West Indian archipelago.  The same is true in mirror perspective for it is our policy to expel every European nation from the continents of North and South America; and it is certain that Great Britain would readily give up Canada if by the exchange she would secure the much-desired West Indies.  The result could only be an enviable and elevated happiness for both nations.

By this time, the plains of Louisiana are most probably bedewed with the blood of our countrymen.  It is folly any longer to expect from Spain the same anxious disposition to reconcile our differences, that we have manifested towards her.  But in Mexico and Peru we shall find a sponge to wipe away, at one brush, all our debts, if they were ten times as great. 

‘Alcibiades’

***

“Colonel Burr!”  Wilkinson and his aide were waiting on the pier; a squad of soldiers was drawn up on the bank behind him.  Wilkinson extended his hand and Burr accepted it as both formal greeting and an aid to balance as he stepped up from the ferry.

“General Wilkinson,” he said with the carrying voice he used in court, or in the Senate, knowing that this reception was for public consumption.  “A pleasure.”

“No, the pleasure is all mine.”  Wilkinson placed one hand companionably on the small of his back as they turned towards the bank.  Burr quietly tolerated the intimacy.  The squad saluted him and he absently acknowledged the honour, pausing briefly to evaluate them almost out of habit.  A little threadbare, perhaps, with some idiosyncratic amendments to the usual equipment, but they were well armed and attentive.  He nodded approvingly and walked on past, following the General to the two horses waiting quietly beside the track.

Wilkinson went to the larger, gathering its reins in one meaty hand, and one of the soldiers hurried to assist him in mounting. Burr quietly took the reins of the other from the man who had been holding it and swung himself into the saddle, albeit with a little more difficulty than he had expected; he had not ridden much over the last few months.  The horse sidled slightly under a strange rider, but he collected it with rein and leg before briefly patting its neck in reassurance.

By this time the General had mounted, and glancing back Burr could see that his trunk and other bags were being unloaded quickly and efficiently.

“Is there much danger, this close to the fort?” he asked curiously.

“Oh, little enough,” Wilkinson responded easily, with an airy wave.  “Things have been largely quiet since the Indian War ten years ago.  The odd skirmish with a raiding party from the north, maybe.”

“The men seem in good order regardless,” Burr commented, aware that they could hear him.

Wilkinson gave him a sideways grin.  “Thankyou, Colonel Burr.  I run a tight ship.”  He tapped his horse with his heels and they began to head up to the fort, making desultory conversation, every word polite and public.

It was not until much later that evening that they were finally able to retire and begin the real conversations that they had both stopped here for.

“Jackson and Adair are in,” Burr said succinctly as he took a sip of his whisky.  It was unaged grain spirit, a little sweet and very raw.  “We also have support from Smith.  There may be some difficulty with the muster as Blennerhassett was from home; but I hope to meet him in Orleans and convince him there.”

“Where does that leave our finances?”  Wilkinson, splayed comfortably in an armchair, sipped at his own whisky.

“Sufficient for now.”  His credit was good this far from New York, and Alston would back his drafts if required.  Hopefully it would not be required.  “The Spanish?” he asked in return.

“Their incursions are becoming bolder.”

“Where?” Burr pressed.

“The upper part of the Sabine river, west of Bayou Pierre, for the most part.”

Burr no longer needed maps of the area.  He did not even need to close his eyes to bring up the geography.  “They’ll push towards Natchitoches, then.  Send a messenger down the Red River from there, and I’ll leave an agent to receive it in Natchez.”

“But will you be ready?”  Wilkinson raised his eyebrows dubiously.

“By autumn, yes,” he responded confidently.  “Though spring would be preferable, to allow time to receive back intelligence from the agents I shall acquire in New Orleans.”  It had been good intelligence that had enabled him to hold Westchester, all those years ago.  Or rather, intelligence and his own energies, so if the Spanish failed to allow him the former he could still exercise the latter to effect.

“Speaking of New Orleans, you’ll want to speak to Edward Livingstone.  He heads the Mexican Society.”

Burr raised an eyebrow; this was something new to him.  “Livingstone of New York?  I know him.  Tell me of this society.”

“A gathering of men who would like to see the Spanish ousted.”  Wilkinson grinned at him and topped up both their tumblers.

“Hmm.”  Burr slotted this intelligence into his plans.  “Yes, we shall talk.”  His mind ran ahead, considering ramifications; the Spanish had plenty of agents in New Orleans.  If he was going to spend any significant time with a group whose Mexican ideals were known, he would need to misdirect the Dons’ suspicions.  Dayton had a good mind for intrigue but he was a thousand miles away from Orleans; though he did have access to the Spanish ambassador Yrujo… Burr made a note to consider the details later.  His priority here was to coordinate with Wilkinson.  And to ensure Wilkinson couldn’t back out.

He took a mouthful of whisky, feeling it burn in his throat like a cigar.  This was Wilkinson's scheme in the first place, and it stood to make him a very rich man.  There was no earthly reason why he should back out and leave them hanging.  But if it would prevent Hamilton working himself up into a state of paranoia, Burr could ensure that.  Could create a political environment in which Wilkinson couldn't avoid a war without sacrificing the pride and admiration that, Burr estimated, mattered to him even more than money.  It would help if Jefferson were to annoy him, and that was surely something that could be achieved.  Perhaps Dayton, again…

“What are you thinking?” Wilkinson asked.

“That it would have been much simpler to set up as wine merchants,” Burr said dryly as he set down his whisky glass.  Wilkinson laughed at him, as intended.  “But also,” he continued smoothly, “of all that is to be done in New Orleans.  Heigh ho; done it shall be, and speedily.

“If I cannot secure Blennerhassett’s island, the initial muster must I think be on Cumberland Island.  It is smaller, but equally convenient for the boats.”

“And what of the British?” Wilkinson asked, irritatingly.  Burr wondered if he should feel flattered that Wilkinson apparently expected him to know the latest goings-on in London from the middle of the western wilderness.

“I will know more at New Orleans,” he said evenly, then quickly changed the subject.  “I need to know more about the military posts and forts between here and there.”

“You’ve seen every map of southern Louisiana that exists,” Wilkinson pointed out.

“I know the places.  I need the people.”

“You will have them.”  Wilkinson waved his hand airily.  “I will furnish you with an escort and introductions.”

Burr relaxed.  “That will suffice.  Now, I wanted to talk to you about how to handle Jackson, since as you know he will not work with you…”

Outside the room, a sentry called time.  The business of the fort went on around them as they planned the final details of their war.

***

To Alexander Hamilton, New York

I was surprised to receive your letters, sir, but very glad withal.  I hope you and your family are well.  I enclose a letter to Colonel Burr, which you should also read if you have the means to do so.

I have the honour to remain,

Your obedient servant, 

Charles Williamson

To Col. Burr

1 1 15 14 7 24 26 1 - 15 25 6 23 2 17 7.  18 1 23 19 7 24 7 - 8 11 - 17 11 16 13…

(Melville accedes.  Details to come.  Ships will cruise in the Gulf from October, but not in your command.  Funds will be less than hoped.  Expect word in New Orleans.)

***

Hamilton turned Williamson’s letter over in his hand.  Through the open window he could hear the bustle of the streets, smell the sickly sweetness of horse manure blending with cooking smoke and stagnant water; the familiar stench of summer in the city.  Probably New Orleans smelt not greatly different.

He could still abort this.

Williamson's letter was the worst possible news.  Burr would have some protection from Spanish naval attacks, but no ships of his own to help take the Mexican ports.  He would have some money for payroll and supplies, but insufficient to fully equip his expedition.  He would be on the knife’s edge, looking for luck; and if there was one thing Hamilton knew, it was that Burr would seek to seize that luck.  He was bold, enterprising and ingenious, and he thought anything was possible to adventure and perseverance.  Hamilton had once called him ‘the most sanguine man in the world’ and that much, God help them both, had been true.

He could imagine Burr penetrating deep into Spanish territory, being cut off, and finding that none of his cunning and dextrous ploys could retrieve him from being cut down.  While Hamilton sat all the while here in New York writing letters that would never be received and wondering why he received no answer.  The sudden memory made his stomach cramp, and he tasted bile in his throat before swallowing it firmly down.

Williamson’s letter was not yet official British policy.  If he reacted immediately, he could cause the British to withdraw support, and then Burr must adhere to his word and give up the filibuster instead of entering upon it at too great a risk.  It might still be possible to do so without entirely betraying himself to Burr.  Then they could simply reenter upon their original plan to gain political support, albeit with a disappointingly reduced chance of success.

He allowed himself to imagine how affairs might proceed to such a position, before admitting to himself that he had made this decision once already.

He placed Williamson's letter back down on the desk, and began writing one of his own.

***

To Colonel Burr, New Orleans

My dear sir,

I have perused the enclosed and find in it little to excite hope, though in this as so many things I may find myself an isolated man.  What has been offered falls short of what has been requested by the merest whisker, and as such it may seem attractive to proceed nonetheless, particularly as it may be perceived that no opportunity, shall arise at a later time, that eclipses in any way the favourable nature of other circumstances that may be apprehended, in your own mind, to exist. 

It must be admitted that those assurances you gave me previously can find no purchase upon your actions in this case, however, both prudence and affection bid me beg of you to reconsider.  Rational reflection mitigates against committing ourselves further in these proceedings, whatever the counsels of ambition and patriotic fervour may seek to oppose against good sense.

When you first planned this enterprise you did so with the thorough consideration of detail that has always heretofore marked your understanding of, and attention to, matters of strategy, and I am myself assured that you did so with a sagacity and competence that have not, in the time that has passed since, proven less than adequate.  The requirements that you calculated then must, therefore, be considered to be an accurate statement of your needs at the present time in engaging in an affair of this nature.  Any offer that falls short of those requirements must therefore, by simple logic, be seen to be a mere insufficiency.  By no means can an insufficient offer be tortured into the seeming of one that is enough and therefore, by that very trust in your own talents that may impel you, it must be admitted that to proceed without all the accoutrements that you previously deemed necessary cannot but end in failure.

I should be gratified if you should inform me, by return of post, how you intend to proceed.

Very sincerely & affectionately

I am Yr. most Obed

A. Hamilton

***

“Do you know what hour it is, Ham?”

Over the course of several long careers, Hamilton had become accustomed to unexpected interruptions.  He did not, therefore, drop his quill onto the page in surprise at the sudden appearance of Troup in the door of his otherwise empty office, dressed as though on his way home from a party.

“I do not, and nor do I need to.” He placed his quill in the ink pot.  “Good evening, my dear,” he said more softly.  “I am just writing some letters that cannot wait.”

“I have not seen you write so much since the election of 1800.”  Troup came into the room to lean over Hamilton's desk, squinting at the upside-down writing.  “What are you doing now, Ham?”

“I have a very great affection for you, Bobby, you know that.”  Hamilton twitched a clean sheet over the one he was using.  “I am engaged on an enterprise that carries some small amount of risk, and for the sake of that affection I will not permit you to share it.”

“What is Burr up to?” Troup dragged a chair to the desk and sat down, leaning forward a little stiffly over his belly.  “I do read newspapers, Ham.  Half of them are terrified that he's going to come out of the west remade as a political force; half of them are hoping for it.  And I know that that wasn't the agreement you made at dinner.  So what have you gotten involved with?”

“I cannot in all conscience tell you.”  Hamilton slipped his glasses off and rolled his shoulders backwards.  “It is not a question of trust, Bobby,” he forestalled his friend's protest.  “My feelings in the matter do not signify.  Some matters thrive best in secrecy, similar to the fashion in which some flowers bloom best at night.  It does not indicate that the business is in any way dishonourable, any more than is the bloom to which I compare it.  I trust you, but the lessons of experience remain that the more times a secret is told, the less chance of its retaining its necessary mystery.”

“And all these people you are writing to?”

“Ah.”  Hamilton gave a small, tight smile.  “I am offering them,” he said very precisely, “an investment opportunity.”

“Oh God, it’s the Manhattan Company all over again.”

Hamilton laughed out loud, feeling his tension ease a little.  “Do not use the Lord’s name so frivolously, Bobby.  But yes, the parallel had not escaped me.”  He paused thoughtfully.  “I do not believe he would betray me so now.  And besides that,” he gestured at the letters piled tidily to one side, “unless he has suddenly developed an understanding of events that borders upon the supernatural, he would not be able to do so.  He does not know what I am currently about.”

“So, and let me get this straight,” Troup said incredulously, “Burr hasn’t asked for money, but you’re here at two in the morning damaging your health to raise it for him anyway? What has he done to you, Ham?”

“You demean and offend me if you believe I have anything less than a full voting share in this project,” Hamilton said in a clipped voice, drawing himself up in his chair.  “I am not, nor have I ever been, a chess piece that Burr may move around the board at his pleasure.  It is true that this was not my project at its inception, but it is so now, no less than it is his.  You will, I hope, grant me some measure of understanding of matters financial?”

“You know that's not what I meant,” Troup said in a conciliatory tone.  “I am just at a loss to understand.  A year ago we were out half-killing ourselves trying to put a nail in the coffin of Burr’s political career.  I don't think I slept for four days - I know you didn't.  And now here you are, half-killing yourself again, but this time to help him.  I have no complaint, but - did something happen in Washington?”

Hamilton thought about Burr standing in front of the Senate, alone and indomitable in his bare, uncompromising pride.

“We agreed upon a new venture,” he said, answering Troup’s question in only the most limited and precise fashion.  “The risk is assumed mainly by Colonel Burr, and though I have urged him otherwise, my knowledge of his character indicates that he will attempt to prosecute this business even though our expected support has fallen short.  In anticipation of this news, therefore, I am attempting to secure further lines of credit.  A successful consummation will accrue significant advantages, beyond the financial, to those persons involved and to our nation; and to place the whole on a footing more suited to success requires only some initial diligence.”  He softened a little.  “So you need not worry quite so much.  I need only be so busy for a little longer.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Bobby muttered.  He sighed and let himself lean back a little.  “Fine.  Finish off here and I’ll give you a ride home.”

“That would be a very great kindness,” Hamilton admitted.  He slipped his spectacles back on.  “I will be as quick as I may.  In truth, I am almost done.”

Unnoticed by Hamilton, Troup almost bit his tongue not speaking the obvious response.

Chapter Text

The Enquirer, Richmond, November 1805

The letters received by this day’s mail from Natchez and Fort Adams, state that every preparation is making to meet and repel Spanish encroachments.  All the remaining regular force that was left at Fort Adams, has marched for Natchitoches.  No doubt now exists but blood will be shed unless the Spaniards fall back.

The most recent and accurate information from Natchitoches, states the Spanish force embodied within our limits at 1500, commanded by a Governor, who evinces a spirit of marked hostility to the Government of the U.S.  General Wilkinson, we are informed, had an interview with the Governor of the territory of Orleans, which resulted in the requisition of 250 mounted infantry and dragoons, who are ordered to march immediately to Natchitoches and join the regular army stationed at that place.

The patriotism displayed by the citizens of this territory, at a crisis so interesting and momentous, deserves the eulogy of every friend to the liberty and independence of the U. States.  When the citizens of a country, where government rests upon their affections, move with such celerity to meet the invaders of their territory, we have nothing to anticipate but victory and vengeance.

***

“...send up the river to Muskingum and speed the missing barges.  If you encounter them on their way downstream- what?”

Swartwout felt a moment of trepidation as the full force of Burr’s arresting gaze fixed suddenly and intently upon him.  Only Bollman’s grateful sideways glance gave him the courage to continue in the face of that intent stare.  “Forgive the interruption, Colonel Burr,” he said hesitantly, “but we have been working since dawn, and it is now long past full dark.  I feel myself unequal to the challenge of further labour; might we resume in the morning?”

Burr looked towards Bollman, and Swartwout was grateful for the momentary reprieve.  “Is this your desire also?”

“I could continue if we must,” Bollman said sturdily, the fluency of his English belying the clipped German of his accent, “but I would exert myself to better effect for some rest.”

From beyond the tent, Swartwout could hear the rustlings and mutterings of men asleep.  The limited attractions of the hard, damp ground, mildewed canvas, and air heavy with another man’s breath now seemed like a temptation beyond price.  He wondered at Burr’s indefatigability; his mentor’s tawny eyes were surrounded by darkly bruised skin, and the morning’s grey shadow on his jawbones had turned into visible bristles of black stubble, but there was still a taut energy behind his every motion.

“Very well,” Burr decided.  “Return at dawn; we shall breakfast together before you, Swartwout, go upstream.”

“Thankyou, Colonel Burr.”  Swartwout hesitated.  “Should I send your valet to you?”  The Negro boy was doubtless asleep; during their journey down from New York Swartwout had had endless opportunity to observe both the energy and the indolence of youth.

“That will not be necessary,” Burr said absently, already scrawling notes which Swartwout hoped he would not be the one trying to decipher in the morning.

“Goodnight, then,” he said as he ducked out of the tent, Bollman following.

“Phew,” Bollman said with a soft exhale.  “Is the Colonel always like this?”

“In the heat of action, yes,” Swartwout admitted as they walked through the camp, slowly to avoid the stumps and debris that remained from their hasty clearing of the brush.  The few lanterns hung from posts did more to occasionally blind them with a flickering orange glare than to actually illuminate their way.  “During the gubernatorial election I do not think he slept more than an hour at a time; he wore out the energy of those many years younger,” he added with a certain pride in his leader.  “I have had it from old acquaintances that it was the same during the Revolutionary War, until his health was compromised at Monmouth.”

“Then we who are only mortal shall just have to keep up as best we may.” Bollman stopped at a narrow alley between tents.  “Good night, Mr Swartwout.”

“Good night, Dr… what is that?”

Both men stopped silent, heads tilted as they listened.  There were sounds drifting up from the river; a splashing and muttering.

“Animals?” Swartwout wondered.  It did not sound natural, but then he was not familiar with this area.  It surely could not be human, though; no one would dare the river so late at night.

“I think not.”  Bollman moved so quickly that Swartwout was taken by surprise, and had to run a few steps to catch up as they moved quickly down the uneven trodden dirt track that led down to the lashed-together pier.  Yes, now they were closer that was definitely human voices; harsh whispers carrying across the water, the two men on post by the landing-place leaning out with their lantern, trying to see.

Beyond the small pool of fiery light the river rushed black and mostly silent beneath the dark, occluded sky.  Little burbles and splashes marked the formation and collapse of minor rills that broke on the main flow.  Listening for the louder, more rhythmical splashes of oars or paddles, Swartwout turned his head upstream and was just about able to make out the hazy shape of something similar to a horse in size, matte against the liquid shine of the water.

The shape slid down the current, into the light and onto the tiny bitten-out beach.  Two men jumped out and pulled their canoe up the steep slope.  As one of the sentries advanced to meet them, Swartwout could see that although colour was impossible to make out in the flawed light, the clothes they were wearing had the cut of uniform.  One looked familiar… He hopped from the grass down onto the beach; once again, reacting just a second after Bollman.

“We have an urgent message for Colonel Burr,” one of the men was saying.  “We must speak with him at once.”

“I will take you to him,” Swartwout interrupted the sentry, who almost wrenched his neck looking around in surprise.  He clearly had not noticed the arrival of the two men from camp.

Bollman also turned his head, this time to give him a warning look, but Swartwout had realised who these men must be.  He felt excitement fizz in his veins, his exhaustion of a moment ago suddenly replaced by a flood of shivering energy.  “Come with me.”

He led them up from the shore; repeatedly outdistancing them and having to check himself as the messengers stumbled tiredly over the occasional root or rut in the path.  Bollman trailed them quietly, clearly still distrusting.  Time seemed to extend; the larger tent that belonged to Burr, glowing from the light of the lamp inside, seemed to take forever to approach, until all of a sudden he was at the entrance.  “Colonel Burr,” he said in a voice that seemed far too loud in the quiet night.  “Messengers.”  Then he shoved the flap aside and led the men in.

Burr looked up from his writing, taking in their appearance in a single sweeping glance.  He put the quill down and stood in one quick motion, slapping a hand down on his papers as the draught of his movement almost upset them, before acknowledging the men’s hasty salutes with a crisp one of his own.  “Sergeant Dunbaugh,” he addressed the man on the left.  “Your report, if you will.”

“Sir.  My companion is a messenger from General Wilkinson.  American forces have engaged the Spanish, fifteen miles to the west of Natchitoches.”

Burr’s face showed no reaction, but Swartwout saw his left hand clench convulsively into a fist before relaxing again.  “At ease,” he commanded coolly, before glancing over to Swartwout.  A slight smile played about his lips for a moment.  “Now you can wake Peter.

“Have him bring food for these men, and start coffee.  Then rouse the captains and bring them for briefing.  Get some sleep if you can.  Tomorrow, we move out.”

***

“Who do you think we should invite for Thanksgiving?”

Eliza looked up from little Philip in surprise, to see her husband leaning against the parlour doorway.  His relaxed posture, and the hint of a fond smile creasing the laughter lines beside his mouth, told her that he had been watching her play nonsense games with their toddler for some time.

She lifted their son and took him over to his father, who held out his arms to take him from her and settled him against his hip with the ease of fond experience.

“Is this to be a personal thanksgiving or a political one?” she asked candidly as she brushed off her skirt.

Alexander bounced their son, with some effort; Philip was almost too old now to be so easily picked up and handled.  “That is the question on which I am torn,” he explained.  “I was not here for you last year, and in truth those were dark days for us both.  But Francisco de Miranda has lately arrived in the city; he is seeking support for a military project in Venezuela.  Some arrangements I have recently made have spiked his guns, though that was not my intent.  I do not apprehend it possible that he can yet have come to awareness of the situation in which I have unwittingly placed him, or to have awoken feelings of resentment if he has, and in a matter of such delicacy I conceive that it were best to offer a resumption of friendship before maladroit and unanticipated explanations.  He may well be persuaded into support of a neighbour project, as it is a phenomenon oft observed that what is unthinkable once, becomes at second essay comfortable, and so on until eventually it is contemptible; and by such logic sensible men may be persuaded of the benefits of, when party to a novel project, allowing a similar to take the first risk and encouraging its success, as reflecting upon the chances of their own.  I have been plunged back into the business of government, it seems, will I or nill I-“

With an effort, Eliza said nothing, but politely and calmly listened to her relentless genius husband justify why he had once again returned to the political intrigues that had repeatedly ruined his health and parted him from his family.  The Book of Proverbs 26 drifted into her mind and she thrust the thought disgustedly away as unworthy of them both.  This was, after all, the man she had fallen in love with.  She was a statesman’s daughter, and a great man’s wife.  She could make this work.  It was her job to make this work.

“He knows the Livingstons, doesn’t he?” she asked with simple practicality, as she began to plan.

***

If Burr had not sent out scouts, the confusion would have been incredible; Wilkinson’s forces falling back to the banks of the river as his own men arrived up it.

They had rowed through the night to come up almost to Natchitoches in the early light.  They were exhausted.  But they were still out of sight of the Spanish, and with Wilkinson’s position clearly desperate this was a tactical opportunity they could not afford to waste.

So Burr had had them tie up at the first conceivable place they could get ashore, a mile or so below the town, and rest no more than an hour before a forced march north.  They had grumbled, of course, and Swartwout kept stumbling as they pushed through the thin woodland undergrowth; but Burr could feel the weight of his sabre dragging at his hip, the pistol thrust through the back of his belt, and he felt suddenly young again, inexhaustible energy seeming to flow from the weapons into him.  He thanked God for this opportunity to lead men into battle once again. 

From somewhere far off ahead he could hear shouts, the dull crump of gunfire, the occasional bugle signal.  He had sent Wilkinson no messenger, lest that alerted the Spanish; and ever since he had sent word to Natchez Wilkinson had known he would come, had known the western bank must be held at almost any cost.  No new message would have changed those simple facts. 

The trees were thinning ahead.  Burr signalled for a halt, while he went on with Swartwout.  They dropped down into the thicker bushes at the woodland edge and Burr pulled out his field glass.  With the naked eye he could see an expanse of fields stretching between them and the brick and stucco buildings of a small town that must be Natchitoches.  The crops, long harvested, were brown and wilting.  To their right, the river swept in a lazy curve towards it.  Smoke drifted between river and town, dispersing between the buildings; fragments of moving colour could just be seen through it.  From here Burr could almost smell the gunpowder, just a faint acridity in the back of his throat.  There seemed to be a little movement between the houses, but nothing on this side, and he allowed his lips to curl slightly with satisfaction. 

He put the glass to his eyes, twiddling the ends to focus first on the smoky river bank, then on the buildings.  The men moving among them all wore dark blue - which was not helpful - but the silhouette looked subtly wrong.  He passed the apparatus to Swartwout.  “Tell me what you see.”

Swartwout adjusted the focus.  “The battle must be beyond the town, on the very bank.  In the town - for God’s sake, why must the Spaniards also wear blue - ah, tailcoats and bicorns? The enemy have Natchitoches!  Colonel, we must move at once!”

“We shall.”  Burr held out his hand and Swartwout returned the field glass.  “You will take the main part of our force up the bank.  Bypass the town and hit them in the side to relieve Wilkinson.  You should be able to crush them between you.  Once you have established communications with Wilkinson, obey him as your commander until I rejoin you.”  He crawled backwards until the bushes thinned out and he could stand again, ignoring the creaking in his knees.

“Where will you be, sir?” Swartwout’s eyes were wild with excitement and trepidation.  He was twenty-two years old, Burr remembered.  The same age he himself had been at Monmouth.

“Preventing them sniping at you from the town.”

They returned to where they had left their motley force, tired men sitting and lying under the trees.  Burr quickly selected his party; experienced men, for the most part.  Ones who could be trusted to make good decisions in what was going to be a fraught, lethal hell.

“Good luck, Captain Swartwout,” Burr said with a slight smile.

“Colonel.”  Swartwout saluted and started moving his men carefully between the trees, forming up as well as they could to cross the uneven ground as quickly as any large body of men could move.

Burr jerked his head at his own small command and they moved more quickly to the west.  Old skills came back to him as he found the easiest way between the trees, avoiding exposed roots and entangling briars.  Even in October, Louisiana was nowhere near as cold as he remembered Quebec; the smell of pine needles, the treacherous snow covering ankle-wrenching burrows.  This warm, humid morning, the bright green of the leaves around him, were nothing like his memory of marching north through that wilderness, but still his heart beat more quickly with an odd feeling of coming home.

The woods skirted close by the western side of the town, and Burr’s group used the cover of the trees as far as they could.  Beyond that their options were limited; there was no vast open expanse of autumn-bare plantations such as Swartwout would have to traverse, but paddocks and gardens offered few places to hide.  Burr got out his field glass once more, sweeping over the skinny corpse of a horse, past the half-burned shed whose remaining planks dwindled raggedly into charcoal ribs, up to the shuttered windows and roofs where he would have set a watch.

“Fast as we can to that compound on the right, with the yellow paint,” he said decisively.  “Take the roof and cover those who go house to house.  If the Spaniards are not watching their backs, then we shall punish them for it.”  He shoved the glass back in its case.  “Go.”

They ran.

It was harder than Burr had expected, the undergrowth whipping at his legs as he forced them to pump faster, stumbling once or twice over roots or rocks.  Every moment he expected to feel the searing impact of a bullet, followed a little too late by the warning crack of the shot.  But he had calculated correctly; the Spaniards were too absorbed by the desperate battle at the river to watch behind them.  He reached the wall last, his side cramping, gasping for breath that wouldn’t seem to come.  He hurled himself upwards, caught the top; his right hand slipped and there was a sudden sickening wrench in his chest, but the man lying flat along the top of the wall grabbed his wrist and hauled, and with that leverage and the grip of his left hand Burr was able to drag himself up and over, his helper dropping down beside him.  He staggered for the house, gasping fruitlessly, and the moment the door slammed behind him he bent over to suck air desperately into his lungs.

“Colonel?”

Burr shook his head and waved the man on towards the wooden boards embedded in the wall, making a rickety staircase up to the roof.  After a few moments he heard a gunshot from above, then another.  He forced himself to straighten and stumble towards the steps, heaving himself heavily up them to a flat roof fringed by red tiles.  He dropped to his belly and crawled to the edge where several men lay, the muzzles of their muskets resting on the tile ends, scanning for targets of opportunity.

Burr took out his field glasses again.  Natchitoches was not a large town; he could now see the chaotic swirl beyond it through the smoke, blue and blue surging on the very edge of the river, bodies wading and falling into the water.  He scanned downriver, saw tall yellow-brown plants thrashing oddly, then managed to make out the motley assortment of men shoving their way through them.  Swartwout was moving fast but it was going to be close.  Looking at the edge of the town, on roofs like this one, he finally spotted men lying down, facing outward.  Swartwout’s men would be completely exposed to their fire.

“There, there and there,” Burr said quickly, identifying his target rooftops.  “You, with me, on the right.  You four, stay here and cover us as we go.”  He made his dispositions quickly, knowing how unlikely it was that their luck would hold for much longer.  His lungs still burned, but there was nothing to be done but go forward.  The forthcoming military campaign would restore his fitness quickly enough.

He led his team back down the steps, across a small space and through the gate in the wall onto the narrow street.  Walls and houses faced one another directly across the packed dirt, with no pavements, few awkward alcoves or alleyways; little cover.  They would have to rely on speed.

Burr’s luck held; longer than the Spanish would have liked, less long than Burr himself would have preferred.  It was only as they ran down a side street near the edge of town, the patter of their steps drowned out by the clash of arms now only a little beyond the buildings, that there was a fizz and crack from somewhere above and a sharp sting along Burr’s cheek as fragments exploded from the wall behind.

The men scattered, each seeking cover as they desperately looked around for the shooter, the street abruptly empty except for a dead dog lying in a slant of sunlight.  Burr’s heart beat more quickly and it was hard to catch his breath for a moment as he was suddenly back in Quebec, men falling around him with the snowflakes.

But there was no snow here, only hazy autumn sunshine.  And he was not at the mercy of others’ foolishness, but commander of this bold and risky gambit.  He touched his cheek with his fingers, glanced at the slight smear of blood on their tips, then dismissed it as trivial and rapidly considered their situation.  From where he now crouched behind an upturned handcart he was at least partly concealed, but the moment any of them broke cover he risked being fired upon, if there was more than one gun pointed in their direction.  Or if they provided the shooter with time to reload.

On the other hand, they could not risk being pinned down.  His eyes raked the street and the windows with their concealing shutters as he swiftly considered possibilities and calculated odds.  Now they had been noticed, there were more than likely Spanish soldiers working their way towards them; whatever he was going to do, he was going to have to do it before they were in hand-to-hand combat.

Almost as he thought that, something pointed raked down his thigh.  Burr instantly dove and rolled, his shoulder hitting the dirt awkwardly.  He heard the sizzle and crack of gunfire as pebbles and dirt pelted his back, and flung himself out of the open street, towards a door sagging on its frame on the corner that he had noticed a moment ago.  Once in, he looked briefly back over his shoulder to see a skinny dog, one paw raised, behind the handcart staring after him.  His thigh, when he glanced down, was unhurt.

Well, this would be an amusing story to tell after the war.  In the meantime, his men had followed his lead and were pounding after him; he was committed now.  He turned, found the stairs, and ran up them as quickly as he could towards the roof.  They were going to have to go over the rooftops, and just hope there weren't any wide alleys between here and their target.  Even as his breath started to hiss between his teeth he heard a second shot from somewhere above; a thud from the street.  Only three sets of footsteps sounded jumbled on the stairs below him.

Not the first soldier he had lost.  He wouldn't be the last.  Burr crouched low as he ran across the roof, mentally adjusting his approach to work with four.  Hoping he wouldn't have to make it work with three.

Chapter Text

The Evening Post, New York, November 1805

At a meeting of the Federal-Republicans, and other citizens of the First Ward:

Resolved, that this meeting is deeply impressed with a sense of the exposed and defenceless condition of the city and port of New-York.

Resolved, that in the opinion of this meeting, the construction of gun-boats, and the limited repairs contemplated of the works on Governer’s Island, are wholly inadequate to the defence of this port.

Resolved, that this meeting rely for the safety and independence of their country on the virtue and patriotism of their fellow-citizens; that they have full confidence in the spirit and honor of the American character; that they regard with contempt and disdain, every idea of submission or tribute to any foreign power; and that they will join their countrymen in defending their rights and privileges with their lives and fortunes.

***

“Américains, l’égalité
Vous proclame aujourd’hui nos frères :
Vous aviez à la liberté
Les mêmes droits héréditaires :
Vous êtes noirs, mais le bon sens
Repousse un préjugé funeste :
Seriez-vous moins intéressans ?
Aux yeux des républicains blancs

“La couleur tombe et l’homme reste.”

Hamilton smiled out at the room as Angelica improvised a final bar on the pianoforte.  This was one of her rare good days, one of the days on which she seemed in tune with the world around her; her happy smile up at him as her fingers stilled was worth far more to him than the applause of his guests, made his heart ache with a hope he knew was almost certainly false.  He bent to kiss her on the cheek.  “ Très bien, mon ange ,” he said softly, blinking away the tears that sprang to his eyes before she could notice them.  From across the room, where she was charming Miranda, Eliza’s gaze briefly met his, and he could read the same bittersweet sentiments in the creases at the corners of her lovely coffee-coloured eyes.

“America lost a fine singer when you went for the law,” Robert Troup commented, with a light pat on the back as he came up beside him.  “Though French, Ham?  I don’t think I’m the only one here who was but grasping at the odd word as they went by.  Something about equality?  I’m sure that last verse was aimed at Americans.”

“More liberté than egalité ,” Hamilton responded easily, turning to his friend.  “I believe, though I am unable to be certain, that it was written upon the freeing of the slaves of Saint-Domingue, when the French Revolution was still of a more optimistic tenor, and before the rise of Bonaparte.  His treachery against L’Ouverture should be a national scandal,” he parenthesised cynically, “but such things are soon forgotten.”

“You cannot leave politics out of conversation for one day?” Troup asked with comedic distress.

Hamilton laughed.  “If you should prefer me to discourse upon the weather, I should be happy to oblige you,” he teased gently with a gesture at the grey rain blatting against the window, the smeary outlines of young trees tossing in the wind.  Even with candles lit, good fires blazing in the hearths, and the residual warmth from the afternoon’s feast, draughts snaked through the happy gathering of people.

“Ugh.”  Troup shivered.  “Point taken.  Still, you are meant to be being thankful.”  He prodded one finger lightly into Hamilton’s waistcoat, and Hamilton exaggeratedly staggered back.

“Oof.  And I am, Bobby, believe me I am.”  Hamilton looked thoughtfully across the gathered throng, people moving easily back and forth between the parlour and the dining room where they could pick at the remains of apple pie and plum pudding.  He wasn’t sure whether the mingled scents of buttery pastry, hot fruit and exotic spices were making him feel ill or tempting him to just one more morsel.  “I have my dear Eliza, and all of my children - bar one - in good health and without any vexation of mind, beyond the little things that innocence, knowing no real distress, magnifies into calamity.”  He blinked quickly, uncertain whether the stinging in his eyes was sadness for Philip and Angelica, or joy in the others; the emotions too inextricably mingled. 

Troup chuckled, as a father himself clearly familiar with the wrong flavour of jam spelling the end of the world.

“I have by my own efforts built this graceful house; and I could not have foreseen then that it would ever hold a gathering such as this one, full of men I then counted my enemies.”  He paused thoughtfully.  “Though I have always been thankful that we of New York do not take political enmity as personally as elsewhere.”

He ignored Troup’s pointed cough.  He had perhaps gone farther than he ought at times, but even with Burr he had always acknowledged him a friend, and apologised fully and honourably on realising that he had not always used him so.  Troup had no need to know what had passed between them in Washington;  Burr was secretive at the best of times, and speaking would profane that privacy, the warmth of Burr’s - Aaron’s - embrace as he confirmed that he too still considered them friends, despite everything.

“I am thankful,” he continued, “for the company of those here assembled, and our shared hope that the republican ideals that unite us, and which we intend together to embed in both legislation and the Christian conscience of our people, will prove more durable than those differences that threaten fracture.  For mistake not, Bobby, the trials ahead, though they shall be far from the first that have tested our brave experiment, shall likely be our most severe.”

“I did not ask for a speech,” Bobby criticised good-humouredly, and Hamilton realised that he had unconsciously leaned his weight on his back foot and begun to gesture.

He shifted his weight forward again and smiled at the few people who had gathered around.  “No speeches, then; I have already made of myself a spectacle sufficient.  Mr Van Ness,” he changed direction smoothly, “I am grateful for your presence in particular.  I have enjoyed your recent writings very much, though I find myself unable entirely to agree with your sentiments.”

Van Ness gave a slightly stiff smile in response.  None of Burr’s friends had Burr’s mental flexibility, or his skill at diverting conflicts (every time but one, Hamilton could not help himself thinking), and working together against the Clintons’ influence in New York politics had as a result been… tense.  Hamilton knew that they did not intend their disrespect, but he had had cause to speak hot words on several occasions nonetheless.

“You honour me,” Van Ness said politely.  “Your famous talents of course put my own small accomplishments to shame.”  He changed the subject quickly.  “Have you heard lately from Colonel Burr?”

“I would have thought him more likely to write to you than to me.”

“Perhaps,” Van Ness sounded doubtful, “but I have heard nothing since he arrived at New Orleans.”

“Ah.”  Hamilton felt genuinely slightly surprised, and a little pleased.  “My last communication was from Natchez.  If his expectations have proven correct, then we may even now be at war, notwithstanding the reluctance of our executive to perform with its intended activity and decision.”

This intelligence, though not unexpected, caused a minor stir among the small group around him; the resumption of worried speculations that had repeated in fragmented cycles for weeks now.

“And Burr himself?”

“He is personally well.”  Hamilton startled himself with a sudden memory of using those very words to Morris, telling him that he had always been personally well with Burr despite their political differences.  He was thinking of Burr a lot, this afternoon.  It was not surprising, in the circumstances.

A gust of wind spattered rain like little bullets against the window, and Hamilton shivered with a sudden nervous energy that he turned to added liveliness in his conversation.  He did not like this uncertainty, waiting for the sword to fall.  He did not like what Burr was doing, too-risky, overextended.  And while he very much liked to have his beautiful home filled with the noise and gaiety of celebration, he could not help but feel the lack of Burr’s self-possessed presence, observing the revels with eyes dark as coffee under elegantly arched brows until the moment was ripe to offer a witty comment or dry anecdote.

He was so sick of shouldering all the tedious work of administration and persuasion alone, yet again.  And for just a moment he wished fiercely that he were with Burr in Louisiana, leading men into battle just one last time.

***

Swartwout was sitting awkwardly in Wilkinson’s newly-erected field command tent, listening to Wilkinson’s dramatic recounting of the heroic exploits of his fighting retreat, a cup of whiskey in one nerveless hand, when Colonel Burr finally walked in through the open tent flap.

His commander looked both exhausted and exalted.  His tangled hair had been pulled back tightly into a queue without first bothering to remove twigs and debris.  There was blood caked on his jaw from a cut along his cheek, his uniform was torn in multiple places, he moved stiffly, and the way he absently rolled one shoulder indicated more minor injuries that could not be easily seen.  But from the moment he entered the tent, in spite of Wilkinson’s greater size, fancier uniform and gold braid, it was as though the tent and everything in it was just a painted backdrop to Burr.

“General Wilkinson,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.  He coughed into the back of his wrist briefly before accepting the offered cup of whiskey with his left hand.  “Samuel,” he nodded aside to Swartwout, with a tone of mild approval that straightened the younger man’s back despite the effects of a forced march and battle.

“Colonel Burr,” Wilkinson said expansively.  “Or should I offer you a promotion?”

“I am sensible of the compliment, Jamie,” Burr said with dry courtesy, “but enlisting under your command at this point would complicate our position extensively.”  He glanced at the empty camp chair beside Swartwout’s.  “If I may,” he said.  Wilkinson gave a ‘go ahead’ gesture and Burr sank into the chair with a sigh of relief, carefully stretching out one leg.  “What’s our situation?”

“The Spanish have withdrawn to Bayou Pierre - what’s left of them.”  Wilkinson waved his cup grandly towards both men.  Burr allowed him to clink it with his own; Swartwout hurriedly followed suit, the watered whiskey slopping against the rim with his sudden movement.  “They were caught between hammer and anvil; your man here did a good job.”

Burr glanced over to Swartwout again, his burning gaze lingering for a moment before he simply nodded, as if that were no more than he had expected.  Swartwout felt uncomfortably warm.

“I lost rather more men than I had hoped, but if the British have followed through with sending a squadron to the Gulf of Mexico, we have a little breathing space before King Carlos hears that he’s at war.  This is the only significant force near the border.”

Swartwout wondered how good Wilkinson’s intelligence must be, to be sure of that, but Colonel Burr only nodded again.

“After we retake Bayou Pierre I will go on west to take advantage of the Spanish confusion,” he said directly.  “I'll need you to give some of your men permission to take a furlough, Jamie.”

Wilkinson was shaking his head.  “I told you, Burr, I've lost too many…”

“Adair is coming, and half of Kentucky with him.  You can and must spare me a half-platoon and a good sergeant; they will make very little difference to you, but I will be thankful for them in the assault on Nacogdoches.”

“I can’t support you so openly, Burr.”

“I would not advise relying upon Jefferson’s gratitude to reward you,” Burr pointed out quietly, and Swartwout nodded sharp agreement, thinking angrily about how the President had frozen out not just Burr but all who were friends to him, once he had the votes he needed.  “We had agreed to carve out our own promotions,” Burr continued, both men ignoring Swartwout’s movement, “in a patriotic venture that would bring honour to us both.”

“I know what we agreed, Burr, but that was a year and more ago,” Wilkinson said easily.

“Then something has changed among the Dons,” Burr concluded, his gaze intent on Wilkinson’s face.

“Colonel Burr!” Wilkinson blustered angrily, while Swartwout, surprised, put his mentor’s statements together with Wilkinson’s knowledge of Spanish troop movements and began to consider some unbelievable possibilities.

“I must ask your pardon,” Burr said courteously, without dropping his eyes.  “I spoke too freely.  I have not rested in several days; the weariness must be affecting my discretion.”

And with anyone else that would be believable, but Colonel Burr never spoke a word he did not intend to, exhaustion or no.  He wanted Swartwout to come to these conclusions.  He wanted a witness to this.  Swartwout felt a sudden tension in the room, though it showed in neither of the other men.

“I personally vouch,” Burr continued, “that you may repose complete trust in Mr Swartwout’s confidentiality.  Notwithstanding…” he turned to Swartwout.  “I must ask that you leave us, Captain.  Ensure that our men are comfortable and pickets have been posted, and then take your own rest.  I shall be relying much on you hereafter.”

“Yes, Colonel Burr,” was all that Swartwout could reasonably respond, no matter his curiosity.  “Will you be resting soon yourself?” he pressed, recalling Burr’s own stories of how catastrophically his indefatigability had run out at Monmouth, and was rewarded by a tiny upturn of the corners of his mentor’s mouth.

“If I find all in good order after speaking with the General, then I shall lay myself down for a time.  You are dismissed, Mr Swartwout.”

“Sir.  General.”  Swartwout swallowed down the last of the whiskey, the raw liquor burning its way down his throat despite the dilution of the water, and left the tent smartly.  He had a lot to accomplish in the next hour or so if his commander was to be at liberty to sleep.

It did not escape his notice that when they marched away from Natchitoches, two days later, fifty of the regular soldiers shucked their uniforms and marched with Burr’s militia.

***

To General James Wilkinson, Natchitoches

The great probability of an amicable & early settlement of our differences with Spain has rendered the Executive extremely desirous of avoiding actual hostilities, because it would be a mere destruction of human life without affecting in the smallest degree the settlement, or its conditions, that therefore it has determined to assume the Sabine as a temporary line of separation between the troops of the two nations.  The Executive hopes that Genl. Wilkinson has done no more than take the position hinted at in a former letter of his between Bayou Pierre & Natchitoches. If this has taken place, & without any actual hostility, it will be deemed fortunate: but if hostilities have actually taken place in order to drive the Spaniards by force from our side of the Sabine, the Executive regret it as contrary to their intentions and as an useless sacrifice of the lives it may have cost. But whether hostilities have been actually committed or not, Genl. Wilkinson is instructed immediately to propose to the Spanish Commandant a written Convention of the tenor of the one now inclosed; and if it is agreed to, let him leave at Natchitoches only 3 companies & withdraw the rest of his forces to Fort Adams.

But if the convention cannot be obtained; take the best measures for the protection & defence of the settlements in our actual possession: still observing that if no hostilities shall have begun, you must remain, till attacked, strictly on the defensive; and that you must not, in any event whatever, cross the Sabine river.

I am respectfully &c.

Thomas Jefferson

***

The Enquirer, Richmond, December 1805

Victory at Bayou Pierre - American forces cross the Sabine

The latest news from Natchez reports that the Spanish force, that so invidiously sought to sever and subjugate the newest territories of our sovereign and independent country, has been thrown back from Bayou Pierre by the gallant efforts of General Wilkinson, with the assistance of a band of volunteer patriots gathered by the sagacity of our former Vice-President Colonel Burr.  We have heard that Colonel Burr has since marched west to Nacogdoches, which news every proud American must follow in their heart with the hope that he is able to significantly chastise the Spanish impertinence and assert in requital our American destiny by liberating the North American continent from European control.

Word this day received from Nashville, states that upon receiving urgent messages, a quantity of militia, by some reports as many as 1000, have set forth for Baton Rouge under Major-General Andrew Jackson.

We must take pride in the courage and activity of our fellow citizens of Kentucky, Tennessee and Louisiana, who valiantly meet the bloody peril of the monarchical invaders, united in the support of a free people.

Chapter Text

Sunshine slanted in through the single window in the church tower, lying like honey across the creamy stone steps.  Above and below, the staircase lay in inky darkness.  At this time of year, it was cool inside, rather than stuffy with gathered heat.  In this part of Mexico, far to the south, it never got entirely cool.

Soon it would be the Nativity, the time of renewal.  Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla might disagree with some of the doctrines of his holy mother church, but he would not dismiss what appeared to him to be a sign from God.

This was not the usual time for mass.  When Father Hidalgo climbed the second flight to enter the shadowy room below the bells it was even emptier than usual, hung with ropes like a spider’s web.  Shafts of light struck down from the gaps in the ceiling that allowed the ropes to pass.

He had taken a turn with the bells often enough.  Father Hidalgo unlooped a rope from the hook in the wall, grasped it firmly in both hands, and shook it violently.  Above him one of the bells in the chime suddenly shivered to wakefulness, its startled clanging ringing out loudly over the town, waking it from sleep.

Father Hidalgo continued ringing the bell until his arms ached from it, an urgent summons, an emergency, calling the entire town from their work and rest into the courtyard to hear the news.

He walked down the stairs, into darkness, and then back out onto the sunshine of the church steps.  He felt exalted, a lightness in his chest pulling him on.  Before him, the church square was crowded with people, a sea of black-and-bright clothes below upturned faces the colour of harvest grain.  Grain, when this land could grow grapes and raise silkworms.  If the Gachupines - the Spanish-born - had allowed them to do anything to compete with the European imports.

He could smell dust and sweat.  The people settled as they saw him, a small figure in black beneath the gazes of the carved saints.  He did not feel small.

“My children!” he cried. “A new dispensation comes to us today.”  His mind fluttered, for a brief, abstracted moment, to the Angel Gabriel, bringing good news to the shepherds on the hillside.  “Will you receive it?” he challenged.  “Will you free yourselves? Will you recover the lands stolen three hundred years ago from your forefathers by the hated Spaniards?  The United States has lit a torch and it is to us to bear it forth.

“Will you be slaves of Napoleon or will you as patriots defend your religion, your hearths, and your rights? Long live Our Lady of Guadalupe!”

“Long live Our Lady of Guadalupe!” he heard the crowd roar in response.  And then a fragmented chorus of shouts and screams that slowly coalesced into a united cry of “Long live America!  Death to bad government! Death to the Gachupines!”

The next day Father Hidalgo left his church behind him and rode southwards. 700 men followed him.

***

The National Gazette, Philadelphia

The birth pangs of our nation being now behind us, it had been anticipated, that our country might expect, by virtue of the enlightened governance, of men chosen by the judgement of the people, in ways laid down by the ingenuity of representatives from each constituent state, to embrace a future of ever-increasing prosperity and power. It is a development scarcely to be conceived, that the executive of the United States, in whom is reposed the particular trust and wellbeing of the people, has instead publicly proclaimed an opinion so counter to these interests of his country that, undermining all the props of public security and individual liberty, it seems to threaten the political and moral world with a complete overthrow.

The European nation of Spain has long been an enemy at our borders, its people prisoned by popery and bowed down beneath the yoke of a monarch whose rights and powers approach to tyranny.  It has seized and held captive a very large proportion of the New World, whose inhabitants now stand in like case to our own in years past when we, who had laboured to bring forth from this rich soil a new and prosperous nation, were persecuted with unjust taxes and limitations, contrary to any principles of liberty and natural justice, by an oppressor both leagues and generations removed from our blood and labour.  The Spanish Crown has, more than this, forced itself into our sovereign concerns by harassing our own peaceable progress of commerce and offering armed insult across our properly constituted borders.

It results in no small confusion, to apprehend, that the Secretary of State who was once eager to carry us into a causeless war overseas with a Britain that in no way threatened the bodies or the livelihoods of our citizens, has become the President who speaks cravenly of peace with a Spain that, by illegal invasion, has robbed from our very native clay the homes of the citizens that he is sworn to protect.  Perhaps it is not completely a surprise to discover, in a leader whose military service has been conspicuous by its avoidance, a reluctance to engage with present dangers.  However if men cannot expect, from the executive, that their possessions and their persons be defended from unjust and improper despoilment, then the executive has failed of its most fundamental purpose.

More than that, the administration has gone so far as to calumniate those Americans, who in all propriety, have dared to stand up to the Spanish aggressors and, at hazard of their lives, to prosecute the war at which our executive has chosen to cavil.  Without the slightest foundation, those defenders of liberty have been repeatedly held up to the suspicions of the world as men directed by the most sordid views; who do not scruple to sacrifice the public to their private interest, their duty and honor to the sinister accumulation of power.

Mr Jefferson has said that Pandora’s casket has been opened, and all the evils of the world unleashed thereby.  Even if that were true - and it is a proposition entirely indefensible - the casket cannot be resealed; it is fortunate, then, that Colonel Burr has freed, alongside the trumpery of alleged chaos that has struck such terror into the weak-minded, significant reasons for hope.  The hopes that may be apprehended at this juncture are several, they are substantial, and I shall now show they are sensibly within the grasp of a vigorous executive:

[…]

Alexander Hamilton

***

To Alexander Hamilton, New-York

I write to you now from below-decks on the sloop Sparrow, two days embarked from Corpus Christi Bay.  Mr Jackson must be answerable to you for his expenses in carrying out his commission, for I am certain he has paid greatly over the odds for an ill-favoured vessel, noisome below, and prone to wallowing when the wind is from the wrong direction.  Myself and Mr Bollman await every day the happy hour when we should discover which direction the right one may be.

Nevertheless she has not yet cursed us all to the bottom of the sea, and I have some hopes that our little fleet may successfully attain Vera Cruz.  Myself and Jackson, that is, for I have left Adair and many of the Kentucky volunteers in the north por entretener the Spaniards there.  In Vera Cruz I anticipate an encounter with the indigenous rebels, who have lit up like gunpowder upon the application of a match and, by all report, are becoming very numerous.  I expect it shall not be difficult to find or make common cause with their leaders for our advance upon the capital city, especially with the happy prospect of entry to our United States an inducement to amicability.

I am as well as might be expected when I must go about all the commonplace business of sleeping and eating in an effluvium so nauseous I anticipate every moment a fatal suffocation.  I spend much of my time above-decks, so much so that I have become a veritable landmark for the crew, who cry out that such-a-thing is “a estribor del coronel” and make their disculpes when they must disturb my meditations in order to reach their ropes.

I may not reveal the means by which this letter is to reach the United States, for it is by way of a favour from a friend, one of several which he properly ought not to have granted me.  Suffice it to say that the same method shall not work in reverse, so if any of my movements so far have caused you dissatisfaction, you must wait to upbraid me for them.  At the moment I have a very probable expectation of being available to submit to such chastenings sometime about the middle of the year, something on the latter side.

I hope you and the family are well, and that our other affairs progress satisfactorily.

Adieu,

A. Burr

***

This was no longer a retreat, Swartwout realised as men sprinted past the horse he was struggling to turn back towards the enemy.  It was a rout.

Cannon boomed.  Men dropped around him.  His horse, raw and untrained to battle, half-reared and he almost wrenched his arms out of their sockets preventing a bolt.  “If you get into a test of strength with your mount, you have already lost” his equitation trainer had repeatedly told him; Swartwout would like to see the man find another way to control a barely familiar horse in this chaos. 

They could still win this.  They had the numbers.  If only the numbers would hold.  This was exactly why the Colonel had posted him out here, with Father Hidalgo's Mexicans; to keep the rebels from becoming a rabble the very moment things seemed to turn against them.  And he had failed.

No.  He hadn't failed yet.  He must not think like that.  He could still turn them, must turn them before they fell back upon the rest of the troops, channeled like a river in spate between the mountains, and a disciplined army turned itself into a roiling, clawing ball of animal passions that would doom them all.

“Hold here!” he shouted as loudly as he could, the dust kicked up by the battle tickling in his throat.  He dug his heels into his horse’s sides and forced it along the breaking lines.  “Advance!  They won’t shoot at their own men!”  A few men slowed, then a few more.  “For your liberty!” he half-screamed, his voice breaking.  Mexico City was so close.  He forced his horse forward through the press of bodies.  Slowly, reluctantly, only a small number yet between the hordes fleeing past them on either side, a few of the Mexican volunteers began to follow.

A cannonball punched through the backs of the men to his right, sending bodies sprawling.  In the chaos he couldn't hear their screaming, and he realised he would struggle to hear any bugle signals that sounded from behind.  The men he had rallied faltered again and he yelled exhortations at them, scarcely aware of what he was shouting, furious at their timidity, furious at this heat and dust that turned what uniforms there were into an identical shade of clay and made runnels of sweat down his face and into his eyes.  They only needed to break through this pass and the capital would be at their feet.  But it was all slipping away through his fingers.

Another volley of gunfire from ahead and the men he had gathered scattered, several stumbling as they careered into other men.  One went down, and a knot of fleeing troops ran over the place where he had been.  A faint brassy call sounded from far down the valley and Swartwout burned with frustration as he recognised the retreat. 

“Don't run!” he screamed.  “Fight the retreat!  Muskets…” but even if they had understood, half of those shouldering their way unseeingly past him had already discarded their muskets as so much unwieldy weight.  His horse backed, danced in place and whirled, a moment's inattention away from bolting. 

The retreat sounded again, nearer.  Swartwout ignored it as he tried to bodily reshape this disaster into something that might retreat without devastation.

Then the exodus of men around him slowed, even backed up a little, as if they had met some sort of obstacle.  And then suddenly they parted like the Red Sea and the familiar uniforms of Burr’s force erupted between them. 

“I had the retreat sounded, Captain Swartwout,” a well-known resonant tenor shouted almost in his ear, and Swartwout turned to see Burr himself rein in beside him.  “I suggest you obey it.  Gather your men as best you can; we’ll support you.”

“Colonel,” Swartwout yelled gratefully, unable to take his hand from his reins to salute. He started to turn his horse and suddenly the world crumpled around him, a chaos of colour and suffocating pressure followed by a rain of pebbles and, belatedly, a loud, dull crump that echoed in his chest cavity.  He was on his back, unable to move.  Agony shot through his body from his leg and belly; and then the weight that pinned him began to grind him against the dirt and he screamed, barely registering his horse finally managing to lurch to its feet and flee.

His head span and he seemed to be surrounded by movement; after a moment he was able to resolve it into hooves dancing perilously near his head.

“Colonel…” he worried weakly and his belly pulsed pain through him as he drew in breath.  But there was Burr still mounted above him, gripping the reins of his terrified horse with frozen tension as he stared into the distance with wide eyes, his face a rictus of…

Swartwout didn’t have time to place the expression.  Burr shuddered as though a chill had passed through him and looked about himself quickly, taking in the situation at a single glance and making a swift decision.  He leaned down to meet Swartwout's gaze.  “Get up with me,” he shouted.

Swartwout dragged himself into a sitting position, the movement blotting blackness across his vision.  He couldn't stand.  “Go,” he tried to shout, but Burr just continued to stare at him even as his horse shifted restively.  Occasionally he glanced over his shoulder.  He couldn't dismount, Swartwout knew how dangerous that would be in a mess like this, even if their men were temporarily holding the rout.

“Use my stirrup.” Burr sidled his horse closer and Swartwout was now almost under its hooves, an expanse of dusty belly above him cutting out the light.  He reached upward, felt metal and shiny leather, dragged himself up by his commander's boot until he was sagging against warm horsehide and the world was spinning as though he were drunk.  He felt his hand grabbed and placed on a hank of rough mane; he clutched at it and heaved weakly, feeling the edge of his belt bite into his pelvis as Burr grabbed it to yank him up like a sack of potatoes.  It cut like a line of fire through the ballooning pain in his belly and he screamed again; then he was retching bile against the horse’s hot neck even as he weakly scrambled to drag his unwilling leg across the withers that lurched and swayed under him.  The last thing Swartwout felt as the dark waves pulled him under was his commander's arm wrapping firmly around his waist, holding him on as the horse jolted into motion. 

***

From his position a little up the side of the valley, Bollman watched the chaos upslope with his heart in his mouth.  Somehow the entire army’s chain of command was lost in the chaotic swirl of men and beasts; wait, no, he could make out Jackson’s militia by their stability, slowly fighting a retreat and staying clear of the centre of the valley where the local rebels were streaming backwards in confusion.

He had lost track of Swartwout a long time ago amongst the insurgents and their leaders, and Dunbaugh had gone with Colonel Burr in his last-ditch attempt to salvage something that would prevent this mess becoming a massacre.  Far upslope, he could faintly hear the Spanish drums - a feeling, more than a sound - and knew they had started to advance.

He was so focused on the progress of the battle that it took a moment to notice the single horse trotting tiredly up to the command post, double-mounted.  A messenger?  He took a few steps downhill to meet the news, then a few more far more quickly, as he recognised Swartwout drooping over the horse’s neck and the smaller figure of Colonel Burr behind him.

“Mr Swartwout!” he cried, lifting his hands to help lower the injured man to the ground as Burr let his horse stumble to a halt beside him.

“He is dead, Dr Bollman.”  Burr’s tone was so conversational that it took Bollman a moment to understand his words.  Swartwout’s full weight dragged at his arms and he lowered him as gently as he could, kneeling quickly to press his fingers to the man’s neck.  It was hot, and damp, and smelled of gunsmoke and sweat; and there was not even the faintest flicker of movement against his fingertips.

Bollman stood again, slowly, looking down at the limp body.  With his head turned to the side, Swartwout looked oddly vulnerable.  They had celebrated his 22nd birthday only a month or two past, with bad whisky and willing women.  “I’m so sorry, Colonel Burr,” he said, feeling for a moment oddly separated from the noise and clamour all around them.  “How did he die?”

“How does any man die,” Burr brushed aside the query.  He dismounted and threw his horse’s reins to the negro boy who had run to meet him.  “Leave him.  The damned farmers are in rout and our regulars will be chewed to pieces if we continue like this.  We must act quickly.”

Bollman watched him stride away and felt as though he had been punched in the stomach.  For a moment it was hard to breathe, and not just from the tears he could feel welling in his eyes.  Then he gritted his teeth, swallowed his words down, and followed his commander.  As ordered.

Chapter Text

To Alexander Hamiton, New-York

Being as you will appreciate extremely occupied with my duties on the Bench I have been delayed in this Report, for which I must offer apology.

I have heard from the latest Ships from Central America a Rumour that Colonel Burr has received a Rebuke at the Capital & must now retreat north overland, the Sea being denied him by the Danger of Spanish Warships.  If there is any Truth in this Rumour it will be difficult to get Word thither, as the whole Country is Alive with Rebellion & thrown into Chaos.

I have great Hopes that this Rumour will prove to be Lies spread by the Spaniards to induce Despair among our Citizenry.  However Colonel Burr asked me to keep you informed of all that might occur, and my Affection for my Stepfather will not allow me to let pass even the smallest Thing, if it might be to his Advantage for you to hear it.

I have the Honour &c.

John Bartow Prevost

***

Hamilton glared at the latest letter from Merry.  Despite everything, Jefferson was still determined to reject British friendship in favour of appeasing the Spanish.

He didn't know why he was surprised.  Jefferson had always been a coward.  During the Revolutionary War he had abandoned Richmond to Benedict Arnold, and he had fled Monticello the moment he heard rumours that it would be assailed.  Of course he would seek peace with an invading force even as others fought and died for the cause of liberty he supposedly valued so highly.  It was the same cowardice for all he called it statesmanship, and Hamilton would not stop until all of the United States knew it.  Even some of Jefferson’s own vile faction, those who had once been his loyal pawns, had joined the clamour against him. 

Though clamour was all it was.  Jefferson had almost three years left of his term; the public will had no more hold on him than he permitted it, and apparently that was still less than his pusillanimity.  And it had been a long time since Hamilton had had influence within the government; not since Adams had, unspeakably, swept away his friends for their loyalty.  All he could do was hammer him from without, a barrage of criticisms that no man could withstand, that any true gentleman would have responded to by now by sending a friend with a message. 

If Jefferson even had friends.  Hamilton considered the prospect of severe little Madison appearing at his door with a challenge, and a bitter chuckle escaped him despite himself. 

“I am pleased to discover you well enough to laugh,” said a voice from the door, and Hamilton looked up to see Hosack in the doorway, Eliza hovering anxiously behind him. 

Hamilton sat up a little straighter against his pillows, and pushed the lap desk to the side.

“It was but a passing thought.  Thank you for coming, Dr Hosack, I appreciate your kindness.”

“Think nothing of it.” Hosack came fully into the room and placed his medical bag on the chair.  “The messenger said that you collapsed?”

“Only for a moment.  This -” Hamilton gestured to his bed, the half-drunk toast-water on a side table “- is caution, no more.”

“Hmm.”  Hosack tugged open the neck of his nightgown and slid his stethoscope beneath to listen.  Hamilton bore it patiently.

“Your lungs are sound as ever.  Your heart a little fast.  How are the usual troubles?”

“Vexing but no more so than I have become accustomed to.  I follow the diet that you have recommended and that experience has proven best, I do not overindulge, and I take your preparations when it occurs to me that they will be helpful.”

“And exercise and rest?  Or perhaps I should not ask, Ham, as I do not believe I have seen you above twice since the summer.”

“There is so much work to do,” Hamilton pointed out with some asperity.  “You know that I must still struggle to account for the debts in which I was left by my service to my country.  And in the current crisis…”

“I understand, Ham.  We all do.”  Hosack carefully packed his stethoscope back into its padded box.  “But your constitution is not strong, and you are working harder than even most young men would attempt.  I shall prescribe you a tonic, but I fear this was a warning that you are overworking yourself.  You could at least step back from the Harbour Committee?”

“Perhaps.”  Hamilton watched as Hosack drew a pad from his bag and quickly noted down the instructions for a preparation.  “I shall take some rest after I have replied to this morning's letters.”

Hosack did not look up, but his exaggerated sigh was definitely intended as a response.

“Dictate them and I shall write.”  Hamilton looked up in surprise to see Eliza come into the room, gracefully self-possessed.  “It will relieve you of at least the mechanical strain of writing, dear husband.

“And it will relieve me of some anxiety, for you must know the transports of worry the whole family is in over your health.”

Hamilton managed a fond smile at his wife, and reached towards her; she smiled in return and stepped close enough to the bed to take his hand, her own cool and gentle.  After a moment she turned to Dr Hosack.  “Thankyou, Dr Hosack.”  She took the slip of paper he handed to her.  “I shall have this preparation made up immediately.  May God bless you for your kindness to our family.”  Her hand shifted slightly within Hamilton’s, and he let it slide out so that she could show the doctor out of the house.

He glanced back at Merry’s letter.  This really was insupportable arrogance, and it put Burr in a bind neither of them had anticipated.  When he made it back - if indeed he was still alive to make it back -

“Alexander?”

Hamilton looked up again as Eliza sat down and pulled his lap desk to the edge of the bed.  She picked up the quill and looked at him questioningly.

“Thankyou, my angel.  This first, then, to Judge Marshall, Washington city.  And do beseech him, please, for an urgent response…”

***

“Nous devrions prendre Guadalajara,” Burr said, carefully and clearly, tapping the crude map for reference.

“ Si, estoy de acuerdo,” Hidalgo agreed.  Then he repeated himself in French, just to be certain.  “Oui, d’accord.”

Burr was already tracing out a suggested route to the city before Hidalgo finished.  The North American’s understanding of Spanish was improving, though he tended to speak it with a disconcertingly French accent.  It was, therefore, fortunate that they both spoke French, and that they had been working together for sufficient time now that minor differences in accent and phrasing were no longer confusing.

Even more fortunate, perhaps, that Father Hidalgo had a penchant for his church’s forbidden writers.  He had found common ground with Burr over Voltaire and Rousseau, enough to find satisfaction even in their disagreements.  Not exactly essential for military strategy - not that Hidalgo had ever thought he would need to be a strategist - but the personal sympathy was perhaps even more important given the situation that they were in.

He had been on pins for days after the catastrophic retreat from Mexico City.  He was bitterly aware that it was his own flock - as he still could not help thinking of the freedom fighters - that had turned a setback into disaster.  Even more bitterly aware that the resulting chaos had killed someone close to Burr.  But Burr had said nothing.  For days he had been too preoccupied with managing their withdrawal to speak to anyone but Jackson, but then he had emerged with his usual careful courtesy and new plans to recover the initiative.  Hidalgo had seized gratefully upon his tactful silence as one less worry in a campaign more full of them than he had ever anticipated. 

So now he listened with ferocious concentration as the North American Colonel outlined strategies.  They had once called Hidalgo a fox for his cleverness in college; it would be a fine sobriquet to earn again for cleverness in war.  For all he liked Burr, his people deserved to win their own freedom, for Mexico to join the Union - if it chose to do so - as a powerful equal.  Not to become the private fiefdom of a once-British man from the cold north.

It was far from cold now, even in the shade of Burr’s tent with the flaps tied up to catch the breeze.  They had almost lost the map to a stray gust; would have if Burr had not dived to the dust to recapture it without thought for his dignity.  Others might have thought it funny, but Hidalgo was well aware that, crude as it was, it was the only map they had that showed this area in any detail.  There were men from Guadalajara among his volunteers, of course - men who no doubt knew the country far better than this map did - but their knowledge could not be spread out on the table for contemplation, even if they spoke any language that the North American would understand.

“We need charts of the city,” the other man mused to himself, staring at the map as though it might resolve itself into one.  Then he looked up at Hidalgo, his dark eyes disconcertingly intense.  “Nous avons besoin des tracées de la ville.”

“Nous ne les avons pas.” As if Burr did not already know that.  “Peut-être qu'il y a des hommes qui connaissent l'endroit,” he offered.

“Bueno.  Lo hara.”

“Hará ,” Hidalgo absently corrected before going on to ask what they most needed to know about Guadalajara, and how that would affect the Colonel’s plans for the attack.

They were deep in a discussion of the particular difficulties of urban fighting when Burr’s valet quietly appeared with a pot of coffee.  He placed it on the side and then poured two cups, offering one to Hidalgo with self-effacing manners more suited to a drawing room than a military encampment.

Hidalgo accepted the cup, but fixed Burr with a glare.  They had already had one conversation about Burr’s ownership of the negro boy; a very unsatisfactory one.  But Burr’s expression was imperturbable as he waited for the young man to add sugar to his own coffee.

“Master, Dr Bollman wants to speak with you,” the boy said as he handed Burr the disgustingly sweet concoction.  “He says it’s important.”

Burr glanced up, and Hidalgo turned his head at the name to see the German doctor shifting impatiently just beyond the tent flap.  Hidalgo was not entirely certain what Bollman’s role was in Burr’s small force; he commanded no troops, and he had education and experience far beyond that required of a military surgeon.  But Burr valued him, that much was clear.  Perhaps he was nothing more than a trusted friend, and Hidalgo was coming to understand how important that could be, when engaged in a difficult and dangerous venture.  He nodded, and Burr nodded in turn to the negro boy.  “Bring him in.”

***

Bollman had never before gone hungry.  It was an odd and interesting sensation, ever-changing, from an uncomfortable emptiness within to a feeling of almost violent nausea to the fierce cravings for food that he had expected.  He kept a journal of it, out of curiosity; and how it made tempers short and labours half-hearted around the camp.

Burr had claimed it was not a problem; that men ate far more than they needed to anyway; that a little hunger sharpened the mind and fortified the body; and then he and Father Hidalgo had ridden out to yet another negotiation with one of the settlements near their route, even though the previous time they had returned only by the skin of their teeth after a Spanish ambush.

And yet when Dunbaugh’s patrol returned pulling a wagon laden with corn, Bollman insisted they place it under guard and make a tally rather than handing it out immediately to the hungry men.  And having watched them begin the task of recording, he made his way hastily to Burr’s tent.  He would not be a good doctor if he could not see the first signs of a wound turning sour.  Dunbaugh was supposedly a solid and experienced soldier, deserving of his promotion, but he was not Swartwout.

Burr had not mentioned Swartwout since the retreat.

Burr’s slave - Peter, was it? - lifted the flap and gestured Bollman into the tent with all the self-possessed courtesy one might expect of a gentleman’s gentleman, despite his youth.  Burr was coatless in the heat, wearing only a linen waistcoat over his shirt, although Father Hidalgo looked comfortable in the black uniform of his calling.  Bollman could smell coffee, but he shook his head quickly when the negro boy offered him the same.

“What has happened?” Burr’s voice drew Bollman’s attention away from the slave boy, much to his own relief.  They did not have this institution in Europe.  He did not know how to react, he preferred to ignore the slave; not easy when the boy was offering him coffee.  He was glad to be distracted.

“Serg- Captain Dunbaugh's patrol has returned with a wagon of provisions,” he responded quickly.  “We need them very badly, but…” he hesitated, much less sure of himself now that he had Colonel Burr’s full attention.  “I cannot say what it is that I mislike,” he said honestly.  “But I have learned to distrust what seems too convenient.”

“I do see,” was all that Burr said as he stood.  “The cleverness that almost saved the Marquis de Lafayette, I should have to be a very great fool to squander.”  He gestured and the negro boy hurried to take his jacket from a hook and help him into it - the same colours as the US uniform, but a shorter cut and double-breasted as was supposedly the latest British military style.  As the boy buttoned his coat he explained the issue briefly to Father Hidalgo, in a mixture of broken Spanish and rather better French that Bollman almost understood.  Hidalgo looked gloomier than ever, but after a short exchange he made his way out of the tent, with a short nod to Bollman.

Burr turned to Bollman.  “Show me this wagon,” he said shortly, and Bollman nodded and led him out. 

A short way up the creek, above the muddy, broken bank that marked where they had watered the few horses, Captain Dunbaugh was standing by the New Orleans clerk who served them as quartermaster, muttering comments as the man made quick notations in his ledger.

“If you wouldn't mind waiting here,” Burr said in a quiet aside before approaching the pair.  Bollman halted, watching with some curiosity.

Burr glanced over the scribing, made a comment to the quartermaster and spoke briefly to Dunbaugh.  Then he strolled over to the men who were heaving sacks into distinct heaps, coatless in the southern heat and with their grubby shirts damp across the back and beneath the arms.  He bade them pause, offered his canteen to one who looked almost exhausted, and spoke to them courteously, though softly enough that Bollman could not hear what they said.  Bollman wondered again at Burr’s ability to be at ease in any situation, even as here; a northern city politician in the midst of rough Kentucky woodsmen.  However Dunbaugh was progressively looking rather less comfortable.  Eventually he tried to interrupt, but Burr held up a hand to silence him without so much as turning his head. 

Bollman swallowed, feeling as though a shadow had come between him and the burning Mexico sun.

Burr gave an order, clipped and categorical, and the men hesitated, almost mutinously, before reversing their motions and reloading the cart.  Ignoring Dunbaugh entirely, he returned to Bollman.

“Thankyou for bringing this to my attention,” he said almost conversationally.  “If you could speak to the remaining officers, and put together a patrol of men who have dined, I should be gratified.  These things must be returned, and apology made.”

“You will not go yourself?” Bollman was astonished.  Burr was normally meticulous in matters that touched his honour. 

“I must speak with Dunbaugh.”  Burr’s tone was still conversational.  If he was angry, it did not show on his face, either. 

“What will you do to him?”

“I have not yet reflected maturely.”  Burr’s expression was distant as he watched his men work, though he now and again glanced across at Dunbaugh.  “I should appreciate it if you could be quick, Dr Bollman.”

Bollman’s instinct was to protest the curt dismissal, however politely it had been phrased.  A stronger instinct told him not to. 

By the time he returned, exhausted and angry, from the looted farm, Dunbaugh was confined under guard.  Burr had retired to his tent to work, and was seeing no one.

***

Hellfire.  Peter thought the word with emphasis, then thought it again, savouring the illicit pleasure.  Doubly forbidden, for a valet and a slave.

However even as he thought it he slid out of his blankets, trying to keep his hurry quiet.  Immediately, he banged his knee against the pot he had not put away properly last night.  At least it was the pot he needed.  If he were lucky, last night's fire would still be hot and he could stir it up quickly from the glowing embers.

Slipping out of the small tent he shared with many of his master’s possessions, Peter looked anxiously at the sky.  It was not getting light, yet; if he could get the water boiled quickly, he might not be late to wake master Burr.  Assuming the master needed waking at all, for often he found him already up and writing by the dim light of a single candle.  Either way, he did not tolerate lateness.  And though he had never taken a whip to Peter’s back, he had a way of putting one in his voice.

The water was slow to boil on these wood fires, far slower than on the stove where Peggy had once taught him to make coffee.  He used the time to go in and put his outer clothes on over the shirt in which he had slept, rolling and contorting to get everything pulled on in the tiny space.  When he got out again the water was still cool enough to test with his finger, but now there was a pallor on one side of the sky that would develop rapidly into full daylight.  Master Burr had explained, once, why dawn happened so much faster here than in New York, and Peter had apprehended that it was something to do with the complex geography of Sun and Earth, and nodded confident understanding in the hope that it would not be explained again.  What was important was that it meant he did not have much longer; and it would be better for the water to be a little cool, he decided, than for him to be tardy.

When Peter entered his master’s much larger tent he could immediately hear the slow, slightly raspy breathing of deep sleep.  He moved through the darkness by memory until he could set the hot water and razor down conveniently near his master’s cot, then fumbled to find the usual candle and quickly ducked back out again to light it at the fire.

Master Burr was still asleep when he returned, which was no surprise.  Over the past few years Peter had become accustomed to his master’s irregular habits.  He did not know why master Burr did not normally wake him for assistance when he went to bed in the early hours of the morning, although he was glad of it; but on the rare occasions he slept late he was often hard to rouse, and Peter could not help but feel a guilty glee every time he was forced to roughly shake the man who owned him.

It was no different this morning.

“Master,” he called softly, two or three times, before touching master Burr’s shoulder.  Master Burr snorted a little, but his eyes stayed closed and his mouth slack and open.  Peter touched his shoulder again, but this time there was no response at all.  Sighing, he nudged the blanket down and grasped master Burr’s shoulder firmly, his own dark hand looking strange against his master’s pale skin.  He shook him, then again, so hard his head rolled and bounced on the pillow.

Master Burr grimaced and he closed his mouth, swallowing, then slowly forced one eye open.  The other followed a second later and he squinted confusedly at Peter for a few moments before closing them again.

“Master?” Peter said, a little uncertain as to whether master Burr was awake or not.

Master Burr made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan and raised his hands to rub the sleep from his eyes.  He rolled onto his side, started to prop himself up on one elbow, winced as the movement pulled out several strands of hair he’d managed to trap under his arm, and then opened his eyes again.  “What is it?” he asked indistinctly.

“It’s morning, master,” Peter said simply, and master Burr groaned again before dragging himself up into a sitting position.  Satisfied that his master was at least passably awake, Peter started to tidy the tent from the previous day’s conferences and to lay out master Burr’s uniform, one eye always on where his master had stumbled to his feet and was washing his face, arms and chest, so that he could be ready with the razor before the water cooled.

Master Burr sat down and Peter quickly joined him.

“Today, my appearance must be unexceptionable,” master Burr instructed, without further explanation.  Peter lathered his jaw and started to scrape, very carefully, at the short black and silver bristles.  His mind ran in hasty circles wondering how he was to make his master look any better than he normally did, when the hours master Burr kept hadn’t even given him a chance to brush down his uniform.

At least he had a clean shirt, and in all this sunshine Peter had even managed to bleach out some of the marks.  A fashionably knotted cravat, instead of a buckled stock?  Master Burr stayed silent as he worked, his gaze distant, and Peter hoped that indicated approval.  Finally he combed oil through his master's long hair - slowly working it through the many sweat-knotted tangles that indicated a restless night - and clubbed the back carefully to keep the oil from marking the collar.

“What are you doing?” Burr asked mildly.

Peter's fingers twitched slightly at being so suddenly and unexpectedly addressed.  “Master, I have no powder here, nor a wig.  I had thought that if I styled your hair differently from usual, perhaps that might…” he was not entirely sure how to articulate his thought, but the short ‘hmm’ sound that master Burr made in response did not sound like disapproval for once.  So he continued.

The sun had risen by the time he had made his master look as neat as he could.  But he did not know of any valet’s tricks that could hide the tired bags under his master’s eyes, or the slight languor of motions that were usually sharp. 

“Master, shall I make breakfast?” he asked. 

“No, I have no appetite today,” master Burr said briefly and absently.  Then his gaze suddenly returned from wherever it had been and he focused intently on Peter.  “Stay here, or in your tent, until I instruct you otherwise.  There may be some minor trouble.”

Peter's heart thudded with a sudden mix of fear and indignation.  They were in an army camp; even minor ‘trouble’ could become very bad indeed.  If anything happened to his master, he would be anybody's for the taking.

He considered what might happen if he ran.  He had access to camping gear, food, even maybe a gun; he could get far away with that if everyone was occupied.  Except that he had nowhere to go, and he could not even speak the tongue of this country.  And… he was curious.

“Master, let me come with you,” he surprised himself by saying, and found himself suddenly hoping that maybe his bravery might impress his master.  

“I am unlikely to have a need for emergency valeting,” master Burr said cuttingly, and Peter’s momentary daydream shredded at the familiar lash in his master’s voice.  “Remain here.  You may study your grammar if you wish.”

If he wished.  Of course.  As if it were a suggestion instead of another order.  Somehow he was expected to read a pointless, tedious book instead of watching whatever was going on out there.

Master Burr was watching him, waiting.  “Yes, master,” Peter managed to choke out.

Master Burr nodded once, and walked out into the awakening camp.

Chapter Text

Bollman watched Burr step up onto the ammunition crate, and tried to hide his apprehension.  Beside him Jackson shifted restlessly, apparently still in disagreement with the decision they had discussed this morning.  Burr himself was confident, almost relaxed, for all that his skin and eyes showed he had had even less rest than usual. 

Immediately before them, between Burr and the formed-up ranks of the various groups under his command, stood his own troop’s newly-promoted Captain, flanked by a pair of the western volunteers.  Bollman glanced over the carefully spaced ranks behind Dunbaugh, noticing with slight surprise that they were arranged a little differently from usual; the army men who had taken their furloughs with Dunbaugh in order to join this project were scattered among the others, rather than standing together as they normally did.  He wondered whose idea that had been.  In the circumstances, it was an undeniably good one.

Father Hidalgo stood on Burr’s other side, with a few of his men.  They had been invited to witness this.  Father Hidalgo usually looked gloomy; it was hard to say whether he was any more so this morning than usual.

“Are you hungry?” Burr called out, suddenly, his voice carrying without shouting.  He lifted his eyebrows as he stared down at his men.  Bollman stiffened a little, unbelieving, as the quiet became a velvet silence.  “Well?”  Burr’s voice was almost conversational.  “Are you?”

There was a low, unhappy muttering from many of the men, though none dared entirely answer.

“You are hungry,” Burr answered himself.  “As am I.  I am as hungry for bread as any other man.” He paused only for a moment, his voice becoming fierce.  “But I am also hungry for land.  I am hungry for honour.  I am hungry for this rich country” - he swept out an arm - “that is trodden under an oppressor’s boot-nails.  I am hungry to return home clad in the raiment of glory, of bold deeds, done always with the sanction of my own conscience.  I am hungry for a reputation of distinction that my grandchildren will bear with justified pride down all the days until we rise first in rank before the last trump.  What are you hungry for?”

Bollman stared at Burr, rapt despite himself as the commander lifted his chin a little, aloof and demanding.

“A man worthy of the name can endure a little of the ordinary hunger,” he said, a little more conversationally.  “In service of the greater.”

His gaze flicked down to Dunbaugh, and his face lost all expression.  “We make no war upon the Mexican people,” he said flatly.  “It is my intent that they will soon be our countrymen.  There are words for those who rob and despoil their countrymen, and laws and courts that mete out the proper vengeance for it. 

“Here, that rule is mine.  Captain Dunbaugh, you took oath with me, and you have broken it.  I gave orders, and you betrayed them, and betrayed your men.  Tell me, Mr Dunbaugh, was one miserable meal worth the eternal stain of dishonour and disapprobation?”

Dunbaugh started to shout something, but one of his guards hit him hard behind the knee with the stock of his musket, and he choked on his words as he fell to one knee.  Behind him, Bollman saw several men tense, glancing at their neighbours; but none seemed quite encouraged to take the next step, out of line.

Burr stepped down from the crate and strolled towards Dunbaugh, who quickly scrambled back to his feet.

Burr drew a short knife, and again there was an arrested motion from various soldiers in the group, but again none of them seemed quite willing to be the first to act.  Burr ignored the movement, if he even noticed it.  Instead he grasped Dunbaugh by the shoulder, inserted the tip of the knife under the edge of his epaulette of rank, and ripped.

From off to one side, there was the slow beat of a drum.  Dunbaugh’s eyes went wide, and he twisted away from Burr, protestations and justifications falling over themselves from his mouth.  The two guards held him as their commander methodically tore all indications of rank from his uniform.  When he had finished, he glanced back at Bollman; who, prepared for his part, stepped forward with razor in hand.  The guards continued to hold their prisoner as Bollman sawed the blade roughly through Dunbaugh’s hair, the locks on one side falling away but still bound with the rest in his queue.  With half his scalp stubbled and a curtain of brown hair dragging from his ribbon he looked bedraggled and pathetic. 

Bollman backed away, noticing as he did that Burr had stepped back onto his crate and was watching impassively.  The pair of Kentucky men then, with a level of violent satisfaction that made Bollman wonder about relations between the furloughed soldiers and the woodsmen volunteers, yanked Dunbaugh's coat off, reversed it, and shoved it back on, missing one arm when he refused to cooperate.  Then, with his coat still hanging roughly from his shoulders, they turned him and shoved him towards the drawn-up men.

Dunbaugh lifted his head, pulling together enough pride to stand and walk without being forced down between the ranks.  Some men drew back, some spat upon him, some reached out - but were pushed back by his guards.  The drum beat slowly as he was paraded back and forth, and Bollman could see his shoulders beginning to shake, could hear in the silence between beats the hitching of his choked breath.  He felt no pity, though he could feel Jackson shift restlessly beside him.

Dunbaugh came to the end of the lines.  His guards took him a few paces further on then shoved him roughly, so that he stumbled to his knees.  Then they turned their backs on him.  The drumming stopped.  Sergeants called their men to them, started to give instructions for taking down tents and packing up gear.  Their little army would be on the move again by afternoon.  Dunbaugh turned his head to watch the bustle and movement, still on his knees, his face wet and agonised.  But as time passed and nobody came to him, he pulled himself to his feet, moving like an old man, and staggered slowly away. 

Bollman turned from him in disgust, and went looking for Burr.  Who now had not one but two officers to replace.

***

To Alexander Hamilton, New-York

I have considered at length the questions that you have placed before my attention, but before I proceed to response it must be understood that my statements here given are strictly extrajudicial, and that for any gentleman to adduce this private opinion in any legal argument must be viewed by the judges with an eye of extreme severity, and would be an act long recollected with regret.

I shall not presume to lecture you about the purpose of the Neutrality Act of 1794, but it must be noted that in any case arising from the actions of Colonel Burr it would undoubtedly be argued by counsel that the intent of this act was exactly to prevent or to chastise the variety of enterprise commonly known by the name ‘filibuster’, such as were at the time feared on the part of Republican partisans of the revolutionary French.  The scope of the Act is broad and it seems unlikely that there would be any question of its applicability to an indictment based upon the actions of Colonel Burr prior to and subsequent to the engagement of forces between countries, not then declared at war, at the Sabine River.

The critical terms are these: “If any person shall within the territory or jurisdiction of the United States begin or set on foot or provide or prepare the means for any military expedition or enterprise ... against the territory or dominions of any foreign prince or state of whom the United States was at peace that person would be guilty of a misdemeanor.”

It is in my experience unprofitable to attempt to predict, antecedent to the event, the courses of argument that will be taken by counsel.  However the natural import of most of these words is such, that I do not foresee difficulty to any prosecutor in applying them to Colonel Burr’s enterprise.  In this I may of course be mistaken; your own ingenuity should not be constrained by any presumptions of my own.  

This leaves the phrase ‘at peace’.  The point must be weighed very deliberately, before a judge would venture to decide that two states were at peace, between which an act of war had been committed.  But on the converse side it is scarcely conceivable that two states could be considered ‘at war’ where the chief magistrate, within whose explicit power lies the responsibility of levying war, had declared unambiguously that skirmishing at the border did not constitute such a war.  Whether this consideration has borne any weight in Mr Jefferson’s decision in making those declarations, is not within my power to ascertain nor is it germane to the matter under question.  My opinion is that any judge, hearing a case of this nature, would be remiss if he did not hear arguments to the fullest extent before venturing an opinion.

Independent of any personal or privileged intercourse, trusting only to the dictates of reason, it is not possible to say whether there is any intention on the part of the chief magistrate to invoke the Act of 1794 against Colonel Burr.  However it is my opinion that should he choose to do so, leaving aside any considerations beyond the purely judicial, the chances of obtaining a conviction on that ground would be rather more than otherwise.  

Additionally, although I dislike volunteering an opinion unasked, I should be remiss if I did not bring also to your attention the possibility that it might further be practicable to seek to indict men who merely supported Colonel Burr’s venture from afar, and this by the wording of the Act itself without invoking any English precedents of conspiracy.  It should of course be a blow to certain interests did Mr Jefferson succeed.

With sincerest regard and esteem

Your obedient servant

J. Marshall

***

Various newspapers, January-March 1806

NAPOLEON DEFEATS AUSTRIAN ARMY AT AUSTERLITZ

CARLOS IV, KING OF THE SPAINS AND THE INDIES, DECLARES A STATE OF WAR WITH THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

COL BURR CAPTURES GUADALAJARA

GENERAL WILKINSON RECALLED TO WASHINGTON CITY, REPLACED BY THOMAS POSEY

SPANISH FORCES ASSAIL AMERICAN PATRIOTS AT SAN ANTONIO

NEW ORLEANS UNDER SIEGE

PRESIDENT JEFFERSON ANNOUNCES ALLIANCE WITH BRITAIN

***

“A negro militia?” Troup repeated, astonished.

“It is an opportunity not to be missed,” Hamilton enthused, gesturing emphatically, “to demonstrate that their natural faculties are as good as ours.  And to show in addition that their capacity for assuming the greater responsibilities that come with freedom, whose supposed lack is frequently urged as reason to deny them a full measure of liberty, is not inferior to ours.”

This sounded oddly familiar.  Troup stared unseeingly at the ink-sketch landscape hung on the wall of his study as he tried to remember.  Had it been brought up in some late-night, brandy-fuelled speculation at the Manumission Society?  He was sure it had been, but even then it had seemed to ring a bell.

“Where have I heard that before?” he finally gave up and asked.

“It was the passionate project of my dear Laurens, back in the Revolutionary War.”  Hamilton’s expression softened into regret.  “The idea of a regiment of blacks was always opposed by the other representatives.  There was too much opposition from prejudice and self-interest.”

“Laurens…” Troup cast his mind back, trying to remember.  “Did he serve with you in Washington’s family?  Wait, was it not he who went to France with Mr Paine?”

“Yes.  Even looking back from such a space of years, he was one of the greatest men I have known,” Hamilton said softly, spreading his hands wide.  “Gentle in speech and manner, steadfast in his passions, and bold in both vision and action; his qualities were inestimable, dear Bobby.”  He took a few thoughtful steps forward, his slight figure seeming to blink in and out of existence as he moved through the shadows and shafts of pearly late-winter light coming in through the window.  Then he turned back to Troup. “I cannot sufficiently describe to you the extent to which our nation must regret his untimely loss, for had he been with me at the Continental Congress the South could not have prevailed against us, and that abominable three-fifths compromise, that has been the origin and preservation of so much mischief, instead of being enshrined in our foundations, must have been discarded from serious consideration.”

Troup mentally prepared himself for his friend to expound further upon the flawed nature of the Constitution, but instead Hamilton fell silent, his brows pulled a little together.  Even his hands were almost still, his fingers tapping gently against his thighs.  “I loved him immoderately,” he admitted at last.  

Hamilton rarely spoke about Laurens.  “I know, Ham,” Troup said gently.  He stood and pulled his friend into an embrace.  “You do love immoderately.  You do all things immoderately, so why should friendship be any exception?  I should be very glad if I were remembered so fondly.”

“You will be remembered fondly by many, Bobby.  And if you choose to fish for compliments, you shall find yourself drowning in an embarrassment of them.”

Hamilton pulled away, and to Troup’s relief he was smiling again.  “You also cannot think I have failed to notice your lack of a response to my proposition.”

Troup sighed and raised his hands in mock apology as he stepped back.  “Inevitably, Ham, you have me hollow.  I support the idea, of course I do.  But who is to recommend the formation of such a regiment?  Who is to find financiers for it?  Who will convince free blacks to join?  Who will drill them and train them?  I dread the moment you tell me that you have considered taking charge of the project yourself.”

Inevitably I have considered it,” Hamilton admitted, and his cheeks creased with a self-amused smile.  Troup gave a dramatic groan and sank his head into his hands.  “But no, Bobby, I have too many irons already in the fire to entrust this enterprise into my care alone.  Even if my other commitments allowed of it, it would be cruelty to take more hours away from my family, who have suffered enough in years before from my want of attention.

“No, I will need assistance.  Preferably a man of military bent, and experience of administration.  And, it need scarcely be said, one who is violently in favour of manumission.  The scheme is more susceptible of success among the free negroes of New York, than it ever was to black slaves in South Carolina, where the planters have no motive to voluntarily part with a property so vital to their business.  But there will be opposition nevertheless, and a man who takes up the project lightly, out of mere obligation, or to curry favour, will be deterred by obstacles of similar smallness to his sincerity.”

Hamilton’s gaze was intent.  “When I was young I believed it would be easy to find support for projects of such obvious virtue and worth.  Experience has taught me that man is a fickle and inconstant creature, slave to base passions and a greed for wealth, with but few exceptions.”

Troup would have to be an idiot not to see where this was going.  And while he knew Hamilton’s genius was humblingly far beyond him, few people - at least, few people who weren’t arguing with him in court - would call him an idiot.

“I hardly cut a military figure,” he observed drily, resting his hands on his belly.

“Then perhaps you have not recently seen the senior officer of our army,” Hamilton riposted with a barbed amusement.  “If indeed General Wilkinson still retains that title. 

“I am not asking you to lead the charge against any invasion, Bobby,” he continued before Troup could respond.  “Though I know that you would come with me into battle, if the Union asked it of you,” he added, and his eyes crinkled slightly with a smile of genuine fondness.  “But you were with me in the Hearts of Oak, and you were secretary to the War Office; you concurred with me in the slavery motion we put forward to the Manumission Society.  If there is a man in New York whose skills, inclinations and experience are more fitted to this role, I have not met him, and nor do I anticipate doing so.”

Troup closed his eyes.  Hamilton was not flattering him, he knew.  He was not sure Hamilton knew how to flatter.  His talented friend genuinely believed that he was the best person for this daring idea.  But this project would be difficult and arduous, even with Hamilton’s sanction and (undoubtedly) detailed guidance.

Still.  A little flutter of warmth kindled in his chest.  Maybe this was a way in which he, though no Hamilton or Burr, could make a small mark upon the world of his own?

“Very well, Ham.  If you need it, I’ll do my best.”

***

To Alexander Hamilton, New York

[…]

Finally, I have heard of an interesting circumstance relating to Col Burr.  It seems that, in contravention of early reports, it was not he himself who came to the aid of our embattled forces at Natchitoches, but instead a protégé whom he had seduced with promises of glory.  And where was the Colonel himself while his young friend was endangering himself in bloody battle - but in the arms of a distressed lady of the town!

This story has been told to me by several acquaintances, some of them the most trustworthy.  Col Burr has a high reputation as a military man, but I have not forgotten the confidences you disclosed to me during the electoral crisis of 1800, in particular the circumstance that his reasons for quitting the service at a critical period in our affairs were so slender and doubtful.  This encourages me to believe in the veracity of this account, and others of our faction agree that it were best to wait and learn the full truth of events before committing to any alliance of convenience.

I have the honour to be

Your friend,

James Bayard

Chapter Text

“I shall destroy him,” Hamilton snarled, his clenched fist pounding the air.  “The snake does not slough his skin, and I am too intimately and personally familiar with Jefferson’s mode of calumny to mistake his authorship.  He is an infamous scoundrel, incapable of any form of rectitude, and it is my religious duty to drag him before what justice may still be susceptible of appeal in this unfortunate Union.”

He whipped round to stalk across the room again, and Eliza stared, appalled, as her husband’s hands clawed as though squeezing at the President’s throat.  His colour was high and his waistcoat askew where he had pulled at it.  She had not seen him in such choler since… Adams, perhaps?  Or Monroe?

“Alexander,” she tried uncertainly.

“I shall rip him down from the exalted position that he is disgracing with his inanity and injustice and see him ruined,” he continued, apparently not hearing her.  “It is beyond insult that he has so abused and misrepresented my own words for his personal animadversions!  And once again he dare not attach his name to his words, but seeks to cut better men by whispers and slanders that admit of no easy confrontation.”  Hamilton struck his thigh.  “He is a coward and I shall call him so, before the world…”

“Alexander!”

He stuttered to a halt and looked at her, astonished.

“You cannot duel him,” she said, lading her words with as much emphasis as her voice would stand.

“As if he would meet me in any case,” Hamilton scoffed.  “The man is a coward.”  She stared at him in shock at the implication, and his expression changed.  “I would not,” he hastily corrected himself.  “I am philosophically opposed to the principle; I am a Christian, it is not possible that I should desire the blood of any man upon my hands.  I have been pressed to it in the past, contrary to my desire, through the exigencies of circumstance, and the result was as regrettable as my judgement had predicted. But you, my dear Eliza, are blessedly of a gentle and womanly temperament; it is not conceivable that you should apprehend the passions now arrayed in my breast at this impudence.”  The last word was hissed.

Eliza opened her mouth to ask what Jefferson had done to elicit such rage, then decided firmly that it was not important.  “I worry for you,” she said honestly instead.  “It distresses me to see you so overwrought.  Please, Alexander, think of me, if you cannot think of yourself.  Do not allow wrath to triumph over your kind spirit.”

“My dear little wife,” Hamilton said, a little more gently, “It is no virtue in a man to sit idle while his words are misused and abused to the slander of his friends.  This, Mr Jefferson has done, and he shall inevitably recapitulate his animadversions, for the advantages they give him, unless someone should issue him a rebuke. It cannot be overlooked, that in so seeking to criminate Colonel Burr in the understanding of the capricious multitudes, he has, by the exploit of words that were, at the time of use, justly sanctioned by political rivalry, brought my own honour into contention.”

“I know you must defend your honour,” Eliza said a little tiredly.  A man’s reputation was everything; it was his entry into politics, business and good society, of course she knew that.  But surely a man of her husband’s distinction could ignore the odd pinprick without loss of standing?  “But I beg of you, please do nothing hasty, or in temper.  The public does not always see you as your friends do.”  She was not going to bring up the Adams Pamphlet.  It would only anger her husband further.

“The consequences redouble with every moment this rumour goes unchecked,” Hamilton dismissed her.  He continued to pace, his fingers clutched in his hair, disarranging it, as he thought.  “One man tells two more, then one pens a letter and soon the world thinks Colonel Burr is a craven; and worse, that it is I that have called him so!  Is it possible that Jefferson is ignorant of my awareness of his own departures from strict morality?  If he wishes to contend in so personal a fashion, he has more reason for apprehension than I, who have already suffered the baring of my sins.”

“Please, Alexander,” Eliza begged again, hating the necessity.  “At least speak to someone before you do what cannot be undone.  Surely you can trust Mr Troup.  Or Mr Morris.  There can be no harm in unburdening yourself to a friend.”

“I already know what Bobby would advise,” Hamilton commented sourly.  “He has never been put to the necessity of defending himself, from unwarranted attacks, purposed to the object of destroying his public character.  I cannot be passive, my dear Eliza; I must act.”

She wished she knew what drove her husband in these moods.  She wished he would stop. But she could not argue with him.  “Do you not have an essay to write, first, exhorting national manumission?” she said instead. 

“Yes, and that is another subject on which…” Hamilton brought himself up short, his lips still pursed as suddenly his eyes widened.  “I suddenly apprehend how this may best be done.  Thankyou, my angel!” And he stepped quickly forwards to grasp her hands and kiss her, his lips dry and hot against her own.  For a moment her breath caught; even after twenty five years, even after eight children, her breath caught. 

Then he spun away to his desk, quickly and efficiently stacking his correspondence to make space to spread out his writing kit.  Eliza watched for only a moment before quietly withdrawing, knowing that he had already forgotten she was there.

***

The Negro Problem

A Disquisition upon the Unalienable right to Liberty

And a remedy to the peculiar hindrances attending mass manumission

It seems scarcely to admit of controversy, that an institution in which one man is placed from birth into the service of another, who thereafter has an ultimate power over his existence, that we should be averse to placing in the hands of even the most benevolent of parents, is an organism most undesirable.  This is not an institution that was requested by the people of this country; nor chosen by the makers of its constitution; nor was the populace ever consulted as to the wisdom of its installation or the consequences that might proceed therefrom.  Notwithstanding, there are those who argue that the enslavement of negroes is a necessity not merely economic, but for the aversion of numerous ills.  Each of these shall now be considered fully and answered.

[...]

It is often proposed, that a greater freedom on the part of negroes, shall result in an increase in miscegenation.  Allowing, for the present, that this is a thing undesirable, it must be enquired why this should be the consequence.  The contempt we have been taught to entertain for the blacks, makes us fancy many things that are founded neither in reason nor experience; it is a fact, rarely recognised, that the enforced proximity of enslavement is rather an inducement towards intimacy than otherwise.  It is easier for the owner of a female negro to use his power to use her as a species of wife - even to father upon her children - than if she, in a state of liberty, were able to follow her natural urges and cleave to her own kind.  Inevitably, self-interest demands that the man exploiting himself of such a situation should oppose, any attempt to provide freedom to the woman, who is otherwise completely under his control.  Even more reluctant would he be to provide liberty to the unfortunate children of such a union, inheriting their mother’s slavery, who if free could by their mere existence testify to his misdeeds.  This is not an argument merely hypothetical, but of which, even among the foremost in society, concrete examples may be furnished.

[...]

Alexander Hamilton

***

Various newspapers, April-May 1806

BRITISH SHIPS ASSIST IN RELIEF OF NEW ORLEANS

RHINELAND STATES SIGN TREATY WITH FRANCE

COLONEL ADAIR RETREATS FROM SAN ANTONIO

COLONEL BURR’S WHEREABOUTS STILL UNKNOWN

***

When Burr had left Hidalgo in the south and struck out towards the north, it had been with the intention of linking up with Adair.  He had not expected to have to march nearly to Nacogdoches to do so - nor that there would be a Spanish army in the way.

Smashing into the unsuspecting rear of that army, however, had been sufficiently satisfying as to be almost worth all the trouble.

Now he and Jackson rode across what had, only an hour ago, been a battlefield.  The trampled grass was yellow with dust; he could feel it coating his throat, and he was briefly wracked by a fit of coughing that bent him over his horse’s neck before he could hack up the phlegm and continue.  The open plain was quiet now but for the occasional groan or shout; a few figures moved among the bodies, succouring the living, looting the dead.

A small group of mounted men cantered out from the Union camp to meet the two of them, dust rising like smoke from their horses’ hooves.  He was growing a little tired of heat and dust.  He would almost welcome a good, healthful northern winter.

The men slowed as they approached, and a single man - a lieutenant-colonel, from the fringe on his epaulettes - separated himself out, his horse turning side-on and forcing Burr to rein his own mount to a stop.  He heard Jackson muttering something uncomplimentary beside him.

“Might you be Colonel Burr, sir?” the lieutenant-colonel asked politely.  This close, Burr could see how young he was for his rank.  He did not recognise him as one of Wilkinson’s aides, but that meant little several months into an armed conflict.

“I have that fortune, good or bad,” he confirmed good-humouredly.  “You are an aide to the general, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir.  I have been asked to escort you to him.”

Burr nodded.  “Pray lead on,” he said easily, nudging his horse to ride alongside as the other men fell in around them.  Jackson joined them on the other side, and the three exchanged desultory small talk about the recent battle as they rode.

The camp was some way behind the battlefield.  Soldiers slumped in attitudes of overheated exhaustion while a few men hurried about between the dirty white tents, one misjudging his dash across the main thoroughfare and almost ending up under the hooves of Jackson’s horse.  They dismounted before the largest tent, and Burr tossed his reins to one of the men loitering nearby as his weary horse dropped its head to lip desultorily at the trodden grass. Jackson followed suit.

“Colonel Burr, General,” announced the lieutenant-colonel as he preceeded them into the tent, and then stepped smartly aside.  Burr entered, with Jackson at his shoulder, his hand already outstretched in greeting - but Wilkinson was nowhere to be seen.  He glanced briefly around, but Wilkinson would be a hard man to miss.  He was not present in this tent.  Instead, Adair was advancing with another man, his features somewhat familiar but not in this context…

Burr let none of his confusion show on his face.  Instead he stepped confidently forward to take this new man’s hand and shake it firmly.  “General.”  That much was clear from the plume in his cocked hat, and the star on his epaulettes.

“Mr Burr.  I am sorry to meet again under such difficult circumstances.”

The aftermath of a victorious battle was not usually considered ‘difficult circumstances.’  Burr raised one eyebrow.  “And yet I am very glad of our meeting,” he commented.  “General Posey.”  The man's identity came to him all of a sudden; a veteran, like himself, of the Revolutionary War, and one for whom Jefferson held a high regard.  But Posey had held no rank in the US army prior to the war.  It seemed he had missed some important political manoeuvrings.

He would have to question Adair.  He glanced across at his ally, but Adair’s attention seemed to have been caught by something off to the side.  They could talk later.  “Please allow me to introduce my good friend Major-General Jackson of the Tennessee Militia.”

“General Jackson.”  Posey shook Jackson's hand as well.  “That simplifies some matters.”  He took a deep breath and clasped his hands tensely in front of him. 

“Colonel Burr, I am afraid I must inform you that I have orders to take you into custody and escort you north for trial.”

“What?” Jackson erupted beside him, but Burr held up a hand for silence.

“On what ground, sir?”  Something had clearly gone very, very wrong while he had been out of contact.  Where was Wilkinson?

“That you violated the Neutrality Act and incited a war.”

“That is a civil offence,” Burr spotted immediately.  “I am not subject to any military authority; I invoke all the rights of any free citizen who is under accusation of wrongdoing.  I am willing, sir, to proceed to New Orleans for trial,” he allowed.  Hopefully John Bartow was still at New Orleans.

General Posey looked uncomfortable.  “I have my orders, sir.  I am afraid I must follow them.  Colonel Burr, I must request that you go with the lieutenant-colonel.  General Jackson, please remain; we must speak.”

Burr could hear shuffling from beyond the tent flap behind him.  The friends he had thought himself surrounded by had unexpectedly transformed into enemies, and here he was in the centre of their camp.  He swiftly weighed his options.  To attempt to flee would be hopeless; and worse, undignified.

“I am at your disposal, General,” he inclined his head.  And then he turned and walked, head high, into captivity.

Chapter Text

“Dr Bollman.”  Posey laid down his quill and rubbed his forehead; he could feel the headache coming on.  To think he had once imagined that battle was the most difficult part of war.  “Please have a seat.”

“Thankyou, General, but I prefer to stand,” said the younger man before him, his words a little swallowed by his accent.  “I am sure you are very busy; Colonel Burr is always hard at work after battle.”

Well, that made it clear exactly where the famous Bollman stood.  “I have nothing but respect for the Colonel.” Posey knew he was being a little too sharp, but it had been a long day and this situation was not of his own making.  “Have you come to ask to see him?” he cut to the chase.

Bollman’s thick eyebrows rose.  “Will that be possible?”

“No.”

“Then no.  I come as a courtesy, General, to inform you that I shall be leaving for Bayou Pierre as soon as I can arrange to do so.”

“There is no need for that, doctor,” Posey said quickly, surprised.  “Did General Jackson not inform you that Mr Jefferson has offered to honour all contracts made with Colonel Burr?  And if he had not, I should do so myself as a personal favour.  You know how rare and valued a man of your attainments must be.”

“I made no contract with Colonel Burr,” Bollman returned, lifting his chin with offended pride.  “I assisted him as his friend, General, and you must understand that as his friend I cannot remain here.”

“I should be very sorry to see you go,” Posey said honestly, feeling the urge to rub his forehead again.  “You must know, sir,” he added, “that the country between here and the Mississippi cannot safely be crossed.  The war has resulted in brigandage of all kinds, and in addition the local Indians - Caddo, they call themselves - violently object to our use of their lands.  It would be on my conscience if any harm were to come to you.”

“Fortunately I believe there is to be an armed escort travelling east in the next few days,” Bollman said with a very slight smile.  “Perhaps I can avail myself of their company.”

Now he definitely had a headache.  “You understand that my men will be under strict orders to prevent any communication between yourself and Colonel Burr.”

“I will give you my word that I will make no attempt to speak with him, if you think it necessary.”

“There will be no need of that.” Posey reacted to smooth over the offence as any gentleman would, before thinking.

He certainly had the power to hold Bollman here, if he chose.  It was not strictly legal but Jefferson would undoubtedly sanction it.  However in taking such an action on his own initiative he would be putting himself in the way of what were clearly legal and political intrigues at the highest level.  He had little to gain, and much to lose.  Better to wash his hands and let the people choose.

“You will be notified when Burr is sent north.  You may travel with his escort if you wish.” And then, thinking of his orders to avoid roads and towns, Posey smiled with just a little forgivable malice.  “You may find it a rough ride.”

***

Peter had never expected adventure to be quite so tedious or dusty.

This was definitely an adventure.  Master Burr had been unjustly arrested and was being sent across the wilderness under armed escort.  That was practically the definition of adventure.  The only thing that could have made it more adventurous is if they had suffered a shipwreck, but on the whole Peter was glad to have avoided that.  They had not chained him up, on the ship that had taken him to the New York docks, but the dark, shit-smelling, claustrophobic hold had felt half like drowning, and everyone there had all known that if anything happened to the ship they would all have gone straight to the bottom with it.  Sailing south in the Sparrow had been too uncomfortably similar, and on the whole he would be glad not to get on another ship ever again. 

This adventure’s inconveniences were of a much more mundane sort.  His legs hurt from walking and the mule he was leading just did not want to be led.  Dr Bollman kept getting annoyed with him for falling behind, and he had a bruise on his thigh bigger than a hand from the time he had tried jabbing the mule in its ass to encourage it. 

(There was nobody here he could tell that joke to.)

Master Burr rode up ahead, in the middle of the soldiers.  As usual, their captain, the much bigger Perkins, rode beside him.  From all the way back here Peter could not possibly hear what they were saying, but the conversation looked surprisingly amiable.  Master Burr, sitting his mount with relaxed elegance, looked as though the armed men around him were a courtesy escort, rather than prison guards.  Peter had been serving his master for three years now and he still didn't know how he did that. 

(He never looked back at Peter.)

In the evening they clustered together around two campfires.  Peter had learned early in their journey that he was expected to help find the firewood and cook anything that was worth the cooking, and then to dish it onto tin plates and be scolded or buffeted for any perceived unfairness.  He had learned how to dodge or distract those who were quickest to abuse him.  Dr Bollman usually thanked him, quietly and hurriedly with an apologetic look.  Perkins ignored him.  Master Burr - it was the only time he was ever allowed close to master Burr - would thank him with an absent courtesy.  It felt odd and unsettling, his master thanking him for such lowly duties.  Beneath both of them.

(When had he started thinking of things as beneath him?)

This evening, as he bent down to hand master Burr his plate, he suddenly felt a tug on the waist of his trousers.  He jerked in surprise, spilling the salt pork off the slightly charred flatbread and onto the dirt below.

“ Diable!  How often have I told you…?” master Burr scolded with arched eyebrows, quickly reaching to steady the bowl.

“I…” Peter began uncertainly before Perkins coughed meaningfully.

“Never mind,” Burr corrected himself smoothly.  Far too smoothly.  As Peter embarrassedly started to scan the ground near their feet he added, “No, the pork is gone, tant mieux .”  He drew the bowl to him - with his right hand, Peter suddenly noticed, though he had of course been serving from the left.  “Go on, Peter, before the good Captain Perkins decides to clap us both in chains for your bold attempt to free, if not me, then at least my dinner.”  Perkins laughed, and master Burr unobtrusively brought his left hand back in front of him and shifted the bowl into it. 

Peter straightened up, feeling something small and stiff jab into the soft skin of his waist.  With a sudden dizzy excitement, he backed away and returned to the other fire, glad for once to be ignored by the soldiers who clustered around it, their bodies between himself and Captain Perkins.

Fumbling around his waist - and almost dislodging whatever-it-was down into the seat of his breeches - he finally drew out and unfolded a small triangle of scrap paper, torn raggedly across the long edge.  In the darkness he thought the paper might be marked with something, though not as dark as ink.  But with all the soldiers between himself and the firelight he had no hope of making anything out.  Given the odd paleness of the markings he would probably have to sit in the fire to get enough light. 

He quietly withdrew to where he had laid his pack, and tucked the paper where the dew could not get at it before returning to the fire. 

He could not help looking across at the other fire, feeling the tug of the secret between himself and master Burr.  Master Burr said something, and those around him laughed.

(Master Burr never looked back at him.)

***

Bollman had left them as they passed cautiously to the south of Bayou Pierre.  Whether Bollman had received his message, or understood it, Burr did not know.  He had taken Peter with him, which could mean anything.  Peter was a clever boy, with a talent for initiative; however things landed, he would do well for himself.

Burr carefully did not scratch his upper arm.  The sweat from riding in this increasingly oppressive heat made the healing cuts itch like fire, but if anyone noticed blood on his shirt the ragged mess of shallow scratches above his elbow would raise questions he had no desire to answer.  He had not expected it to be so damned difficult to get a bit of blood to use as ink; the stuff seemed eager enough to flow when he injured himself by accident.  Heigh ho.  Either arrangements had been made, or they had not; he would trouble himself with further plans when he knew what situation he was in.

Perkins had skirted every town he could, but Burr knew that from here on east the vegetation would get thicker, and a cross-country course harder to hold to.  And they were going slowly enough as it was.  There was a chance that Perkins would try to commandeer boats to go down the Red River, but even if he did not, they badly needed provisions.  Having stayed well away from Bayou Pierre, likely for fear that Bollman might attempt a rescue, they would be forced to try at Natchitoches.

To think that it had only been, what, only a little over half a year since he had last been here with an armed escort of a rather different kind.  Any inhabitants who had returned would no doubt think of him with kindness.

Perkins clearly agreed.  That morning he had changed their usual riding order; now there were two men in front of Burr, and two to either side, boxing him in.  He would have to be implausibly lucky to guide his horse out from between them, and it was impossible that none of them would give chase.

He continued to converse with Perkins as usual, silently registering how the landscape changed around him, from wild trees and scrub to expanses of tall, feathery maize and low bushes of tobacco.  The occasional glance ahead showed that Perkins was intending to skirt the town to the northeast; presumably going straight to the wharf.  That was irritating, but not unexpected.

They stopped a little way from the water’s edge.  Perkins had clearly sent ahead, for several boats were rocking against the wharf; but apparently they could not be boarded immediately, for some reason.  Burr was unsurprised.  If they had set off immediately, it would have been the first time since Noah that a boat had made its sailing time.  Instead, they sat their horses in the hot midday sun while Perkins dismounted and argued with the boatmen.  One horse after another dropped its head to crop at whatever bits of dusty vegetation it could find, or cocked a hind leg to ease the weight of its rider.  Men slowly slumped and twisted in their saddles to make desultory conversation with their friends.  Burr made a show of yawning, and schooled his expression to boredom as he looked ‘idly’ about him.

Inattentive or not, the men were still too close.  Still, he must risk it; once they had him shut up in a cabin on board, they could take him where they would.  He was willing to face the world in an open trial, but this secret transport, without allowing him even to reassure Theodosia of his wellbeing, did not bode well.  Something had gone very, very wrong, and he needed to know what.

Perkins strode back towards them, calling orders.  Men jerked in their saddles, startling their horses.  Two pranced sideways, one turned and cow-kicked, and… there .

Burr kicked his feet out of his stirrups and jumped.

He hit the ground hard, and used his momentum to dive into a roll.  His shoulders and neck screamed at him and he was going to feel this for days, but… he scrambled to his feet as fast as he could, but not fast enough. Perkins' arms were suddenly bruisingly tight around his waist as the much larger man lifted him as easily as he might lift Gampillo, turning and taking a step to half- throw him back into the saddle.

Through the sharp pang of humiliation, through the kaleidoscope of his vision as his belly hit the pommel, Burr fumbled for the reins, yanking them sideways just a second before one of the guards grabbed for them and missed.  There was confusion now, several men dismounted.  He had no time to look, sprawled awkwardly across his horse's back as he was.  Instead he desperately twisted, trying to get his leg over the brown rump, at the same time kicking with his other leg, slapping his hand against the coarse hair and shouting, whatever it took to get his horse to move .  His horse, terrified, bolted.  He could only hope it was in a useful direction. He grabbed at the saddle skirts and the stirrup leathers and hung on desperately against the jolting, still trying to get himself back into the saddle and in control. 

Behind, there was shouting.  The sizzle and boom of someone firing a gun.  Tant mieux , they could not mount a pursuit with some fools taking pot shots.  Well, tant mieux as long as they missed.

He finally got his knee properly over the horse’s spine and was able to use it to lever himself up into the saddle, feeling an awkward strain in his inner thigh as he did.  He quickly gave up any idea of getting his feet into the flapping stirrups, and instead grabbed at the flailing reins with one hand as his other clung to the pommel.  There was another shot from behind him and he instinctively ducked, so close to the horse’s neck that its coarse mane lashed his face.

He managed to gather up the reins in his right hand, thanking his good fortune that they were not broken.  He glanced up, saw muddy water moving to his left, and yanked the reins to the right.  The horse curved gradually, fighting him, but if he carried on south he would hit the fields south of town.  The ones that Swartwout had led their men through back when they had been dry stalks.

The mane in his face made his eyes sting, and his chest was a little tight from all the physical foolery he had just performed.

There were no more shots, which meant soldiers were in pursuit.  He glanced to the right; yes, there was a second group riding for the town, and on a trodden track rather than this waste ground.  They would likely reach it at the same time he did, assuming his horse didn't put a leg in a burrow and kill them both first.

This had not been what he had intended, but he was going to have to make it work.  If nothing else, they should be reluctant to kill him in broad daylight, before witnesses; even the President could not legitimise murder.  Though how much that mattered when he could pardon it afterwards… which would be an interesting legal question to consider when it was less personally relevant.  The soldiers were clearly going to intersect his path before he reached the first building.  He glanced behind; he had several lengths on his pursuers, but that wasn’t going to last as he bumped painfully about on his horse’s back without the security of stirrups.

He was not going to win this race.  He needed to change the rules.

He sat up in the saddle, gripping hard with his knees.  “I am Aaron Burr!” he shouted, looking about him.  Yes, even in the heat of midday, there were people in the fields, watching.  “Under unlawful arrest!”  Unfortunately watching was all they were doing.  “I place myself under the protection of the civil authorities!” Still just watching. 

He swore and pulled his horse to the left.  Its breath was heaving like bellows, now, and it was slowing; galloping like this in the heat would founder it.  The problem would at least be worse for those chasing; he was a light weight, and his horse was not weighed down by supplies.  A precaution against escape.  Unfortunately this chase would not last long enough for that to matter.

On his new course he would pass by Natchitoches to the south.  Those who had ridden for the town would merely have to wait for him to turn back; there was a word for people who rode into the wilderness without supplies or friends, and it was ‘dead’.

Throwing himself from a galloping horse might have a not dissimilar effect, but he had survived more than one carriage overturn; he felt that his physical robustness was equal to it.  And at least it would stop his ankles being battered by the flying stirrup-irons.

He could hear the thudding of hooves behind him, risked a glance back.  They were closer, only a few lengths behind.  Close enough to shoot, if not to have a good chance of hitting; but although he tensed in anticipation of pistol fire, none of them did.  The first houses of Natchitoches were coming up on his right.  This was going to be close, and he felt his pulse pounding at the prospect.

He passed one house, braced himself, then swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted at a run.

His left ankle crunched as he landed awkwardly.  The reins yanked him forwards, hurting his bruised shoulder.  He held tight for a moment to keep himself upright, but it was far too fast, he was being dragged and in a moment he would be under his own horse’s hooves; he let go and flung himself away, stumbling, falling to his knees and forcing himself up into a staggering run, fighting down nausea at the wrenching pain.

He didn’t dare look behind.  It would take his pursuers a few seconds to slow enough to turn, or to dismount without following his unhealthy example.  He had that long.

“I am Aaron Burr!” he gasped out as he hit a wall - almost literally - and heaved himself over it, dropping down in a heap on the other side and almost passing out at the jolt that screamed through his body.  He looked up, scanning for cover.

A house… a shed… a chicken coop… a young girl holding a grimy egg in one hand, and the hand of an even younger child in the other.  Two sets of eyes wide and staring at him.

He took a steadying breath.  “Pardon me, little friends,” he said gently as he felt a black hysteria descend upon him.

He slowly dragged himself to his feet with the aid of the wall.  From beyond he could hear shouting, footsteps, and then scrabbling.  He limped a few steps into the garden, a little sideways so as not to be between his pursuers and the staring children, then drew himself erect and turned and raised his hands, waiting patiently as three men climbed over the wall, levelling pistols at him.

“Gentlemen,” he said levelly.  “I will go with you.  There is no need to trouble these infants with gunfire.”

They stared at him for a moment, then at the children, then at each other.  Time lengthened uncomfortably.  Burr considered what he knew of these men, with whom he had travelled for almost a month now.  He was risking a very great deal on his judgement that these were not the kind of men who would simply shoot him, here and now.  He wished he had a pen, an opportunity to write a farewell to Theodosia, to tell her how proud of her he was, how happy he had been to be the father of such a daughter.

Finally, one of the soldiers lowered his gun and spat into the yellowing weeds.  “Such a pity we couldn’t find the Colonel,” he remarked to his two companions before turning back to the wall.  One just nodded and turned with him.  The other remained staring at Burr for a moment longer, as Burr lowered his hands and gazed back.

“Good luck, Colonel,” the final man said at last.  “No hard feelings.”

“Quite the contrary, Mr Dogwood.  I shall hope fervently for an opportunity to requite your kindness.”

The third man followed his two companions over the wall and Burr turned back to the astonished children and knelt down, innumerable aches springing into vivid complaint at the careful movement.  “Little friends,” he said softly, so as not to frighten them further, “I am sorry to have surprised you.  Fetch your mama or papa.  It is all right.  I will wait here.”

He was really not certain he could do anything else anyway.

Chapter Text

To Alexander Hamilton, New-York

Sir,

It is now many years since I had the pleasure to write to You in connection with my attempt to relieve the Marquis.  I had not thought there should be need to write You again with thought to a similar endeavour!

Our friend Colonel Burr has been entrapped by General Posey on the orders of the President, and is being sent secretly north under armed guard.  He had some hopes of being able to achieve his own rescue, and I have made Arrangements to this end, in which case he will certainly contact You himself.

If not, we should certainly lose no time in establishing a secret intelligence in Washington City and in Richmond in order to find out the President’s intentions.  It may also be necessary to employ other persons in order to assist the Col and to receive him after he has been furnished with an opportunity to absent himself.

Col Burr instructed me himself to bring You this news.

I have the honor to be with the highest esteem

Sir

Your most obt. & hbe. st.

J. Erich Bollman

***

New York Evening Post, July 1806

As the United-States seeks to take its place amidst the great nations, wresting from the vile Spaniards the rightful inheritance of our natal soil, our people must cry out to know the whereabouts of the gallant Colonel Burr.

The hero of Quebec, who bore his tragically slain commander to a dignified rest; the foresighted defender of Natchitoches and Bayou Pierre; cannot have departed the world unheralded in the barren plains of Mexico.

This publication has heard, from the most unimpeachable of sources, that the late Vice-President, on seeking to return to his patria after his diligent and dangerous exertions in her honour, received instead of those plaudits which he had every right to anticipate, a secret arrest more worthy of a Nero or Caligula than of the republican sentiments of a free people.

In time of war, when every day we anticipate news of a Spanish invasion, such a military genius as that possessed by Colonel Burr is wanted in every corner of the nation; what patriotic service is it to deprive us of him, and he of us?

If this reprehensible news be true, we call upon those responsible to answer to the people for their treatment of one of our most urgently needed champions.

***

“You’ve heard from Burr,” Troup accused as he puffed his way urgently across the park from where he had been supervising his recruits’ drill.

“Not precisely.”  Hamilton watched the blacks go through the motions that he had learned from Von Steuben, decades ago now, with all the alacrity and synchronicity he might expect of white troops.  He felt a passing pride in their competence.  It made him glance with more wariness at those who had gathered on the pavements to watch.

“You know something, though.  Come, Ham, I do subscribe to the Evening Post, you know.”

“I have not written anything for the Evening Post in weeks.”  And now he was teasing his friend, which really he should not, in the circumstances.

“Ham, please.  I do not know whether he has sent me any letters, but I have received none since he went south last year; my only recourse is the newspapers, and you.”  An expression of distress did not sit naturally on Troup’s round face, and Hamilton felt a pang of remorse.

“Forgive me, Bobby, that was unworthy of me.”  He stepped a little closer to his friend, and lowered his voice.  “I have not heard from Burr personally since before the Battle of Mexico City.  I suppose Spanish ships in the Gulf to be the cause; I am sure I do not need to point out to you the difficulties of conveying a letter overland through such disorder as must currently prevail in Mexico.  I imagine that the same is the reason that you have received none of the letters that I feel certain, given the constancy of your mutual affection, he must have authored.

“But I have, as you have guessed, heard of him.”  He paused for a moment to take a deep breath against the bitter rage that seemed to have etched like acid into his bones.  He glanced around them, one more time, to ensure that all those nearby were more occupied with the marching negroes than with two men in conversation.  “He is under military arrest, I know not by what pretence.  There is some idea that he may have effected an escape, but you will have observed, with more experience even than I, that Aaron believes any thing possible to adventure and industry, even when more disinterested parties would consider his design a thing utterly unsusceptible of success.  I am seeking even now to ascertain the present state of affairs, and especially the peculiar nature of the statute by which his confinement has been ordered.”

“He is what?” Troup’s mouth dropped open.

“I have written to Marshall in Washington,” Hamilton continued as though Troup had not spoken, “Prevost in New Orleans, Martin in Maryland and others who are singularly placed, in my calculation, to be able to discover Burr’s whereabouts; or to furnish him with assistance; or to protest in legal fashion this detestable trespass against Constitutional principles.  And yes, I spoke of this same subject to the editor of the Post.  I should not be completely displeased if, by the conclusion of his term in office, Mr Jefferson should be hanged in effigy in every state.”

Troup’s mouth slowly closed again.  “But we are at war,” he said disbelievingly.

“Oh, Bobby,” Hamilton laughed a little, without humour.  “It is a truth so self-evident that it scarcely needs to be addressed, that war is the best pretext and the best camouflage by which a despot, his gaze set on popular power, may neutralise his opponents.  As example before us we need only take cognisance of Athens, whose fledgeling democracy faltered in the grip of Cleon; who, screened by the repeated mantra of loyalty during wartime, the populace’s attention being engaged elsewhere, was able to condemn and punish his political opponents on the most feeble and improper of charges.  So it is now with Jefferson.”

“Wait - slow down, let me think.”  Bobby was frowning, now, with the same solemn thoughtfulness as when he had been a judge.

Hamilton gave a tight smile.  “I’m sorry, Bobby.  I have had little to do but think, and nor have I any anticipation of the opportunity to do more.  Not until such time as I should receive word; either that Burr is at liberty to consult, or that there is action to be taken more pressing than litigation and advice.”

“And what if by then there is action to be taken here?”  Robert glanced behind him at where the men of his growing regiment, having finished their assigned drills, were looking across at him uncertainly, glancing at one another, starting up small conversations.  He made as if to start back towards them, before hesitating.

“Go on,” Hamilton relieved him of his dilemma.  He turned to walk along with his much larger friend as they approached the group.  “I am not uncognisant of the difficulty,” he admitted, blowing out his breath in a frustrated sigh.  “The executive will clearly not request my service nor condescend to offer a command, preferring to destroy my friends than to utilise our peculiar talents in defence of this Republic, which you know is the only call of government I have made it clear that I should not refuse.”  He decided not to mention to Bobby the other letters he had sent, to Dayton and Cushing; experienced military men, and respected by an army that could not possibly respect its current commander-in-chief.  “But the state of New York lacks his prejudice and infirmity, and it should be a dereliction of my proper duty if I were to absent my military talents from my home - from my very family! - at the very moment they are most likely to be required.

“Colonel Burr is a man of no meagre accomplishments, and an ingenuity that has caused me great pains in the past; it would perhaps be a sin merely venial to abandon him upon his own resources.  But it would be conduct ill-becoming a friend. And such a detestable abuse of executive power is a concern proper to every citizen, even if it were not also a personal affliction.”

They stopped in front of the group of men.  The sudden attention Hamilton received from so many faces in diverse shades of brown and black, clad in an obviously military uniform, was strangely jarring even though it had been his own idea.

“And I have not forgotten that I promised I should assist you in the case of invasion,” Hamilton added with a sigh.

“You relieve me less than you might, in the circumstances.” Troup’s face was still grave.  “I am distracted; I know not what to think at this news, far less what to say.  But since we are here, let me show you how this project does.  It may be a small thing amidst great events, but still I think you will like what you see.  Atten-shun!  Present arms!”

Hamilton watched the men go through the familiar manoeuvres, and his heart did lift a little to see them showing as much diligence and competence as any white militia.  Just as he had predicted so many years ago.  Still not quite fully outfitted - several were missing items of uniform, and only a few bore real weapons - his mind idly picked at the problem of what were the most important needs, and how to persuade even the members of the Manumission Society that they wanted to spend money to arm negroes.  It was good to have a problem so straightforward, and that he could immediately address.

“They are doing excellently, Bobby,” he said aloud.  “A credit to your hard work.  If I did not know how easily men doubt what they do not wish to believe, I should say that it will be hard for anyone to doubt, seeing these men, that their faculties are like to our own; and that their loyalty and courage outstrips that of some.”

“Tell them that,” Troup suggested.  He walked towards the men, putting a broad smile on his face that conjured answering smiles on theirs.

Hamilton hesitated, looked at the knots of people all around the park who were watching with attitudes varying from encouragement to downright hostility.  For one wild moment he considered making a speech that addressed them, as well as the would-be patriots before him. 

No.  It was not these he had to convince.  When the smoke of artillery and burning buildings hazed the city, turning the sun into a white orb behind the grey clouds; when those blacks that now they mocked stood between them and the Spanish guns; that was the only thing that might convince such fools.

“I must go,” he called to Bobby instead.

“Ham…” Troup paused a moment, and half-turned back to him.  “If you hear from Aaron, I should like to write to him.”

Hamilton sighed, and spread his hands.  “I hope that will be possible,” he said honestly.  Then he turned and continued on to his office.  Notwithstanding Jefferson’s infant steps at destroying the rule of law, there were, for the moment, still briefs to prepare for his clients.

***

To ‘Mr Arnot’, c/o Henry Clay, Lexington

At last I have had the happiness to receive intelligence of you in some degree satisfactory. Your letter has come to relieve me from the state of daily, hourly expectation, anxiety, and suspense in which I have remained since first I heard the rumours of your misfortune at Mexico City.  Terror lest your silence might have been occasioned by some unfortunate accident, kept me in a state of mind little short of distraction.

Imagine to yourself the feelings of a woman whose naturally irritable nerves were disordered by illness, and who, during weeks of solitude, and pain, and inoccupation, lay pondering incessantly, amid doubt and impatience, and hope and fear, on the subject which mingled through the whole extent of her soul. You, who can so well and so singularly bring home to yourself the feelings of others, and adopt them when they are quite strange to you. Think of my situation, and with me wonder that I did not go mad.

But in like proportion imagine to yourself the leaping of my poor little heart to recognise again your beloved handwriting, though over a strange address; to feel my weakness buttressed once more by your constant purpose.  When my noble Friend commands, can Theodosia admit any possibility of failure?  In short, I have performed all that you wished done, and I hope as you would have wished it done.  When you announce your name once more, doubt not but that your friends shall rally to you as the Greeks to Pausanias at Plataea; and with no doubt as celebrated a victory.

The boy continues to fulfill all the hopes that you have for him.  He begins to learn to shape his letters, and I perhaps fool myself in the belief that they resemble, a little, your own script.  But you shall see and judge for yourself.

You say nothing of your own health, or of our good friend S.S.  If there remains any imperfection in my happiness, it can only be the fear of some injury that has befallen, and that you conceal it from me due to a solicitousness for my disorder.  But you must tell me all, all; for only if you still confide in me can I know you consider me worthy of the elevated name of

Your daughter

Theodosia

***

Gallatin frowned at the papers on his desk.  Not because he expected them to be particularly troublesome - at least, not more troublesome than any other aspect of finding the money for a war so soon after financing a vast territorial purchase -  but because he needed to frown at something, and the papers provided an unimpeachable pretext.

He obviously understood President Jefferson’s hostility to Burr.  In the election of 1800 his friend should have either conceded immediately, or made a decisive bid for the presidency; the strange ambiguity he had chosen instead had done nothing but make him seem unreliable to both sides, and render him vulnerable to political attack.  The quiet withdrawal of support was to be expected, and Burr was the only one who had been surprised by his sudden political isolation.

And although Gallatin was not a lawyer, he was similarly unsurprised that the law might look less than fondly on Burr’s… filibuster.  A strike into Spanish territory that had arguably provoked mere hostility into outright war.  Gallatin could not defend that, especially as he alone understood the full costs.

But the story that had just been presented to the cabinet… that was utterly unlike the Burr he had come to know.

“Sir?  The import duty projections you requested.”  One of his staff dropped yet another document onto the pile.

“Yes, thankyou,” Gallatin said absently.  He pulled the ink pot across to him, then paused.  Although he was not a lawyer, one did not serve in the government without learning something of law.  If Burr had abandoned his men at Mexico to save his own skin, that was morally reprehensible but legally irrelevant.  And yet a wavering cabinet had fallen in line with Jefferson's plans for a trial the moment the story had been told. 

Gallatin placed his quill down again and pinched the bridge of his nose so hard he might have been trying to wake himself from a dream.  Jefferson had been using the cabinet meeting as a - what was it called? - a test case.  The war, the resurgent rumours about half-negro children, the slanders about Burr’s supposed secret arrest; they were all combining to undermine Jefferson’s popularity with the public, and by association the popularity of Madison and his other close allies.  Burr’s popularity was surging, but it was entirely based on his unimpeachable military reputation.  That was a reputation that Jefferson had not dared attack himself, but with Wilkinson and this new witness… the cabinet’s reaction had shown how quickly the Hero of Quebec could be remade into the Traitor of Mexico.  Burr ought to be warned.  But who might be able to pass him a message, wherever he was? 

Not Theodosia, a mother busy with domestic concerns.  Probably some of Burr’s New York friends, but he didn't know them. More than likely his closest ally…

Gallatin picked up the quill and dipped it reluctantly in ink.  Sir, he wrote, gritting his teeth, feeling as though his hand were moving without his volition.  I write to you in the name of a mutual friend, who should be informed of a new whisper… except that this would not serve.  There were already whispers of Burr’s pusillanimity, had been since the interview with General Wilkinson.  He would have to be clear about the novel and damaging nature of the story that was about to be told, everywhere.

But was he really going to betray Cabinet business to Alexander Hamilton? 

He put the quill down again.  Hamilton, the arrogant little hypocrite who had had him disqualified from the Senate on his first election.  He remembered watching them fight it out, the aggressive little dandy, constantly in motion, constantly talking, never yielding the floor.  And Burr, the rock to his rapids, collectedly slicing through the smokescreen of words to the heart of the issue.  But losing, before a haughty Federalist court paranoid of anything French, even only an accent.

Hamilton’s financial system was perfect, but the man was not his system; nor could he be allowed to touch it with hands that held so much capacity for destruction.  Nor could anybody be allowed to touch it, in fact, except Gallatin himself, who understood the interlocking parts and how they must be nurtured.  And if President Jefferson should find he had written to Hamilton… 

Gallatin tore the written top part of the paper and crumpled it up for kindling.  The Union's beating golden heart could not be endangered, even for his friend.  He would find someone else to write to, some clever coded way to convey his warning without risk. 

For now he would look at the duty projections that were his responsibility, and then he would return to the problem with a clear head.  Maybe tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Peter was surprised to find his master already awake and writing when he entered his room.  Master Burr had been out very late again last night; he knew because none of the others who used that route up the side of the house would have cursed in French at missing the handhold to heave up onto the porch roof.  Apparently Mr Clay’s remonstrances after master Burr had waked the household on finding the door locked at 3 am had had some effect, if not the one desired.

“Master Burr?”

Burr held up a finger as both an acknowledgement and an admonishment to patience, as he painstakingly copied down numbers from one paper to another, then tore one and scattered the fragments liberally in the kindling under the tea-kettle.  Peter laid out everything he needed as his master got up from the desk and changed into his breeches.

It was just like visiting friends in another town.  Half a year of danger and privation, the march east watching master Burr banter with his armed guard, the uncertain rendezvous at an abandoned house with a lame boatman wearing an utterly abominable hat, the careful ride north from friend to friend, often under the cloak of night; and now suddenly it was as if they had spent all that time attending parties in New York.  Peter the messenger and spy was forgotten, and Peter the valet was expected to provide silent and unexceptionable service once more.  It was frustrating and confining, like an ill-fitting set of clothes; and yet when he thought about returning to the war he felt overwhelmed by dread.  Not that it mattered how he felt.

He was just finishing the dressing of master Burr’s hair when their host walked in.

Mr Clay was a lean man, with gaunt, protruding cheekbones and a determined chin.  This morning he was tight-lipped with anger.

“Colonel Burr,” he said in a controlled drawl, his voice very dry.  “I am sorry for the necessity, but I must ask you to control your boy.”

Peter’s fingers twitched and the hair ribbon slipped, letting a lock of hair fall free.  He quickly started to mend his mistake, with shaking fingers.  Mr Clay, he knew, did favour the whip. 

“I am very sorry to hear that,” master Burr said politely.  “What has young Peter done?”

“The housekeeper found him sneaking about the house last night.” Clay’s voice was an icy contrast to the heat of the morning.  “He could give no good reason to be out of the garret, and he was insolent when ordered back there.  This is a respectable household, Colonel Burr.  I cannot have such goings-on.  Why, my wife and little girl sleep only a floor above.”

Amidst Peter’s sudden panic, he found space to be affronted by the implication.  Not to mention the illogic.  He said nothing.

“Thankyou for bringing this to my notice,” master Burr said gravely.  “It is a defect I had not expected to hear of, in a boy I had thought trustworthy beyond question.”

Peter was not sure whether that was a warning to him or to Clay.  He winced either way. 

“I shall see it does not occur again,” master Burr added, and Peter winced again.  He stood quietly behind his master's chair, drawing out the loops of the ribbon with small motions, reluctant to make any move that might draw attention to himself.

“Thankyou, Colonel Burr, I appreciate it as a gentleman.” Clay continued to ignore that the person he was talking about was standing right there in front of him.  For once, Peter found himself grateful that most southerners pretended not to see slaves.  This morning seemed like a good time to be invisible.

“Is there any word yet from Washington city?” master Burr changed the subject briskly.

“Not that our Attorney-General has sent word of,” Clay said with a shake of his head.  “Are you determined upon this course, Mr Burr?”

His hair now neatly brushed and tied, Burr stood, and Peter took the opportunity to quietly retreat a few steps.  “It seems the most expedient, Mr Clay.  I cannot return to the front with a danger of unlawful arrest hanging over me.  I must meet the charges and refute them.  I hope, with your aid.”

“Then I guess I remain at your service, sir.”  Clay gave a respectful nod of his head before retiring.

Peter busied himself with tidying up the tools of master Burr’s toilette.

“Peter.”

He sighed, accepted the inevitable, and turned to his master; a little disconcerted, as ever, to find himself looking slightly downwards.  “Yes, master?”

One black eyebrow arched at him.  “You will furnish me with an explanation.”  It was a statement of fact, not a request.

“I was not doing anything improper, master Burr, truly I was not!”

“I had thought your understanding in logic was sufficiently advanced by now to discriminate between what you were not doing, and what you were doing.  And which of these things was asked for.”  Burr’s words were precisely enunciated, and his face gave away nothing.

“I had simply thought,” Peter said apologetically, “that when Mr Clay was so unhappy that you waked the house on Tuesday, master, perhaps it would be better if I were available to open the door the first moment you knocked?”

Peter was not quite quick enough to read the tiny flicker around master Burr’s eyes before his forbidding expression returned.  “And it did not occur to you that lurking in the corridors late at night might result in some solicitude to any person who heard you or encountered you.”

“Um…”  There were so many thoughts crowding onto Peter’s tongue, from ‘I didn’t think that anyone else would be around at that hour’ to ‘the same way you thought about worrying the household by banging on the door when everyone was sound asleep?’, but with a heroic effort he managed to prevent himself actually saying any of them.

Master Burr turned away (still favouring one ankle a little when he moved, Peter noticed, which might explain how he had missed that handhold coming in last night).  “If I require your services at any time, Peter,” he said over his shoulder, “I will ask for them.  And I shall not be requiring them now for some hours.  Go up to your quarters, and remain there until sent for.”

“Yes, master Burr.”  Peter retreated, eyes smarting a little at the unfair harshness.  It was not until he thought about that morning again, long after, that he realised that not only had he escaped the lash, but that he had very effectively been kept out of Mr Clay’s sight all day.

***

Working in a shop, Mary heard all the gossip.  For months, of course, it had been about the war.  How the gallant Colonel Burr - he was always ‘gallant’, whether it was the society matrons taking or the gay would-be socialites - had finally stood up for the Union against the Spanish, followed by months of speculation about his whereabouts.  She had nodded or shaken her head along, while concentrating hard on pinning the fabric where the modiste indicated.

Now it was all about “Jefferson's black wife”.  The main bone of contention being, of course, whether she really was his wife as the newspaper claimed.  Salacious details dripped out, issue by issue, of a scandalous secret wedding in Paris.  Of negro balls in Monticello (Mary gave those stories no credence, recognising details from the old slanders about Burr at Richmond Hill).  Of her remarkable resemblance to the President's dead wife.  Of Jefferson's heirs, brought up in slavery working his plantation.

Mary nodded and smiled.  When the women addressed her with a “Hey, you're a black, aren't you?” as though her colour would give her insight into events half the country away, she responded with a neutral “Bengali, ma’am,” and let them decide for themselves whether that was a confirmation. 

In some respects they were not wrong.  She did have insight.  But not because she had brown skin. 

Why was all this happening now?  Surely for years everyone had known that men fucked their slaves.  Where did they think the mulattos came from, or the quadroons?  They had all turned a blind eye to it; nobody asked the obvious questions because nobody wanted the obvious answers.  And then General Hamilton had written a pamphlet and suddenly everybody was talking about the ins and outs of slavery, and what they thought of his financial plan for manumission, and nobody much liked Jefferson and Clinton’s conduct of the war, and… boom.

She removed a piece of fabric from a rounded, white arm, and took it into the back room to tack it up for sewing.  Her fingers didn't tremble.  It was not the same.  And not just because she had never been his slave.

Going home to her rooms after work she was met by little Jean Pierre, excited to talk about what the men at the barber shop were saying.

“...a real momentum...might be a genuine chance for emancipation but… lives should be more consideration than money… say the General's run mad…” she let his words wash over her, only smiling in pride at his speed and comprehension. He was not so little anymore, really, but she wasn’t ready for him to grow up even as she marvelled at who he was growing into.  His eyes were hers, and his smile, and the wavy gloss of his black hair.  But he had his father's mind, and it would take him far; as long as they were left in peace to live their lives. 

It was all too long ago, surely.  Nobody would go delving into the past for a scandal when the papers since had furnished them with so many.  But General Hamilton… had he forgotten about her when he had trailed the hint of Jefferson's affair under the scandal-writers’ noses?  Had he not realised he was exposing his friend to the same fire as his enemy?  Or, as with poor Maria Reynolds (no, Maria Clingman it must be now), did he simply not care what he might break in pursuit of his goal?

Mary wished she could speak to Burr about it, have him reassure her with the composed courtesy that almost never left him.  She also wished he had never brushed her hand for that moment too long, that he had never asked her into his study.

“Mama?”  Jean cocked his head at her, waiting for a response.  His sister was just as quick, bright-eyed and birdlike, and she had already been promoted within the household she served.

“I’m sorry, Jean, I was woolgathering.  Can you say that again?”  If she had her time over, she realised, she would make exactly the same choices.

But though she would not deny her children his occasional letters, she would not be drawn back into Aaron Burr’s orbit again.

***

Jackson was fiercely glad to be marching south again, and made no secret of it.  The only annoyance was the necessity of doing so without Colonel Burr (preferably freshly promoted to at least brigadier-general), and he made no secret of his opinions on that count, either.  He suspected Posey might agree with him, though the general could hardly come out and say it.  The President’s caution had already cost them dearly in the need to retake land they could have simply held, if the army had just marched south to support Burr’s militia months before.

The Río Bravo was a case in point.

“It is unfortunate, but we had expected them to oppose us here,” General Posey had summed up two nights ago to the small group of aides and sub-commanders gathered in his tent, the flickering lanterns only adding to the heavy heat.  Occasionally there was a tiny sizzle as another bug flew too close to a hot metal frame and dropped onto the map, to be carefully brushed aside.

“If we had been earlier, we might have crossed unopposed,” Jackson had responded.  “We did on the way north.”

He might as well have dropped a steaming turd on the table.  But nobody could argue with the justice of his comment, and he was not going to let it go.  Especially not now, as he waited in the dusty sunshine on one side of a sluggish river, looking at the blue uniforms gathered to defend the other.  This was going to be carnage.

A few minutes later he heard a faint bugle, and there was a movement in the enemy’s ranks.  The small group of men they had managed to transport on rafts last night must have attacked; it would not take the Spaniards long to drive them off, but they would provide a much-needed distraction.

“Forward!” Jackson ordered and his men splashed into the river, here where it shallowed, holding their muskets overhead to keep the powder dry.  A few shots rang out; then the deeper boom of cannon.  Several men fell, but the others kept floundering forward with as much speed as they could manage.  Jackson himself kicked his horse into the river behind them, though it snorted and threw up its head at the brown water foaming about its fetlocks.  The sun’s glare reflected in moving glitters from the expanse of river before him.

Man after man staggered suddenly and then dropped beneath the swirling water, but despite the terrible attrition there were simply too many of them for the Spaniards to stop their advance; especially as they could hardly ignore the small force harrying their flank.  The river rose up to his horse’s belly, then gushed cold into his boots, and then they were surging upwards again as the river shallowed towards the opposite bank and the first Union men fired their guns and ran raggedly forward to engage the front rank.  Brave men.

“For the Union!” Jackson yelled, standing in his stirrups (his boots slipping a little with the wet) and motioning with his sword.  The bulk of the Tennessee troops were now wading out of the river, dripping water onto the increasingly muddy bank.

More gunshots; a ragged volley, popping like fireworks.  A man screamed and dropped his gun to grab at his arm.  Jackson’s horse danced sideways and his wet boot slipped in the stirrup, the iron sticking awkwardly around his ankle.  The riverbank was a whirl of confusion; he dug in his heels and the horse tried to forge forwards but slipped in the mud and Jackson felt it plunge.  He struggled to brace backwards but his right foot had no purchase and he was catapulted forwards; then there was an explosion of pain in his ankle as his foot caught.

He landed with his face in mud, the blow to his nose making his eyes tear up.  He rolled over immediately, shaking his shackled leg without managing to dislodge the stirrup. The horse scrambled to its feet again and started to back uncertainly.  He tried desperately to knife his body upwards, to get his hands to his ankle to free it manually, but the unusual movement spooked his horse and he felt the breath jolt from his body as its sudden whirl threw him hard back to the ground.  The bank slid away beneath him, mud slick under his head, then he felt a sudden shock of cold water slapping against his lower back and he shouted, his voice breaking with sudden desperation. The horse continued to flee the shouting and smoke, and water fountained up around him as he was dragged into the river.  Water rose around his throat, and his mouth, and forced its way up his nose, cutting off his breath.  The sounds of battle went deep and muffled and his vision blurred and muddied as the swirling river closed over his face.

***

The Enquirer, Richmond, August 1806

We are forced to relate, a most distressing tale, touching the honour of no lesser man than the famous Colonel Burr.  It may seem a thing impossible to believe of a man previously the subject of so great an admiration and respect, and who has always been known to the nation for his courage and coolheadedness.  But its source is of the most unimpeachable integrity, whom any man would tremble to doubt.

Readers will know that Colonel Burr’s military ambitions suffered a check at Mexico City, but no reliable account of the battle has heretofore been received.  It is now possible to provide a narration whose details cannot be other than chilling to any man of decency and sensibility.

In the order of attack, Colonel Burr chose to reserve himself safe behind the undisciplined troops of the Mexican rebellion, trusting to farmers and boys, unled, to march into peril against the horrors of the Spanish artillery.  As rank after rank were cut down, charging hopelessly up a narrow pass, fear overtook them and they retreated.  Even then the day could have been saved had the Colonel’s militia immediately advanced in support, but Colonel Burr rejected in the strongest terms the urgings of his officers.  In this extremity he was heard to say, “Mexico’s loss shall be the Union’s gain”, which his captains, appalled, understood to mean that it was Col. Burr’s intention to allow fellow natives of the American continent to die so that he could profit by the emptying of their lands; and that this had been his intent from the first.

Appealing to pity and humanity, Col. Burr’s officers begged him to allow them to attempt a rescue.  But in this ultimate moment, when men’s souls are tried in the balance, Col. Burr turned his mount tail on to the enemy and galloped from the field as fast as he could urge it on, leaving only junior officers to attempt to stem the haemorrhage of lives.  With this abandonment the discipline of the force, spurned by he who should have held it together, collapsed and the Mexican stones were stained red with the blood of valorous young men, led from homes and sweethearts by the promise of glory only to have their trust and their lives betrayed by the one in whose fatherly care they should have been able to trust.

You will ask how it is possible that a man so highly regarded should stoop so low, however, this intelligence calls into question the very basis of that regard.  For what is it that Col. Burr was famous for, but surviving a battle in which all other men died?  How if this were not the first time that he showed a talent for pusillanimity and deception, by preserving his own life at any possible costs?  What if it was not by ill fortune but by craven retreat that the Revolution, in its very moment of genesis, had torn from its breast the proven talents and courage of the great Genl. Montgomery?

Further revelations of cowardice and duplicity will be forthcoming in the next issue.  

***

Hamilton shuffled his papers neatly together and his clerk picked up the books.  If his client was not happy with this settlement then he could retain another lawyer; the case had been hopeless from the start, and no man in New York could have wrung quite so many concessions as he had.  He idly wondered how Burr would have handled it, then thrust the thought away.

He was not, however, so deep in contemplation as to fail to notice the approach of John Woodworth, the state Attorney General.  “Mr Woodworth,” he said with relieved bonhomie, eager for a distraction from his increasingly dark thoughts.  “How may I be of assistance?”

“Mr Hamilton.  I fear I must request your presence in court.”

“Given my profession, sir, that might be assumed.” Hamilton tucked his papers beneath his elbow and regarded the younger man sharply.  Woodworth looked uncomfortable, although it might simply be that, as a Clintonian Republican, he was wary of Hamilton's tongue. 

“This should be in a somewhat different capacity.  Sir, I have received information from the South that makes it imperative to inquire into your connection with Colonel Burr’s invasion of Mexico.”

He hesitated, and now Hamilton understood why he was so uncomfortable.  “Mr Jefferson wishes to charge me with a misdemeanour under the Neutrality Act,” he stated flatly.  “And in this invidious pursuit, against all ideas of justice, or of the dignity of your office, and in the iniquitous cause of executive abuse of power, it is your intention that your office shall connive.”

“If that is the interpretation you choose to put upon it, Mr Hamilton.  Be that as it may, you stand on an equal footing with any other man accused of a crime, I assure you.  I wished to inquire whether a bail hearing on Thursday would be acceptable to you?”

“Not to me, nor to our Constitution, nor to the very principles of liberty and justice upon which our country is founded, will such proceedings be acceptable.” Woodworth began to colour a little at his defiance, and Hamilton gave a tight, bitter smile.  “Nevertheless, I shall attend.”

Chapter Text

To JH Daveiss, Attorney-General, Kentucky

Dear Sir,

Yours of the 5th. was recieved last night. you ask what is to be done with Burr, we think it proper that if at all possible or practicable you should place him under arrest and send him, immediately, to New York City, in which jurisdiction by all accounts his invidious plan was set afoot & where his primary co-conspirator has been already been committed.  for escort you may ask of any military post if your own resources are insufficient but be assured you may make claim to the Treasury for all reasonable expenses. you must of course do as you see fit but as Kentucky lacks provision of a district court a conviction for high misdemeanour cannot be considered safe & opens the door to an overturn of the punishment properly earned by Burrs criminality.  besides this the principal witnesses to his conspiracy to enmesh the country in a war unwanted and destructive have been sent on already to New York and if as you say he has voiced a desire for a trial with promptness & alacrity a demand that can only be looked upon as impudent in the extreme then he cannot acheive this in his current location without extreme delay and can only gratify himself by a return to where this enterprise was first set in motion.  however at all costs this bold and unprincipled game-cock must stand trial and the public be disabused of the illusions that support his crimes in their regard however best this may be accomplished.  I salute you with friendship & respect.

Th: Jefferson

***

There was a positive crowd outside New York’s district court, hoping to find space inside.  He was not at all surprised.  With the ex-Secretary of the Treasury accused of breaking what was widely considered one of his own laws, the trial would have been a public spectacle even if Hamilton hadn’t been famed for the beauty of his speeches.  And since he was, everyone in New York wanted to see the show.

Fortunately, he had privileged access; he simply followed quietly in the wake of the formidable legal figure of Luther Martin, ducking his head courteously as he passed under the noses of the city officials.  His pectoral muscles felt close to straining from the tower of legal tomes that dragged at his arms and weighted him down, making his steps halting.  He should perhaps have considered that consequence before he had made one or two suggestions about the case in progress; heigh ho.

The courtroom within was if anything louder, and smelled of unwashed bodies and a mixture of perfumes.  If it was this warm now, then by the afternoon it would be almost unbearable.  However there were advantages to such public interest; advantages sufficient to make the associated fug of only minor concern.  

Hamilton and Van Ness were not yet present, so he waited politely for Martin to position himself as he pleased before relieving himself of the burden of the law books, setting them down into several piles, his gaze studiously down as he performed the simple task.  That done he was free to enter the anonymity of the crowd behind the bar, divest himself of his hat, and seat himself on the end of the nearest bench; its existing occupants shuffling up a little to make room.  His wig itched a little as they always did, and he resisted the urge to scratch the top of his head where the prickly underside rubbed against bare skin.

He closed his eyes in the familiar lull of waiting for the defendant to enter.  Days of constant travel in stage after jolting stage had not allowed much time for rest; and nor had last night's long session of planning, sustained on Martin's part by brandy but on his own only by necessity.  He looked forward to watching how Martin conducted his entry upon the scene. 

He must have nodded, although thankfully he had not fallen off the bench, for he was suddenly aware of Hamilton’s clear voice speaking nearby.  He glanced up, but Martin was between them, saying something in a low tone, his body blocking a clear view. 

“What?” said Hamilton suddenly, clearly and distinctly.  “Where?”  Martin grasped him by the arm but Hamilton shook him off, his head turning rapidly from side to side.

“Do not draw attention,” Martin said impatiently.  Hamilton ceased searching the room, but stepped a little closer to his advocate and spoke low and urgent, his hands gesticulating passionately.  Van Ness stopped laying out his quills and ink pot in order to watch them with surprised curiosity.  Nobody else appeared to have noticed anything unusual; lawyers frequently had last-minute whispered conferences, particularly when one of them was also the defendant.

This conference was interrupted, as was also usual, by the entry of the judges.  Tallmadge, of course, as the local District Court judge - why had Hamilton selected Van Ness for his legal team, did he not know of the froideur between them? - and William Johnson of the Supreme Court.  Jefferson’s man.  Well, perhaps.  Ambition could form a powerful bond, but gratitude often less so; and the Chase trial had confirmed that this appointment was now Johnson’s for life.  The court rose, silenced, and waited on Johnson’s pleasure.

Johnson and Tallmadge regarded the courtroom a moment - Tallmadge’s gaze lingered briefly on young Van Ness, but nowhere else - before sitting.  Everyone else sat - those who had seats - with the exception of Luther Martin. 

“May it please the court,” he said in his grating, unrefined voice, “Before any further proceeding, I beg leave to make some remarks.  The gentlemen of the prosecution have said that Mr Hamilton's innocent financial affairs are a crime - not just any crime, but a high misdemeanour - as supposedly proven by the acts of an entirely different man, separated by the width of the country.  We have argued back and forth upon this subject, but they cannot produce Mr Burr to stand as co-defendant and nor, as far I have understood it, though after all my understanding may be faulty, have they even issued a subpoena for his presence.  We therefore request that the court be adjourned until their witness can be procured.”

Mr Woodworth immediately rose.  “We remind the opposing counsel that the greatest efforts have been made to obtain the presence of Mr Burr, but that he has declined attendance at these proceedings; the court surely cannot sanction the idea that a court cannot sit, nor argument be made, merely because a man under suspicion refuses the call to answer to his country for his crimes.”

Martin’s face broke into a wide smile, but it was Hamilton who rose to take up the argument; he had always been quick on the uptake.  “We do not intend to cast doubt upon the integrity of the gentlemen opposite,” he began with a light voice that cut easily through the shuffling and murmuring of the audience, “but we feel it possible that they may have been misinformed.  Fortunately, we have but recently found ourselves, through the actions of a gentleman of the highest honour and integrity, and at great risk of injury and injustice to himself, to which none of us may speak as well as he can himself, in possession of the means of resolving this tedious and distracting question.  Let us ask him.  Colonel Burr, have you received a subpoena?”

Shouting erupted from the crowd.  Despite the best attempts of the bailiff, the courtroom dissolved into a screaming, shoving mass.

Burr stood.  Ignoring the improper disorder, he stepped quietly past the bar, his pace slow enough to ensure that nobody would notice any trace of a limp, and into the well before the judges.  He inclined his head politely to Johnson and Tallmadge.

“With the leave of the court.”  He continued on into the witness stand, and turned finally to face the defence counsel. 

Hamilton was leaning over the table, his knuckles white where he gripped it, but his head was up and his face alight with changing emotions.  He met Burr’s eyes and blinked, several times quickly, before giving a fierce grin.

Burr felt the slow uncoiling within him of a tension he had not even been aware of.  His friend was still his friend.  And together they were going to make Jefferson regret that he had ever begun this persecution.

“I have not,” he said conversationally in answer to the question.  And suddenly the court was so silent you could almost have heard a pin drop.

***

“If he has been taken again I will make them regret it,” Martin declared as he took down his hat from the hook and prepared to sally forth from Burr’s town house, where they had agreed to meet him several hours ago, into the dark maze of New York streets.

“In such an event it would not be an overreaction to march an army upon Washington and take back both his liberty, and that of our nation,” Hamilton agreed, flipping one of Burr’s quills between nervous fingers.

“Colonel Burr is often tardy,” Van Ness pointed out for the third time that night.  He realised he was turning a soapstone figurine in his hands and unobtrusively returned it to its side table.  “Why, on the very morning of…” He suddenly remembered who he was talking to and interrupted himself.  “Never mind.  My point is, the Colonel has much on his mind.  He may not realise how long it has been.”

“Hmph,” Martin snorted expressively as he reached for the door handle, with the result that he was almost hit in the face as the door was flung open from the other side.  Burr pulled up short in the doorway, his eyebrows a little raised as he regarded his friend.

“Burr!” Martin all but roared, grasping the smaller man by the upper arms.  Van Ness barely noticed the sound of a quill snapping from beside him.  “Where have you been?  We thought you surely captured again!”

“I am sensible of my disrespect,” Burr said appeasingly.  He glanced past Martin, briefly meeting first Hamilton’s eyes, and then Van Ness’s.  “If I may petition you for entry and a bottle of wine, then perhaps we can proceed in spite of my sins?”

Van Ness had known Burr too long and too well to miss the evasion, even in the rush of relief.  But “Burr,” was all he could say as he stood, his voice almost lost in the louder “Aaron,” from Hamilton.

Burr did not react to that intimacy, but simply stepped past Martin, hung up his hat, and proceeded into the main room.  Van Ness barely had time to notice the way he favoured one foot before Burr was clasping his hand with firm affection.  “My friend,” was all Burr said, or needed to say, alongside the intensity of his regard as he looked searchingly into Van Ness’s face. 

Then he turned towards Hamilton who hesitated for only a second, his piercing blue eyes glittering in the candlelight, before catching Burr around the shoulders in a fierce embrace.  “We thought you surely confined or dead,” he said accusingly, speaking for all three.  “In the name of the One above all, Aaron, why did you not send word?”

Burr bore the embrace as one conscious that he deserved it.  “I allow that my physical presence is but a poor substitute for my correspondence,” he responded at last, with a slight twitch of his mouth.  Martin, bareheaded again, returned to the room behind him, and placed a welcoming hand on his shoulder.  Burr glanced across at Van Ness with a meaningful lift of his eyebrows, and Van Ness hurried to pour him a glass of wine.  The two other lawyers broke off as he approached, freeing Burr to take the wine and proceed to the couch, where he laid himself back against one arm, stretching his legs along the seat with a sigh.  “My thanks.

“I know you have questions, but they must wait.  I have procured my bail for tomorrow, and Mr Jefferson cannot now interfere without finding himself in contempt of the legal authorities…”

Hamilton was wiping his face with a silk handkerchief.  Van Ness found himself closing his eyes and reopening them, surprised afresh each time to see his friend reclining on the couch, calmly strategising legal affairs, as though the previous year and a half had never occurred.  Burr glanced between them, and at Martin beyond them, and let his voice trail off.  He concentrated on sipping his wine with a composed expression as silence fell, apparently completely oblivious to the stares of the three other men.

It was, inevitably, Hamilton who broke the silence.  “Aaron,” he said, a little huskily, and Van Ness wondered since when he had been on such intimate terms with Burr.  “I hope that I have no need to convince you of the affection in which I hold you, or of the transports of happiness that I felt inwardly, when I saw you, this morning, safe and well.”  His voice strengthened as he continued.  “But I cannot help but feel disquietude that you have, in coming here, placed your head unnecessarily between the lion’s jaws.  While you were free in the south we could argue, as we have been arguing, that no connection of intent could be proved between my own preparations and your military enterprise; and you yourself could remain at large to cut your actions according to the cloth of my conviction or otherwise.  Now we are immured together and our enterprise is abandoned, likely to founder without the guidance of either one of its originators.”

“I told him,” Martin muttered as he flung himself down in an armchair and poured himself another brandy.  Van Ness slowly returned to his own seat, watching Burr closely as experience had taught him.  His friend’s control was flawless, but the familiar tired bags beneath his glittering eyes were harder to hide.

“There is little I can usefully accomplish while hunted like an animal,” Burr said composedly.  “And it seemed a poor return for all your exertions in my favour.  Separated, we might each suffer some solicitude; unified, we can feel none.”

“Then I must suppose that the emotions so peculiarly animate within my breast at this moment do not constitute solicitude,” Hamilton remarked ironically, his fingers tapping sharply at his thighs.  Van Ness was surprised to feel some sympathy with Hamilton, for all he understood Burr’s logic.  He could see why Burr had chosen to conceal his return to New York, but he felt a little hurt by it.

“Do the Swartwouts know you are here?” he cut in, with that thought in mind.

“They do.”  Burr paused for a moment, considering briefly.  “It was partly the cause of my delay just now,” he clearly made the decision to continue.  “My letter to them of Samuel’s death had miscarried.”

“Did they… what?”  It took Van Ness a moment to catch up with what Burr had just said so coolly.  “Samuel Swartwout is dead?”

“Malheureusement.  At Mexico City, or you would have known before this.”

Van Ness scrutinised Burr closely.  He knew how close he was to the three Swartwout brothers, and how fond he was - had been - of young Samuel in particular.  But there were no cracks in the serenity of his composure.

Van Ness swallowed down the lump in his own throat.  He would not disgrace his friend.  “How did he die?” he managed to ask with an even voice.

“Bravely.”  He was not sure whether the distance he could hear in Burr’s voice was real, or an artifact of his own shock.  “John and Robert have cause to be proud they had a brother.”

Out of the corner of his eye Van Ness saw Hamilton shift his weight to take a step forward, and quickly fought down his own emotion in order to say something, anything, that would forestall the other man.

“We have been all day without sustenance,” he heard himself saying, and hurried to ameliorate the implied criticism.  “If it would be agreeable, I can send to my house for a supper.”

Burr gave him one of those unreadable looks, although Van Ness had known him long enough to simply meet it with a stare of his own.  Burr reached for a bell on the table by his elbow, and rang it.  A few moments later a black woman appeared in the doorway.

“Nancy.  Tell Peggy to send up supper.  Cold fowl and potatoes will be acceptable, as well any tarts, custards et cetera she may have on hand.”

“Gladly, master,” the slave said quietly, and waited for a moment in case there were any added instructions before vanishing with a soft swish of cotton.

“Now if we may proceed with the case.”  With the insight of long experience, Van Ness knew that he had read him right.  Burr’s interview with the Swartwouts had gone hard, and he desired at any cost a change of subject.

There was a moment of silence.  Then, to Van Ness’s surprise, it was Hamilton who came to their rescue.  His voice was oddly gentle, but his words all business.  “To business, then.  I am not unfamiliar with the phrasing and purpose of the Neutrality Act, and in order to criminate us under its auspices it will be imperative for Jefferson’s lap-dog to fix upon us ineluctable proofs of the following circumstances…” 

Van Ness tried to hide his sigh of relief as the room moved on.  He watched his friend’s face as Hamilton, supported and corrected by Martin, expounded their plan of attack, alert to any signal that might tell him how Burr truly was, or what he truly thought.  Glancing up occasionally at the speakers, he was startled to notice that under cover of Martin’s interjections, Burr’s old adversary Hamiton was surreptitiously doing the same.

Chapter Text

People v Hamilton, W. Sampson, September 1806

Mr Woodworth: The object of my motion is to commit Mr. Burr, on a charge of misdemeanour against the United States. On the examination of Mr Hamilton, Mr Burr was not available, and so Mr Hamilton only was committed for misdemeanour. The situation is different now.  We make an application to commit Mr Burr on the evidence formally introduced, and on additional testimony to be now brought forward.

Mr Van Ness: We may have cause of much regret that the attorney of New York State has not given us some previous notice of this application.

Mr Woodworth interrupted: Since the gentleman complains of being taken by surprise, I am willing to postpone the motion till to-morrow.

Mr Hamilton: It is not supportable that we should accede to a postponement, not even for a moment. Although we sustain considerable inconvenience by being thus suddenly and unexpectedly called upon, without reflection or authorities, yet a day’s delay would only extend inconvenience into excoriation.  I shall therefore undertake to make a few remarks on this extraordinary application, and the pernicious effects such an extraordinary measure, if generally practiced, would inevitably produce.  The organ particularly appropriated for the consideration of the evidence which this motion calls for, is the grand jury.  The grand jurors' oath is to inquire into all crimes and misdemeanors committed within the district of the state of which they are freeholders; to them belongs the exclusive duty of inquiring and examining into all species of evidence, which may lead to a conviction of the crime of which Colonel Burr is now charged.  Their office is to perform that which the attorney-general is now calling upon the court to perform. There is a great objection to the exercise of this examining and committing power by the very high law officer, who is to preside upon the trial, when the grand jury, the appropriate tribunal, is in session. He is obliged, previously, without a full hearing of both sides of the case, to commit himself upon the case of the accused.  If the gentleman opposite is not ready to present evidence before the grand jury, Colonel Burr should be discharged.

Mr Martin: Colonel Burr appears in this court as a witness, voluntarily, at the incitement of no summons but his conscience.  His great object is to satisfy his country, the minds of his fellow-citizens, and even the gentlemen opposite, that Mr Hamilton is innocent.  Colonel Burr has, sir, made enough of sacrifices; he has been deprived of his legal rights; his person and papers have been seized; he has been subjected to a military persecution unparalleled in this country; given into the custody of the satellites of military despotism, and guarded by the rigid forms of military law; surely his wrongs ought now to end.  What, sir, is the tendency of this application? What is the motive? I have no doubt the gentlemen mean to act correctly. I wish to cast no imputation; but the counsel and the court well know that there are a set of busy people (not, I hope, employed by the government) who, thinking to do right, are laboring to ruin the reputation of my client.

Here proceedings were briefly interrupted by an outbreak of disorder among attendees, with some persons brandishing what appeared to be pamphlets and handbills, of which a number have circulated of late containing severe animadversions against Col Burr.  Upon the ejection of several persons, the discussion of the motion continued.

***

“My dear.”

Theodosia turned away from her mirror to see her husband staring at her with a thunderstruck expression.  Then he smiled, stepped forward into her dressing room, and bent to take her hand and kiss it.  “You are Athena come to life,” he said gallantly, and she knew he honestly meant every word.

“Mari,” she said with a slight smile, and presented her cheek for his kiss.  “But I am more fortunate than Athena, for I have a husband.”  Such small tokens of affection took little effort, after such long practice.  Five years of marriage - closer to six, now - and she had little, really, to complain of her decision.  Her husband loved her very much, and she had a son to make her father proud.

“I had come to ask if everything is ready?”

“If I pass muster.”  His expression had already told her everything she needed to know about how she looked, but she knew how the dance was measured.  She made an abbreviated gesture with one hand and her two black maidservants silently withdrew.  They did almost everything silently; no matter what kindnesses or conversation she offered, she had been unable to draw anything but quiet wariness from her husband's slaves.

“Always.”  He took her hand and bowed briefly over it, and this time her smile, though small, was genuine.  Joseph’s courtly manners had never palled.

“Then let us go down together.”  She stepped towards the door.  Today was a good day; she was looking forwards to the company, the educated political conversation.  She even thought she might be equal to the rich food whose cooking aromas had penetrated the whole house.

“Did today's post bring any further word of Colonel Burr’s affairs?”

It was a sign of his own worry that he asked.  “No, alas for me.  I think it best we proceed as if he is in New York already, supported by his friends but confined, as it were, within bounds.  Mr Jefferson acts as though he and General Hamilton are the sole heads of the enterprise, that he can cut off and appropriate to himself the gains we have made.  I know different.”  She looked meaningfully up at her husband, whose mouth had firmed into a scowl.

“Yes, indeed.  You have written to Mr Gallatin?”

“I have, in such aspect as I hope the daughter of any friend might assume.” Even the stairs seemed easy today, she scarcely needed to lean upon Joseph at all.

“Good.  Once we have ensured that our support is sufficient, I can approach him in more official capacity.  I have some estimates of the land that Mr Adair and Colonel Burr marched over; I will not see our investment swallowed up by the greed of central government.”

He hesitated for a moment as their feet touched the marble at the bottom of the stairs.  “I know you wish you were in New York with Colonel Burr,” he said at last. 

“As any natural daughter would feel,” Theodosia allowed.  She did not speak of how she yearned constantly for her father's company, his scolding and his love; his help in guiding the bright little mind she felt such heavy responsibility for.  She had made this decision.  She could live with it. 

“I could not well endure the constant worry, if I set you afloat on an ocean menaced by Spanish warships.”

“There is the coach…” she protested almost before she could help herself.  It would be a much longer, harder journey.  But her father, embattled, needed her.  As she needed him. 

“I cannot spare the time to go with you - and for now, you do him more good here.” Joseph gave her a small peck on the temple, like a sop to a child.  “The next week or two are critical.  After that… we shall discuss what can be done.”

Like a child, she allowed herself to be soothed by the sop.  She flexed her fingers a little on his forearm to show her appreciation.  And then she fixed a glittering smile on her face, and allowed her husband to lead her in to dinner. 

***

“There is no need for us to endure this humiliation.”  Hamilton watched Burr closely as he spoke.

Burr took a step back from the bookcase full of legal tomes, and turned his head to look thoughtfully at Hamilton.  “I had thought it was odd that you asked me here to discuss precedents.  I take it that instead we will be discussing sedition?”

Although Burr’s tone was more amused than judgemental, Hamilton still felt stung by the uncharitable description.  “When the contract, between the yeomanry and their elected executive, has been so peculiarly violated as to seek to rivet the chains of slavery on a countryman for the crime of patriotism; to fasten slanders upon unspeck’d characters; even to arrogate to itself the functions and powers of the judiciary for the purposes of tyranny; then it is a gross inaccuracy to adhere to the just vengeance of an abused and incensed people, the abhorrent label of ‘sedition’.”  He finished gesticulating with a clenched fist, his breathing for a moment as hard as if he had been running.

“I believe Brown and Callender made much the same defence,” Burr observed with frustrating equanimity.  “Though argued with less ability.”

Was Burr trying to charm him?! Hamilton bridled, both at that and at the recollection of the Sedition Act that had had such disappointing results.  “The case is not the same,” he snapped, dismissing the very idea with a cutting gesture.

“I have been in correspondence with Captain Dayton, and Major Cushing.  I believe that with your voice allied to mine in encouragement it would not be unacceptable to the senior officers of our army, to support the expedient accession of a commander-in-chief whose ability in directing and employing the common strength was more proven, than that of the present holder of that authority.  They know our character directly and are not easily swayed from their judgement by rumours.

“The present political suppression, under which we labour, amounts to a tyranny.  We do not have the luxury of arguing at great length beneath the shadow of war, and while time passes we shall only have ever greater obstacles as delay allows for the legislature to be stocked with mouthpieces for Jefferson's will; for you know he will replace Paterson with a mind under his sway.”

Now he had Burr’s attention. 

“Replace Paterson?” Burr asked sharply.  “I know he has been unwell since the accident, but he is hardly in a case like Pickering’s.  I had thought you and I had severely limited the precedent for impeachment.”

Oh.  The rage drained suddenly out of Hamilton, leaving only a tired bitterness.  “Of course.  You would not have heard.”

“What should I have heard, Ham?  Has William taken a turn for the worse?” Burr took a step towards him, his expression becoming animated. “I had the opportunity to speak to Dr Bollman about his case, he recommended a new treatment from Europe.  I should have liked to consult with yourself or Hosack first, but…”

“Enough, Aaron.”  Hamilton took the step forward necessary to put one hand on his friend's shoulder, and Burr’s face settled into stillness as he understood.  “Judge Paterson died in Albany, near the start of the month.  We are running out of friends, old friend.”

“I see.”  Burr did not look away, but for a moment his extraordinary eyes were not entirely focused on Hamilton.  “That is such news as I had hoped not to hear for some years yet.”  There was a moment of silence.  Outside, a cart rolled heavily by, the sound muffled within this room of old leather and paper, of decaying precedents.  “Paterson condescended to show me great kindness and intimacy, when I was little more than a boy in need of guidance.  Everything wears out.  You wear out.  I wear out…” His gaze snapped back.  “But slowly,” he added, with a sudden resurgence of energy.  He reached up and patted Hamilton's hand on his shoulder, and Hamilton felt his belly ache in either envy or pity of Burr’s unfailing optimism, he was not sure which.  He let go and stepped away, automatically swaying to avoid hitting his hip on the corner of his desk as he went to the window.  The sky was violet with twilight; the street already in deep shadow.

“So you see we cannot merely trust to the steady grind of legal process, to see justice delivered us.”

“No,” Burr agreed, somewhat to Hamilton's surprise.  “But Mr Jefferson must himself bow to political reality.  He is, thank the framers of the Constitution, not a king.”  Hamilton glanced back in startlement, and caught the tiny ironic lift of one eyebrow.  Caught for a moment between laughter and bitterness, he said nothing, but turned back to look out at the street.

“He has not the freedom of unfettered action,” Burr continued.  “Pressure can be brought to bear.  I expect that it imminently will be.  And with that motive force gone, our argument shall swiftly carry the court.”

“Burr, you cannot possibly believe…”

“No, Ham,” Burr interrupted, an action so uncharacteristic that Hamilton actually found himself silenced by sheer surprise.  “I have confided myself to the judgement of my peers; I trust that they shall do us both justice.  We have both built our lives upon that foundation; it would cast all principle aside to abandon it now.”

Hamilton heard soft steps and then felt the slight movement of air as Burr came up beside him, standing so close he could almost feel the warmth of his body.  A moment later he was startled to feel the brief pressure of a hand upon his forearm.  “For once, my friend,” Burr said quietly, “trust in our people.”

Hamilton simply shot him a jaded and disbelieving stare. Burr met his eyes, his brow pinching a little.  Then he also looked out at the street.  “But if it makes you happier, I shall write to Dayton.  There is more than one reason to reconnect with old friends.”

***

People v Hamilton, W. Sampson, September 1806

This day argument was concentrated upon Genl Hamilton’s legal responsibility for an enterprise that occurred at such great distance. 

Mr Van Ness: Mark the facts, which cannot be varied. Genl Hamilton was not at Nacogdoches in November of 1805, nor within a thousand miles of it, and this absence gives a death wound to the indictment. 

Here Mr. Van Ness read the counts in the indictment, upon which he made a number of inferences in application to the absence of the defendant.  He also referred to the words "set on foot" and quoted Johnson's dictionary for its meaning, observing that so vague and uncertain was its acceptation that not less than 72 definitions were given of it. The meaning of the law, he contended, ought to be always to be constructed in favour of an accused person. He quoted 6 Bacon, 292, to elucidate the necessity of the most liberal construction; so that if there was a doubtful meaning in the words of the law, it ought not to injure the accused by interpretation.

Mr Woodworth: Must a man be present in levying war, who did actually levy war? By no means; and yet here is a crime of an inferior nature, in which it is contended that he must be present, on the spot!  A man might stay at home and not strike a blow, and yet his offence, although simply that of a procurement, might be principal, because he is the principal operator, although the crime itself, (by law) is accessorise.

Here Mr. Woodworth made some pertinent observations on the duo animo and of the objects intended by the words "beginning and setting on foot", which he contended did not mean the act itself, but might waft itself from "pole to pole". A letter could be an active agent; it could procure soldiers, weapons, provisions, and all that would be necessary to promote and carry on any powerful expedition.  Even thus are the most mighty enterprises given motive force, acts that extend to the very edges of our empire, yet without the presence of the principal who remains seated all the while in the seat of government.  A proceeding with which he contended the gentlemen opposite could not be unfamiliar.

To this argument the judges seemed more sympathetic than otherwise; though acknowledging that testimony of this kind has rarely been admitted where the indictment does not charge a conspiracy.  Judge Johnson wished for a night to confer with his colleague before preparing a decision on the point. 

***

“I have sent a letter to Bayard; we need his representation, if he can at all be secured.”

“Bayard?  But… oh, you mean young Samuel.  To what end?  He is, as an attorney, greatly inferior to any of us currently here present in my office.  An additional voice in our counsels can only add disagreement and retard celerity and clarity.”

“Je suis au courant.  Is that volume McNally? Pass it to me, if you would.  However Bayard is of the Livingston faction, and we must secure their support.”

“You have got into parliamentary habits, Burr; these things are novel to me, who am a mere lawyer.”

“Your opinion is always invaluable to me, Martin.  Speaking as a lawyer, then: Mr Tallmadge does not bear any dislike towards Mr Bayard.”

There was a moment of silence. 

“...I shall ask my clerk to bring up another chair.  But I still think we waste time with this distance argument; we should bring the attack by arguing, and seizing the chance to define in precedent, the legal meaning of ‘at peace’…”

Chapter Text

People v Hamilton, W. Sampson, September 1806

Mr Van Ness: Mr. Hamilton's plans were most meritorious, predicated on principles of an honorable war, and only to be carried on in the event of his country being engaged in it.  And with a view to the emancipation of millions who are still in bondage, with a design to take the bonds of slavery off many millions, he would have merited the applause of the friends of liberty and of posterity. This I contend was the case.

Mr Martin: As to war. Is a declaration of war necessary to be denominated war, if, de facto, there is war? 

Upon this he read 1 Hale, P. C. 160, 163, 164, Tooke 219, Vattel B. 3, Ch. 4, sect. 61, Ch. 6, Grotius, B. 3, Ch. 3, sect. 6, p. 553, Paterson’s opinion in Smith and Ogden's trial, 84, 85, 86. The opinions he read to shew the constituent parts of war, and to prove the position that in this case there was war, and consequently war under our constitution. He also contended upon tense premises, that the Spanish incursions on this side of the Sabine was war de facto.

Mr Woodworth: I deny this last position. There is an essential difference between invasion and actual war. The mere occupation of land claimed by another party is not war, since they may do it under the impression that it is their own property. When hostility commences, then there is war de facto.

Mr Martin: When an alien force tramples the fields of the people who have tilled them, and turns them from their homes to go naked into the wilderness at the outset of winter, then that is a strange sort of peace.  I contend that even the admirable placidity of the gentleman opposite would feel some qualms of a less than peaceable nature if watching such an invasion progress towards his own home.

***

Hamilton watched Wilkinson stride into the court, resplendent in full military dress.  Gold glittered at his shoulders and honours made a rainbow of colours at his breast, especially bright in the comparative dim of the courtroom.  He took the oath with a display of resonant solemnity.  

Hamilton did not need to glance at the audience to see the favourable impression the general was making.  His gut hurt enough already.  He had distrusted the man back in ‘98, and he had been right.

From his bench on the other side of the judges, Mr Woodworth stood.  “General Wilkinson.  We appreciate your cooperation in this important matter.  Will you be so good as to state the situation with the Spanish in October last, and the communications made to you by Colonel Burr?”

“Of course,” Wilkinson said with the genial condescension of a monarch.  Hamilton glanced briefly across at Burr, but could see nothing beyond his usual unruffled composure.  He tried not to let it irritate him.

“The situation with the Spanish was tense.  There had been repeated raids deep into our lands to the west of the Mississippi.  It was expected that at any moment they should attempt an assault in force and endeavour to annex territory on the eastern side of the Sabine river.”

“The Sabine river marked the location of our western border?” Woodworth asked for the court.

“There was some dispute over the matter, but so far as we of the Union are concerned the border followed the line of the Sabine river from its mouth until its upper reaches took a turn to the west, running straight north from there.  It paralleled the Red river, upon which both Natchitches and Bayou Pierre were situated, at about thirty miles’ distance.”

“Thankyou.  Please proceed.”

“I had met with Colonel Burr some months previously, at Fort Massac upon the lower reaches of the Ohio.”

Hamilton glanced aside but Burr was still simply looking politely attentive.  His gut felt as though it was trying to tie itself in knots, and he shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench, missing a little of the testimony.

“...that the government was concerned with the Spanish activity, and that he intended to raise a force to augment those of the standing army.”

“He told you he was acting under the aegis of the government?”

“I do not recollect his precise words, but that was definitely the impression that he gave me.  I had been acquainted with Colonel Burr in Washington; I knew of his military reputation, and of course that he stood high in government counsels.”

There was a low growl from Martin, but he said nothing, only took another mouthful of brandy.  His face was already flushed, but it never seemed to impair him.

“In October,” Wilkinson continued confidently, “I received word that a Spanish force had crossed the Sabine river and was marching to Bayou Pierre.  You will apprehend that, being far to the south and west of Washington, I was thrown much upon my own initiative.  Mr Jefferson had a high opinion of my competence.  It was in my mind that Mr Jefferson would prefer peace to war, and thus I prepared to hurry towards Bayou Pierre to negotiate with the Spaniards.  It was at this critical time that I was delivered a letter in cipher, in handwriting disguised but nevertheless unmistakeably originating from Colonel Burr.”

Hamilton started to move, but Martin was already out of his seat by some kind of legal reflex, developed during his almost thirty years as Maryland’s Attorney-General.  “If any letters are produced, they should be lodged with the clerk, so that both parties might have an opportunity of inspecting them.”

“That is not necessary unless they are read,” Tallmadge responded, with Johnson’s nod.

This time, it was Burr who stood.  “If General Wilkinson wishes to describe any part of this letter in his testimony,” he said courteously, “Then the defence insists upon the opportunity to read it.  I hope I may be forgiven a certain curiosity as to what I am supposed to have written.”

There was a ragged indrawn breath from the audience.  Hamilton narrowed his eyes, as though he had any way to pierce Burr’s composure.  Burr could deceive with a frank handshake and a smile, though he did not usually outright lie.  He did like ciphers, though.  And he was not always wise.

“We are willing to waive the letter,” Woodworth said with a courteous air.

He could not be sure.  He stayed still, his gaze fixed upon Burr.  Burr glanced across, unreadable and distant. 

“The letter has been mentioned,” Martin said firmly, without any trace of doubt.  “Its supposed content is already at work in the imaginations of the jury.  Even if it be excluded as evidence, an idea has been introduced and cannot be erased.  Pandora's box has been opened before the court, and if war, treachery and all the trumpery that malice can produce must be unleashed onto the floor, then we must insist that it be drained to the last dreg; yes, that hope, the hope of justice done and falsehood overturned, also be made available for us.”

Loyal bulldog Martin, assuming that Burr would not have written an incriminating letter.  Hamilton leaned back against the unyielding wood of the bench, feeling as though his insides were trying to rake their way out.  If he had, then it would destroy them both.  He wondered, if he asked, whether Burr could lie to his face. 

***

Hamilton arrived at his office late the next morning, which was unusual.  But one look at his pale face, drawn and angry with pain, cast Burr back in time for a moment to a hundred stages and inns on circuit, his friend’s frequent struggles with his health.

He glanced meaningfully across at Van Ness.  He had told him that Hamilton’s failure to respond to yesterday's slights was from indisposition, not disinclination.

“I assume we are not expecting Mr Martin?”  Hamilton crossed behind his desk and seated himself in the position of authority.  Burr, mildly amused, remained standing with his back to the window, knowing from experience that Hamilton would not stay sitting down for long.

“I should imagine not,” Van Ness said, looking up from the volume that he had been leafing through at Burr’s request.  “You saw that he was particularly intemperate yesterday.”

“Then let us leave the discussion of authorities to a moment more propitious, at which we may benefit from his expertise.” Hamilton picked up a quill and absently tapped it upon the marked book that happened to have been left open in front of him.  “We need to discuss the insinuations being made against your courage, Colonel Burr.”

“I had rather discuss how we can trap Wilkinson into admitting his letter is a forgery,” Burr suggested mildly.  “It will entirely discredit the government’s case, and cause severe embarrassment to Mr Jefferson personally.”

“It is a forgery, then?”  Hamilton looked up at him with a piercing stare.

“I had thought that went without saying.”  With an effort, Burr kept his tone light and amused.  He strolled across the room to where Bayard was sifting through several tomes for possible lines of legal argument, and poured himself a cup from the jug.  It was an unfortunate flaw in Hamilton’s character, that he saw deceit and danger where there was none.  He felt for him.  It must be a miserable way to live.  “What business had I to go about misrepresenting Mr Jefferson’s orders?”

“You desire to cross-examine Wilkinson personally, then?”

“I see no alternative.  Though there are one or two points about the cipher that bear examination, for which I would wish to consult your prior experience.”

“So you saw that in the key also?  Good.”  Hamilton made a note, businesslike.  They had always worked well together.  During the Weeks case they had understood one another so well they had sometimes passed the cross-examination between them, their minds were so in harmony.  “I shall continue to mark and refute, with the utmost detestation, their unconscionable attempts to bypass the process of law by instead prosecuting against our characters.”

Burr wondered whether that was intended to stand as an apology for the previous day’s silence.  He decided to take it as one.  “I could wish that yourself and Mr Martin were less inclined to abuse the government,” he said diplomatically.

“A government, that seeks to undermine the independence proper and necessary to the judicial branch, in order to prosecute crimes - so-called - that are purely political, after the fashion of the worst abuses of tyrannical and despotic monarchs, should not be surprised to find its desserts justly seasoned with criticism.  In no other way can such abuses - to employ the term in a context more congruous to its meaning - come to the popular attention, and be frustrated.”  By the end of his speech Hamilton was out of his chair and pacing between desk and bookcases.  Burr caught Van Ness’s pointed look; this was something where he and Hamilton both agreed.

“And in similar case are the rumours that redound to your - to our - discredit,” Hamilton added as Burr began to respond.  Burr politely let him speak, but raised one eyebrow.  Hamilton raised both of his.  “I am aware that you prefer to leave to your character to confound the fictions of slander.  But experience shows that even when tales, which our characters alone ought to discredit, are further refuted by evidence and facts that ought to oblige the patrons of them to abandon their support, they still continue in corroding whispers to wear away the reputations that they could not directly subvert.”  He broke off briefly to wince and rub his lower back before continuing.  “We have confronted this once, to some popular interest, if not to the reduction in malignity that we might have had reason to be optimistic of.  Poison that is poured into the jury’s ears outside of the court room, does not receive an antidote entire at the direction of the judge within those hallowed halls.”

“It is a base and vulgar business,” Burr said firmly, “which no gentleman should dignify by his attention.  Those who write such obvious falsehoods only serve to make themselves ridiculous.”

Hamilton took several steps towards him, so that they were almost breast to breast.  From behind him, Burr heard Bayard’s nervous intake of breath.

“Aaron,” Hamilton said with an entirely unexpected softness.  “The general masses are not so discriminating.  Every calumny makes some proselytes and even retains some; the public mind, fatigued at length with resistance to the lies that eternally assail it, is apt in the end to sit down with the opinion that a person so often accused cannot be entirely innocent.  And those who seek the approval of the public, will more often than not follow its sway.”

Burr resisted the urge to step back.  “Hamilton,” he said instead, matching his friend’s tone, “What you are suggesting is indecorous, and unworthy of your genius.”

Hamilton met his gaze fiercely, sudden spots of colour burning on his pale cheeks.

Van Ness slammed his book closed.  “He is not wrong though, Colonel Burr,” he said passionately.  “It is even more mortifying to watch a great man brought low by insidious malice, whatever strength of character such a refusal to engage may indicate to those who have the privilege to be his fellow-travellers.”  He aimed a venomous glance at Hamilton’s back.  “If it is indecorous to defend a friend, then I am willing to submit to some impropriety.”

Burr felt his eyebrows rise involuntarily at such open rebellion.

“Not to mention,” Hamilton said as he whirled about and strode back to the desk, “That at this stage my character is inextricably linked to yours.  It passes belief that you should expect that I should tamely submit to being once more persecuted and my character blackened alongside your own.  I must and shall defend myself against the enterprise of these calumniators.”

“I should not presume to offer my approval or disapproval for any course of action that recommended itself to your conscience, General Hamilton,” Burr said pleasantly after a moment’s pause, clasping his hands behind his back. “Though I should expect,” he said with a glance at Van Ness, “a reciprocity of respect when it comes to my own.”

Hamilton threw his hands in the air and flung himself back into his seat with another wince; though Burr noted with amusement that he had somehow ‘flung’ himself into a posture of straight-backed dignity.  Van Ness found it expedient to suddenly remember something he needed to look up in his book. 

“So, gentlemen,” Burr heard Bayard’s voice from behind him, a little reedy and uncertain, “what would you like me to do with these precedents I have found…?”

*** 

People v Hamilton, W. Sampson, September 1806

Mr. Burr: At what time was this cipher agreed between us? 

Genl. Wilkinson: It was when we met at Washington City, in December of 1804.

Mr. Burr: And by whom was this cipher originated? 

Genl. Wilkinson: It was formed by my aid-de-camp, Captain Smith.  The cipher was not a special one, but had been in frequent use in communication between my officers and myself.

Mr Burr: For how long had it been in use?

Genl. Wilkinson: Since 1794, or perhaps 1795.

Mr. Burr: How did I come to be in possession of this cipher?

Genl. Wilkinson: I provided it to you. 

Mr Burr: For what reason?  Did you expect that we should need to communicate privately?

Genl. Wilkinson: By no means.  I had then no suspicion of any nefarious intent on your part.  You said that you might come west and asked me for a way to securely communicate intelligence.  As I had seen that you were high in the President's trust, I saw no reason to refuse.

Mr Burr: I think you say that this cipher was formed in 1794? 

Genl. Wilkinson: Yes; and I will give you my reasons. I have another cipher, in which the hieroglyphics respecting the President and Vice-President are the same as in that now before the Court, which was designed by Captain Smith, for Captain Covington, in the year 1794; which was the time he retired from the army.  It was, as I say, an old cipher known to my officers; I had no reason to create a new one for use solely between us.

Mr Burr: I observe the city of Washington is represented in the cipher by a single house. I observe the city of Washington, but not Philadelphia, which was the seat of government in 1794.  I must applaud Captain Smith’s thoroughness, in designating a hieroglyphic for a city that did not then exist.

Disorder at this point broke out in the public galleries, interrupting General Wilkinson’s response.  Although he was able at length to offer explanation for this and the sundry other questions that were put to him to open contradictions in his account, it seemed that the reliability of his testimony had been struck a mortal blow.

Chapter Text

At the Grange there are flowers, drowsily nodding petal-heavy heads in the late-summer sunshine, dripping perfume into a country breeze whose fresh greenness scarcely needs it.  She would cut them, with Angelica, an easy task that let them both pretend, sometimes, that all was right.  Alexander Jr and James were both elsewhere, of course, beginning their adult lives - may they be longer than their brother’s - but Little Phil would be chasing after Eliza and William, playing games on the spacious lawn.  All of them revelling in their childish ignorance of adult troubles, under the slightly nervous eye of John as temporary master of the house.

She had bought flowers to put in vases at Cedar Street, but it was not the same.  Summer in the city smelled of stagnant water, the sweetish musk of horse manure, and the sharp stink of human sweat.  But Hamilton needed her, worn down and bitter as he was becoming again, under this new persecution.  Days in court, evenings planning with his lawyers and with Burr, who would at least acknowledge her presence and exchange a few words with her before he joined the talk about plans and precedents.  She never knew whether her husband would be at their house, or at Burr’s, or at his offices.  Some nights he must sleep there, and it was just as well she had learned not to lie awake waiting for him. 

“Elizabeth!”

She looked up from the wilting flowers in the grocer’s display to see Jannetje smiling brightly as she hurried towards her, Troup following rather more slowly behind.

“I should have thought you back at The Grange by now.  Everybody says that the case against General Hamilton is quite exploded.”

“I wish it were so simple,” Eliza sighed.  “The prosecution continues regardless; Hamilton is furious about it.  He blames Mr Jefferson, and Mr Woodworth for indulging such illiberal pretensions.”

Troup, catching up, laughed.  “I hear him in you there, Mrs Hamilton.  I hope he is not whetting his rants on you?”

“It is my pleasure to indulge him,” she said stoutly, and not entirely untruthfully.  Her husband's words were always beautiful, as was the way he would kiss her wrist and take her to bed after. 

“You are shopping yourself?” Jannetje said, looking at her basket, with a little surprise. 

“I wanted to get out of the house,” Eliza said half-truthfully.  “It is quiet without the children.  And I had not believed what our cook told me about the cost of rice…” she trailed off ruefully, hoping that she gave the impression of a bored lady seeking occupation, rather than one with a genuine need to seek economies.

“Ooh,” said Jannetje in a tone of understanding.  “Yes.  The war.  What was it you told me, Robert?” She half-turned to include her husband.

“Spanish predations on the shipping,” Troup agreed.  “Rice, brandy - anything that must come from the south or from Europe is becoming a rare bird indeed, and priced accordingly.  Though your own husband, Mrs Hamilton” - he gave a little half-bow - “would know the details better than I.”

“And if that is the worst of it, then I shall be grateful.  I have no desire ever again to be under siege in my own home.”  And this time with rather more children to worry about, and no quick-thinking Peggy to assist. 

“Hah, I share your concerns,” said Troup with his characteristic good humour.  “I struggle even to march with a regiment these days; I was very glad to hand the Blacks’ drill to Burr when Ham brought him to see our project, Sunday past.  Though I might gain myself a reputation for bravery purely through being too fat to run away.”  Jannetje laughed with him, and clearly just managed to stop herself giving his belly the playful swat that she would have in private. 

“We must be going,” she said cheerfully, “Or we shall be late to lunch.”

“Wait,” Troup hesitated suddenly, struck by a thought.  “Should I make more effort to attend the trial?  Is there any prospect of a close?  Who is the next witness?”

“A Sergeant Dunbaugh, I believe,” Eliza responded easily.  She might be bored by the legal niceties that so obsessed her Hamilton, but she could hardly miss the names that were repeated again and again.

“Huh.” Troup looked briefly thoughtful, then shrugged.  “Never heard of him.  Please give our regards to Ham, Mrs Hamilton.  I shall call on you both soon.”

“I shall.”  And with a polite nod, Eliza returned to the flowers.  Maybe she should simply take a trip out to The Grange, and bring some roses with her when she returned.

***

People v Hamilton, W. Sampson, September 1806

Mr. Woodworth: Please tell the court how you came to be a part of Col. Burr’s militia, and your experiences under his command.

Sgt. Dunbaugh: I was, and still am, a sergeant in the army of the United States.  My captain had sent me to the mouth of the Cumberland River to buy supplies; Col. Burr was then encamped on Cumberland Island.  I saw Col. Burr and delivered to him a message that the commandant at Fort Massac had entrusted me for him.

Mr. Woodworth: Do you know what was in the message?

Sgt. Dunbaugh: I do not.  Col. Burr invited me to breakfast, and he asked me how I would like to go down the river with him.  I replied, very well, if I could obtain the consent of my general.  When I returned to Fort Massac I requested and was granted a furlough.  I proceeded down to Natchez, where Col. Burr requested that I act as his liaison to the army, because I was known to them.

Mr. Woodworth: Did you convey any messages from Col. Burr to Genl. Wilkinson?

Sgt. Dunbaugh: Yes, several.

Mr. Woodworth: Do you know their contents?

Sgt. Dunbaugh: No; they were sealed letters, and I was told besides that they were in cipher.

Mr. Woodworth: What was the situation with the Spanish at the time these letters were sent by Col. Burr to Genl. Wilkinson?

Sgt. Dunbaugh: These letters were sent prior to the Spanish occupation of Bayou Pierre.

Mr. Woodworth: Were you present with Col. Burr when his force advanced upon Natchitoches?

Sgt. Dunbaugh: I was.  I advanced and fought under the command of Mr. Swartwout, when Col. Burr went into the town.

At this point Mr. Hamilton and his counsel objected strongly to the introduction of collateral evidence, and insisted strenuously that the counsel for the prosecution should adduce, without further delay, all the testimony which they had relating to any military enterprise that occurred prior to the eruption of conflict; that they had already submitted to too much irrelevant evidence; that it could not be denied that the Spanish had aggressively breached the peace between nations; and that the relevancy or irrelevancy of the collateral proof offered, depended entirely on the existence of such prior enterprise.

However the counsel for the prosecution contended that all military expeditions committed by Col. Burr and his militia were relevant, as tending to show the formed intent of Col. Burr and Genl. Hamilton to conduct a military enterprise against a nation against whom no war had been declared, and besides it was not agreed that mere invasion constituted a state that was not at peace.  Mr Johnson agreed that Sgt Dunbaugh’s evidence should continue for the present, though Mr Tallmadge offered no opinion.

Mr. Woodworth: In what capacity were you present at Mexico City?

Sgt. Dunbaugh: Having been promoted after the previous engagement, I was then performing the office of a captain within Col. Burr’s militia, of equivalent rank to Mr. Swartwout.  I remained behind with Col. Burr while Mr. Swartwout was in the vanguard.

Mr. Woodworth: For what purpose did you approach Mexico City? 

Sgt. Dunbaugh: It was Col. Burr’s express and stated intention to take the city from the Spanish.

Mr. Woodworth: At this time, had the President made any proclamation regarding a state of war with Spain?

Sgt. Dunbaugh: I had not received any news from the Union for some weeks, but when we left I had heard of no such proclamation.

Mr. Woodworth: Can you describe for the court what occurred before the gates of the city, and whether or no you thought it a military enterprise.

Sgt. Dunbaugh: I can think of it in no other way, though one extraordinarily badly constructed.  The Mexicans under Fr. Hidalgo advanced first, with Mr. Swartwout among them, and supported by men of the Tennessee militia under General Jackson.  The Spanish guns had been placed so as to effectively guard the pass, and when the Mexicans menaced them they fired to great effect and frightened the inexperienced troops.  At this I desired Col. Burr to permit me to advance in support of the Mexicans, but Col. Burr refused.  The entire army was repulsed, and Col. Burr commenced a retreat, abandoning the Mexicans and such of his own men had been in the advance with great loss of life.

Mr. Martin: This testimony is not only irrelevant but improper.  The gentleman opposite has thrown, into the caldron of public opinion already overboiling, poisonous ingredients, to the ruin of Colonel Burr. We wage an unequal war: two individuals against the whole power and influence of the United States. We have to defend ourselves but with law and fact.

Mr. Tallmadge: If this testimony proves irrelevant, the court shall be instructed to ignore it.

Mr. Hamilton: No instruction may remove the impression that calumnies, illegitimately admitted into court, make upon human minds alert to receive and ponder every such impression.  The same fact may be viewed very differently, where the mind is prepared by a course of testimony, calculated to impress it with a conviction of the criminal character of the accused, than where the fact is stated without such preparation.

Mr. Johnson: I will hear arguments on this point before deciding whether this testimony may continue or no.

***

“What happened at Mexico City?”

It was very late, now.  They had spent hours discussing with Van Ness and Martin the best way to persuade Johnson to rule that the Spanish invasion had breached the peace between states, focusing the case on the time before the invasion and rendering Dunbaugh’s testimony inadmissible.  Martin, sustained by frequent gulps of brandy, had racked his capacious memory for potential precedents and kept Bayard busy marking them in the books; the two had departed together, swearing to finish the task before the start of the next day’s proceedings.

Van Ness had remained longer, skirting the niceties of polite behaviour just as deftly as Hamilton himself had been doing, both of them overstaying an ever cooling welcome.  But finally even he had proven unwilling to press his friend’s patience any further, and he had put on his hat and departed with a silent glare at his client.  Hamilton and Burr were alone, as they had been when they had set this enterprise on foot.

“It is not relevant.  It will be excluded as evidence.”  Burr’s tone was becoming increasingly clipped.  Hamilton wondered whether this might be what finally pushed Burr into actually being rude.  He did not think that he had ever seen Burr display temper.   For a moment he was almost tempted… it was a petty desire, from old habits.  He could rise above it.

“I am not asking for the trial, Aaron,” he said gently.

Burr regarded him silently for a few moments, his compelling eyes almost black in the candlelight.  Then a slight smile quirked the corners of his mouth.  “Do you then believe the rumours?” he asked with amusement, as though the answer were of no consequence.

Hamilton had been fooled by Burr’s easy assurance before.  He would not be fooled so again.  “I do not.”

“Well, then.”  Burr rose smoothly from his chair.  He walked over and topped up Hamilton's glass before sitting back down, opposite him, in the chair that had earlier been Martin’s.  “I suppose I do owe you an accounting.”

“That is not…” Hamilton began, a little warmly, then stopped himself and shook his head.  “I should be glad of it,” he said instead. 

“It is true that I sent the Mexicans in the vanguard,” Burr told him, leaning back a little in the chair.  “Our assumptions were correct; I had met up, a little previous, with a Father Hidalgo who had collected a following of tens of thousands in the cause of independence.  He was then innocent in the ways of war; I sent Captain Swartwout with them, to offer guidance and stiffen their resolve.  Jackson and the Tennessee militia were in support; I held back my own volunteers to observe the battle, and be able to cast a force into the balance where and when it seemed to me most needed.  I shall not detail my intended plan of battle, for it bore I fear little resemblance to events.”

Burr’s tone was light and matter-of-fact.  He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles.  Left over right; Hamilton had noticed that he still favoured that foot in small ways, though he no longer limped.

“A not uncommon circumstance in war,” he agreed, remembering Monmouth so long ago.

“Well.  I heard the batteries fire, and I saw the Mexicans fall back.  It quickly became a rout, the foremost ranks fleeing over those behind.  I advanced with the intention of holding off the Spanish infantry for long enough to permit a more ordered retreat.”

“You advanced?”  In retrospect, Hamilton could not conceive why he had assumed Burr had stayed behind to direct events when he sent his reserve forward.  Perhaps the newspapers had worked their poison even in his own mind; in which case what horrors must they be wreaking with the weak thoughts of the general mob?

“Por supuesto.”  Burr seemed mildly surprised by the question, as he had every right to be.  “We were able to join with Captain Swartwout, who was attempting to rally, but under a heavy barrage.  I commanded Dunbaugh to retreat in order while I returned with the injured Captain Swartwout.”  His tone remained easy and practical.  “The battle was lost; we retreated in better order, and got well away before the Spanish thought to pursue.  The city remains to be plucked; it needs but a little more discipline in the invading force.”

Hamilton felt himself fizzing like a fuse at Burr’s calm; a calm that approached to coldness.  “How was Swartwout injured?”

Burr gave him an irritated look.  “We were in battle, Hamilton.  A cannon shot impacted too close to us; his horse fell.”

Too close.  Much too close.  Hamilton felt suddenly cold and nauseated, realising how near Burr had been to meeting the same fate as Swartwout.  He might never have known how he died.

“And does that not distress you?”

Burr turned his head aside for a moment, and Hamilton stared at the familiar patrician profile, finding in it as ever no clue to what was happening in the mind behind.  He could feel his fingers clenching around the smoothly curved arms of the chair, his forefingers tapping sharply against the wood.

“Which?” Burr asked reasonably at last, turning back again.  “I have been in many dangers; fortunately none of which have yet bested me, and that seems more a cause for celebration than the contrary.  Unless I am greatly deceived in our friendship.”  He gave Hamilton a quick, oddly sweet smile before rapidly sobering again.  “For Samuel I feel as any man should for one with whom I shared so much. His passing has inflicted a wound upon my peace and happiness that no mere passage of time can assuage.”  He tilted his head slightly to one side, his composure complete.  “You know I should feel no different regarding you,” he added, his dark eyes meeting Hamilton's, his expression considering.

For a moment Hamilton could barely breathe.  He flung himself out of the seat, taking several steps across the room, striking his own forehead with the sudden excess of emotion.  Then he realised that this, too, was a distraction.  He turned back to where Burr was sitting quietly, a few escaped strands of hair trailing stark black and silver over his white collar, still watching him.

“Montesquieu placed war as a consequence inevitable from states’ need to protect their constituent peoples and essential resources,” Hamilton remarked, apropos of nothing.  Burr leaned forward a little, curious.  “However he declined to consider it a law of nature, knowing that savages’ originating experience must be one of fear and superstition, motivating them to seek company one with another, and only thence ascending through society to a state in which war could be considered.  It is not, then, the natural state of humans, howsoever it may be of governments; concomitantly, men who have not withstood battle must find its nature alien and unamenable to their understanding.  I am not one of those.”

Hamilton stopped pacing and walked to Burr.  He placed one hand gently on his shoulder and looked down to meet his eyes.  “Might a friend share this burden?”

Burr glanced sharply aside and down.  Hamilton tensed a little and almost snatched his hand away, before realising that he was not being shrugged off.  Burr pinched the bridge of his nose.  “He died in my arms,” he said in a low tone, his voice fast and clipped, as though he needed to get the words out quickly before he was stopped.  “I cannot tell where.  Out of that squalid little mess I carried my friend a corpse.”  He pinched the bridge of his nose again and Hamilton could see the candlelight glitter for a moment on moisture before he turned his head away.

Hamilton's chest hurt.  His instinct was to embrace Burr, but he would not put his friend to the embarrassment of refusing that with courtesy.  Instead he simply moved a little closer, resting his hip on the arm of Burr’s chair, and squeezed his hand on the shoulder that was not quite trembling.

“You shall see him again in Heaven,” he said softly, but he knew that for once it was not his words that were important here.

***

It was very late.  Getting well on into morning, Burr had no doubt.  He did not look at his watch; he was not sure whether it was weariness, wine or the weakness of grief that was making his vision swim, and what time it was now was irrelevant when the morning’s appointment with Martin and Bayard would come regardless.  He felt empty, hollowed out and aching.  He should not have yielded.

Hamilton was pacing by the window, the heavy folds of the curtains swaying just a little with his passage.  “What witnesses could we produce, if the implacable malice of our enemies demanded it?” he asked suddenly.

Burr rubbed his temples.  Swartwout, whose devotion to him had always been so complete and disinterested, was to have been his witness.  “Dr Bollman would be willing,” he replied instead, pragmatically, “though he saw only from afar.  Hidalgo, we cannot call upon.  Dunbaugh is a criminal and a liar.  Mr Jackson - you may recall him as the original Tennessean representative, though I do not believe you have met - was privy to my plans, and was in the thickest of the tumult.  He would confirm me, and his word could not be doubted.  Though I should be reluctant to call him back from the business of war, if it were even possible to reach him.”

Hamilton breezed to the doorway and picked up his hat.  Burr stood to see him out, feeling dizzy and sick as though he had drunk too much. 

“This bulb of poison will be cut open, and those who sent against us such rancor and venom shall be exposed as calumniators.” Hamilton turned back to him with decision, his face hawklike in the shadows.  He put on his hat, and shrugged on his overcoat.  Then he touched Burr’s wrist briefly, and smiled fiercely.  “I shall send to Jackson; we shall speak further upon such strategies as may be expedient and advantageous, at a later time.  Adieu.”

When the door closed behind Hamilton, the room seemed suddenly still and empty.  Burr sighed and walked across to lay himself down on the couch, rubbing his temples again.  He could not imagine he was going to get any sleep tonight.

Alors.  He had a feeling that in the latest set of books sent from England, had been the latest work by an authoress who was said to display a “depravity of morals” and lack any “female delicacy”.  In his experience that was usually a sign that she had dared to invest her female characters with decision and complexity.  He had thought it might be some time before he would have an opportunity to read it.

After a short search, he found the book shoved in among a set of French plays.  Now, where the devil might Peggy have put his cigar-case?

If Bayard was surprised to find his client asleep with a book open on his breast when he arrived, well after daylight; or to receive terse instructions regarding a counter to Dunbaugh's testimony, having previously been told it was irrelevant; he very wisely said nothing.  

Chapter Text

Observations on Certain Statements Given Lately Under Oath In “The People v Hamilton and Burr”, In Which the Charge of Cowardice Against Aaron Burr, Late Vice-President, is Fully Refuted.

To those who have witnessed previously the eagerness of malignant forces to ruin, per fas et nefas, any men of upright principles and the firmness of purpose to follow them with unvarying morality, the latest bombardment of calumny and misrepresentation can come as no surprise.

If, luckily for the conspirators against honest fame, any little foible or folly can be traced out in one, whom they desire to persecute, it becomes at once in their hands a sword, by which to wound the public character of the person. With such men, nothing is sacred.  Not even the ardent fame of a heroic spirit, high in the regard of his countrymen and zealous to secure the liberation of millions now groaning under oppression, can be permitted to offer any defence against their insatiate fury. 

The unwarrantable concealments and misrepresentations which have been in various ways practiced to keep the truth from the public eye, have been of a nature to demand the reprobation of all honest men. I appeal to my fellow citizens for the truth of the assertion, that no man ever carried into public life a more unblemished military reputation, than that of Colonel Burr; a character marked rather by a boldness approaching to the rash in seeking out the danger that leads to a name draped in honour, than any aversion to it.

With such a character, however natural it was to expect criticism and opposition, as to the political principles which he might manifest or be supposed to entertain, as to the wisdom or expediency of the plans, which he might propose, or as to the strategy, organisation or diligence with which the business of his enterprises might be executed, it was not natural to expect that his fidelity or valor in a military sense would ever be called in question.

But on this head a mortifying disappointment has been experienced. Without the slightest foundation, he has been repeatedly held up to the suspicions of the world as a man directed in his generalship by the most craven views; who did not scruple to sacrifice his friends and officers to his private interest, or his loyalty and glory to the sinister accumulation of wealth.

The charge against him is that he abandoned those under his leadership and protection, for purposes of land speculation and through an enslavement of his character to pusillanimity.  The truth is that his accusers were once voluntarily complicit in his plans, and trusted with his most private counsels, but that through weakness, immorality and avarice they seek now to save themselves from censure by endeavoring to sacrifice him to the government.

I owe perhaps to my friend an apology for condescending to give a public explanation. A just pride with reluctance stoops to a formal vindication against so despicable a contrivance and is inclined rather to oppose to it the uniform evidence of an upright character.  However natural such an expectation may seem, however, virtue seldom circulates as rapidly and as widely as slander; the number of those who from doubt proceed to suspicion and thence to belief of imputed guilt is continually augmenting.

Of all the vile attempts to injure his character, that which has been lately printed of his conduct in the wars in Mexico is the most vile.  This it will be impossible for any intelligent, I will not say candid, man to doubt, when he shall have accompanied me through the examination.

To begin in the most appropriate place, at the beginning, on the approach to Mexico City…

…

Alexander Hamilton

***

Robert Troup leaned forward a little in his chair to see the chessboard from a different angle.  He set down his slice of cake and brushed the crumbs from his waistcoat as he considered.  He moved his hand slightly towards his bishop, then noticed Hamilton's smile grow a little broader and pulled back again thoughtfully.

“Oh, come, Bobby!” Hamilton protested.

“I didn't touch it,” Troup pointed out.  “Your rule,” he added, glancing up at his friend from under his eyebrows.

Hamilton was surprised into a short chuckle.  “I shall not contest it, then.  Take all the time you wish, my friend.”

Troup mentally ran through the likely consequences of several possible moves, then suddenly saw an opportunity.  He advanced a pawn, its painted ivory cool and smooth in his fingers.  Hamilton immediately moved his bishop to threaten the rook thus revealed, and Troup belatedly remembered why he hadn't been considering that move to start with.

He was very relieved to hear a diffident knock on the front door.  Hamilton glanced sharply up, then they both heard a familiar tenor respond quietly to the servant.  Of course.  At this late hour, who else would it be.  A moment later, Burr was shown into the study. 

“Ah; Bobby.  Ham.  Am I disrupting your game?”

He nodded politely to them both and then walked across to study the board.  Troup noticed that his cravat was a little sloppily tied; as Burr bent over, a stray movement of air brought him a faint whiff of musk.  Hamilton must have caught it too; his eyes narrowed a little at the same moment, with a disapproval that seemed a little hypocritical given what Troup knew. 

“However did you manage to get into such a position, Bobby?” Burr asked curiously.

“I was just wondering the same thing,” Troup said with a humour that he hoped would distract Hamilton from his irritation.  “Can you assist?”

“I should not dream of committing such a discourtesy,” Burr responded with amusement.  Then added, “Ham will have to content himself with victory over you alone, instead of both of us.”

Looking a little mollified, Hamilton suddenly recalled his hostly duties and sprang up.  “Please join us,” he said as he moved a chair to make three at the table.  “May I pour you wine?”

“Thankyou, but no,” Burr said politely as he sat.  “I shall not intrude upon you for long.”

“It is no intrusion,” Hamilton demurred quickly as he also resumed his seat, and Troup almost wrenched his neck turning to stare at him in shock.  Hamilton shot him an irritated glance and he decided to return to studying the board. 

“I was visiting a friend this evening,” Burr said blandly, “and so did not receive this letter until a short time ago.  As I understand the substance of your publications recently -” the tone was friendly, but Troup cringed internally “- you should find the contents of interest.  I direct your attention to the third paragraph.”  He handed Hamilton a piece of paper, folded to the appropriate place.  

Hamilton stared at their friend for a moment and then snatched the paper from him, a glare showing that argument was delayed, not averted.  He slipped his glasses on and frowned, quickly taking in the relevant paragraph.  Troup saw his eyes widen in shock, and he started to read again, more carefully.

Troup glanced across at Burr, but Burr’s expression was relaxed and pleasant as ever, giving away nothing.  He glanced at Troup and smiled.  “A little patience, Bobby, you may read it after if you please.”

“Aaron, I've been meaning to ask-” Troup began, and was immediately interrupted.

“Jackson dead?  This is purest disaster, Aaron!”

Hamilton tossed the letter down onto the chess board and Troup automatically picked it up, feeling a little numbed.

“We can and shall prevent Dunbaugh’s testimony in court,” Hamilton went on, “but nothing can keep us from being battered by calumny upon hypocrisy in public discourse.  If the present bombardment continues, we shall be hanged and burned in effigy like Jay.”

Burr, of course, had opposed the Jay Treaty… Troup decided not to mention that.  He straightened the rook that had been displaced and unfolded the letter to read from the top, only part of his mind alert to the tone of Hamilton's bitter complaints.

Theodosia’s prose was a little disorganised and dramatic - an unfortunate consequence of having her mind overheated with all that learning, poor girl - but the essentials were unambiguous.  Ex-Senator and militia general Andrew Jackson had died in a battle at a river crossing, his body to be sent home to be buried with honours etc etc.  Troup considered the tone of the message and then looked up, waiting a moment for Hamilton to pause for breath.  “Was Jackson a friend, Aaron?” he asked.

“A good and loyal friend,” Burr acknowledged.  Hamilton, who had been about to speak again, abruptly closed his mouth and looked thoughtful.

“Then I am sorry for your pain.”

“Thankyou, Bobby.  I am consoled sufficiently by the thought that I am not the one who is dead.”

Hamilton’s lips thinned.  He poured Burr a glass of Madeira.  “Aaron,” he said firmly, and Troup decided to return to the letter.  He read on down through Theodosia’s neat, ladylike hand, trying to ignore Hamilton’s increasingly heated sallies and Burr’s measured responses.

“Theodosia is coming here?” he interrupted at last, and Burr turned away from Hamilton’s needling, his face lighting up with such unaffected joy that Troup felt his own mouth curve into a smile in response.

“And the boy with her.  Their presence will do as much good as a thousand McNallys and Blackstones.”

Troup was unconvinced that a sickly woman, no doubt exhausted from the long coach journey via Washington City, would make much difference to the legal case; but he was glad to see his friend so genuinely happy, and from such a wholesome and uncontroversial cause.  He folded up the letter and handed it back.  “I will be glad to see them both again.  The boy must have grown significantly since last they were here.”  That had been, what, ‘02?  He well remembered Burr’s pride in the newborn; a pride that had not lessened with time.

“And in mental stature even more than physical,” Burr said eagerly, and Troup braced himself tolerantly for an account of Aaron Burr Alston’s latest signs of genius.  Even Hamilton looked amused as he leaned back in his chair again.  But a few minutes later, as Burr’s story came to an end, he shot up again as if stung.

“You have reminded me - I also received a letter that should be shared.  I had intended to do so tomorrow, but since you are here…” He took a few steps across to his desk, rifled efficiently in one of the drawers, and returned with a letter which he passed to Burr.  “From Major Cushing.”

Hamilton had not shown this letter to Troup.  Troup looked at him questioningly and received a quick, repressive shake of the head.  Ah.  Something he was better off not knowing.  Sometimes he wished…

Hamilton was watching Burr intently, his fingers twitching on the chair arms.  Burr tilted the letter towards the light, and held it out a little further from his face; none of their eyes were getting any younger.  But that face showed nothing but concentration on what he was reading. 

“This is a mistake,” he said at last.

“And as such an ideal demonstration of why Jefferson must not be permitted the conduct of this war.”  Hamilton leaned forward a little in his chair.  “We have been vouchsafed an opportunity, Aaron, and patriotism and a proper regard for the good of the Union demands that we seize it.  Once this disaster has occurred, there can be no legitimate opposition to your taking control.  It is the more urgent now that we cannot hope to call upon Jackson; your reputation must be restored before it can further decline.”

Burr handed the letter back to Hamilton.  “I will consider what is best to be done.  We can take no action tonight that will not be better seen in the morning.”

“Can I please know what you are talking about?” Troup burst out, despite his best endeavours.  His friends both looked across at him; for a moment, very strangely, showing identical expressions of apologetic determination on their very different faces. 

“I'm sorry, Bobby,” Hamilton said for both.  “These are matters that you have always preferred to keep at one remove, and you have swelled in wealth and happiness thereby.  I will not now entangle you in intrigues, even of the greatest necessity and virtue.”

“You will know soon enough,” Burr added with a small smile.  He drained his glass and stood.  “Thankyou both for your indulgence.”  He bent his head courteously to each of them, then went out of the room.  A moment later, Troup heard the front door open and close behind him.

“I shall never understand…” Hamilton muttered frustratedly, gazing after their friend.  There was a moment’s silence.  Then he turned back to Troup.  “Will you forgive me, old friend, if I do not finish our game?  There are some preparations it has become imperative that I must make.”

Troup looked back down at the board, which clearly showed that the question was not whether he would be checkmated, but when.  “I can live with that,” he said ruefully.  Then he composed his face into an expression of sudden horror.  “As long as you do not insist that I also leave before finishing your cook’s excellent cake…”

Hamilton laughed.  “I think I can permit that much,” he teased gently.  Troup reached forward to tip over his king, then popped the last of the slice in his mouth.  He rather suspected that he was going to need the strength.

***

People v Hamilton, W. Sampson, October 1806

Mr. Hamilton: The mere circumstance of a man's innocence, does not vouchsafe any security that he will be safe. The experience of all ages forbids so extravagant an expectation. A rigid adherence to those rules that have been wisely established for the protection of innocence, is the only bulwark of safety against tyranny. It is therefore to be hoped, no doubt devoutly, that neither his own life nor the lives of his children or posterity may depend on the propriety or permanency of Mr Woodworth’s doctrines. He may consider it judicious, at this auspicious hour, to reflect upon the instability of human affairs, the vicissitudes of fortune, and the peculiar mutability of popular applause. Permanent security can result only from a system that has been calculated to apply in all times, and to promote the happiness of all parties. If the gentleman opposite be now, "in the full tide of successful experiment," so fortunate as to enjoy the approbation of his country and government, then he should reflect that so were, not long ago, those against whom he currently contends with all the malignity that an embattled authority may enjoin.  The gentleman who is indicted with me was as highly distinguished by the favor of the people as he could be by their suffrages. It was, then, incredible that their favor should so soon be changed by calumny and rancor into the most malignant hatred. The gentleman opposite may now think himself perfectly safe, by the prevalence of his party and principles; but the day very possibly may come when he may find himself as persecuted as those he now prosecutes with such zeal.  It is not inconceivable that, possibly by the same means of malice, injustice, and violence of Jacobin spirit, he shall not only find himself likewise reviled and calumniated, but his dearest friends abused and persecuted. It is a predicament that must be considered only with tremility and regret; but in spite of the revulsion natural to a virtuous spirit it is essential that I detail the natural consequences of such pernicious and poisonous doctrines; and these doctrines we oppose.

Mr. Martin: I will not trust even the president with such power, nor any man who is capable of becoming corrupt; and that every man is.  That the artifices and persecution of their enemies should have so far succeeded, as to place General Hamilton and Colonel Burr in their present situation, is a matter of deep regret; but I shall ever feel the sincerest gratitude to Heaven that my life has been preserved to this time, and that I am enabled to appear before this court in their defence.  Nor is private friendship for the accused my only inducement to use my utmost efforts in their vindication.  It gives me infinite pleasure to have an opportunity of exerting to the utmost my feeble talents in opposing principles which I consider so destructive as those which are advanced on the present occasion; and if we shall demonstrate the contrary principles to be correct and proper, if we shall be able to satisfy the court that principles the reverse of those contended for on the part of the prosecution ought to be established, I shall think that I have not lived in vain…

***

Under cover of Martin’s speech, Hamilton leaned closer to Van Ness.  “What ails the Colonel?” he asked in an undertone.  “He was perfectly well last night; is it one of his headaches?”

“His message did not say,” Van Ness murmured back, one eye on the judges.

“You did not yourself see him?”

“No.”

Hamilton’s prickling unease deepened.  After last night’s conversation, Burr’s absence from court today seemed to stretch coincidence a little further than it could plausibly cover.  He tried to imagine what precipitate action his friend might have decided to take into his own hands.  None of the possibilities gave him cause for optimism; but nothing he could think of seemed to quite fit.

He became aware of a disturbance at the entrance to the courtroom; of a voice saying, in the sort of strangled whisper that the speaker optimistically hoped would somehow carry to its target without being heard by anyone else, “I must speak with him!”

Martin glanced aside with irritation, but without any interruption of the words that flowed dramatically from his throat.  He stalked back to the desk, still speaking, to glance at the page Bayard held up for him and recite the relevant precedents.

The disturbance subsided.  Hamilton felt his knee jigging under the table.  Something was happening.  No, something had happened and he was to be expected to somehow pick up the pieces.

The crowd at the back of the room stirred again, but settled immediately as all that happened was the entry of a clerk.  He carried a folded slip of paper with unobtrusive briskness down the aisle between benches, past the bar, and with complete inevitability to the defence bench where Hamilton waited with his hand already pessimistically outstretched.

“...when the gentle zephyrs play around us, we can easily proceed forward in the straight path of our duty; but when black clouds enshroud the sky with darkness, when the tempest rages, the winds howl, and the waves break over us…” Martin was saying, apparently determined to completely ignore the commotion.

Hamilton unfolded the paper.

A.B has suborned our regiment and absconded towards Washington - R.T

“...when the thunders awfully roar over our heads, and the lightnings of heaven blaze around us, it is then that all the energies of the human soul are called into action.”

Ah, yes.  Of course.  That was exactly the sort of precipitate action he should have expected from Burr.

Hamilton slid the paper along to Van Ness and then stood, bowing to the judges.  “Please excuse the irregularity of this proceeding; my energies have been called urgently into action elsewhere.”  And then, without a backward glance to his counsel, he hurried through the rising hubbub of the courtroom towards the door.  His mind buzzed with plans, all focused on the same very simple goal; Burr was not going to get away with abandoning him like this.

Chapter Text

The fine weather had, inevitably, chosen today to break.  Fortunately Burr’s old bicorn hat, though so faded now that he had been reluctant to wear it, did mostly keep the rain out of his eyes; although he could feel the increased weight of his queue tapping between his shoulders as the powder soaked up the water and turned into a heavy, sticky mess.  

The increasingly wet ground at least meant that he was not riding through a cloud of dust raised by the boots of the men marching ahead of him.  He had started the journey riding at their head, as they clearly expected of him; but after they had left New-York well behind he had dropped back to where he could watch them instead.  A few drills on a Sunday, the odd short conversation, and a persuasive speech, were no substitute for familiarity and experience.

Maybe he should have tried to argue Hamilton into coming along with him.  But no; aside from the difficulty of breaking through Hamilton's cynicism in such little time, he could not expect his friend to break bail; it would have been an insult to him to ask.  It would go hard enough with his own friends, who had sunk their funds into the Mexico project and could ill afford to lose more.  But they would be repaid amply for their loyalty before long.

There was a faint shout from behind; he turned to see a stagecoach pelting down the slope towards them.  “Halt!” he shouted, feeling his voice crack a little at the force, and directed his men off the road.  Despite the visible difference of black skin and tightly-coiled hair, he was for a moment taken back to the stumbling confusion of Malcolm’s regiment attempting the same manoevre thirty years before; a clear enough similarity between whites and negroes to convince half the Senate, he thought with amusement.

The stage whirred past in a thunder of hooves and a vague impression of curious white faces.  The soldiers who had failed to get entirely off the road were lucky it hadn’t turned to mud, yet; had their faces and uniforms been befouled by the filth thrown up by hooves and wheels, it would no doubt have proved a salutary lesson in discipline.

He formed them back up again, his well-trained horse balking only a little as he forced her through the scramble of men and mules to directly instruct the sluggards.  They were quick to obey; apparently more willing to accept direction than the white militiamen he had worked with in the past.  Hamilton’s argument that ex-slaves would make good soldiers through habits of obedience had been cynical, but it might also be true.  Or it might simply be the eagerness of volunteers motivated to prove themselves, and their race with them. 

He glanced over his shoulder, but Peter had already gotten their pack horse back onto the road.  Really it was not a proper use of the part-Arab gelding at all - one might as well hitch him to a plough - but Burr had not been able to acquire a mule at such short notice, and he might yet be grateful for a second mount.  He was glad to see that Peter was handling him so well; the boy might make a horseman yet.

The men had reassembled themselves into some semblance of order, despite their makeshift uniforms and mismatched weapons.  Perhaps in Philadelphia - but he did want to skirt inland of Baltimore…

Burr gave the command to march and they set off again in a creaking of knapsack frames.  He relaxed into the familiar clop and sway of his mare’s walk and returned to picking at the unspooling thread of time and location that had occupied his mind ever since he had read between the lines of Cushing’s letter.

In a week, hopefully no more, he would be in Washington.  And so would be Theodosia.  And so, unless with these raw blacks he could forestall the unfolding disaster of flawed strategy, would be the Spanish.

***

Joseph had worried about the idea of her going north without him.  He had flatly refused to let her take ship, in case it was intercepted by the Spanish. 

“With an English admiral I might come to some accommodation,” he had told her, laying his hand gently, but unarguably, over the list of vessels she had made.  “But the Dons are not gentlemen of the same make; and if they should discover that you are the daughter of Colonel Burr, the ‘Diablo Atrevido’ himself?  I cannot bear to think of you in their hands, your wellbeing and very life held ransom against Colonel Burr’s activities.  Think of our son, if you will not think of yourself!”

He had been right about that, she had to admit.  But then he had gone on and worried about her health on the long journey, and about little Gampy’s health, and about a host of other things that were already causing her concern, until her heart had pounded in her breast and her breath had come short, and she had only been able to recover her equanimity by reminding herself, over and over again, that she was her father's daughter.  After that she had opposed her own determination to his uncertainties, and his protests had become weaker and more far-fetched.  His warning about the coachman's unreliability, she had taken as another such feint.

It had not been.

“Please,” she had said quietly to the innkeep earlier, as she went upstairs to rest a little before the next leg of the journey.  She was feeling almost healthy at the moment, only a little discomfort in her stomach and much less of the worse difficulties; she had hoped that even such a short rest would refresh her.  “Do not serve my coachman any spiritous liquor.”

And he had not, but someone else clearly had.  And the driver’s resentment at her attempt to keep him sober had not improved matters.

The carriage rocked again and she clung to the window frame with one white-knuckled hand.  Opposite, young Aaron laughed delightedly and threw himself from side to side on the seat to try to repeat the sensation, until his nurse released one of her own hands from its death-grip on the edge of the seat to clamp down on his shoulder.

Theodosia closed her eyes and tried to remember the map.  There were not many places to stop on the post-road, and she thought that there was nothing now until their planned overnight at Colchester.  Perhaps she would have done better to go by Charlotte and Staunton, but then she would have missed Washington and the chance to renew her acquaintance with Dolley, among others.  And besides, there were just as many places to buy drink on the inland roads.

The carriage jolted, suddenly, throwing her almost against her son, and started to slow.  There was shouting from outside; her driver’s inebriated yelling could not quite drown out multiple voices coming from some distance ahead.  She strained to make out what they were all saying, even as she scrambled back onto her seat and thanked God that her son had his grandfather’s resistance to fear.  What large group would be out on the road this far from a town?  Was it a search party?  Soldiers moving?

Suddenly the carriage lurched and her head and stomach swam as it rocked into a tight turn.  Too tight, too fast; she felt the sudden smoothness as the nearside wheels left the ground, felt as much as heard the scraping of the wheels beneath her, and grabbed for her son as she anticipated the moment when the carriage tilted beyond the point where it could rock back and instead slowly, inevitably, tipped the other way. 

It fell fast and she hit the side with bruising force, trying to get her body under little Aaron; her shoulder scraped along gravel through the window.  Something heavy squashed her legs and she fought to get free, realising after a moment that it was her son's nurse she was fighting against, awkward elbows and knees and flapping cloth, as scared and desperate as she herself.  She could hear the horses whinnying over the sound of tortured, cracking wood.

The carriage finally stopped moving and she could hear her own whimpering, over the laboured breathing of her slave and… her boy… for a moment her heart seemed to stop and her body went numb, but then the weight lying on her stomach wiggled a little and started to scream. 

“Gampy,” she gasped breathlessly, trying to extricate herself from under him, to run her hands over him and find where he might be injured, but there was no room, her head was jammed against the ceiling so acutely that her neck hurt.  Everything was dim in the light from the square of grey above them, she could barely tell which limbs were hers, and her son's screaming shot pain through her as much as her own bruises. 

From outside there was shouting, purposeful scrabbling at the wood, men coming to help.  A face appeared at the window, blue-uniformed arms reaching down.  She braced herself, pushed her sobbing son upward to the point where the man, leaning his whole upper body in, was able to grab the boy’s forearm and haul him up like a sack of rice.  He turned his head to shout to someone outside.

“¡ Solo dos mujeres y un niño !”

And her heart stopped. 

***

“What is he doing?” Peter heard master Burr mutter to himself, uncharacteristically, as the little sparks of light on the hill to their south began to move about, break up, and create a little glow-worm of orange stars moving west towards the bridge.  Peter stared in the same direction, the force of his concentration making blotches of colour dance in the blackness that was all he could see.  What he could not see was any signs of the enemy, though given the dark night, and the hump of the hill itself, half of Spain might be marching up the Eastern Branch of the Potomac without being detected.

Master Burr put his spyglass away.  “Hunt!”

The youngest of the volunteers - a mulatto boy no older than Peter - stepped out of formation and approached, giving a salute as smart as any of the ones Peter had practiced surreptitiously behind master Burr’s back.  “Take a message to whoever is in command of that unit.  Colonel Burr’s compliments, tell them I bring a militia regiment from the north and require the latest news of the enemy, and of our own dispositions.”

“Yes, sir!” Hunt said and began to turn.  For once, Peter did not envy the free black; he was happy enough not to be sent running up a hill in the dark after an extra-long day’s march.

“And Mr Hunt,” master Burr added as the man turned to trot away, “If you can do so without overt delay, please discover why they’re abandoning a brilliantly defensible position in the middle of the night.”

And wasn’t that a very good question.  Though not, Peter couldn’t help but feel, nearly as pressing as the question of whether they were going to get any sleep before the fighting began.

***

The familiar crack and roar of the battlefield.  The black smoke drifting and the ominous tramp of marching coming through it, louder and louder, heard but not yet seen.  The familiar calculus of tired troops and green commanders.  The nervous horse sidling beneath him. 

The sky was grey above him, not brazen blue.  The air was cool, not hot, and it tasted of rain and the river that curled below them.  This time it was the enemy who must fight upward against emplaced artillery.  This time it was he that would hold.

It was a week since he had left New-York.  It was Washington that was behind him now, and he stood at the gate to everything that gave his world value.  He drew his sword, and a shaft of light did not break through the clouds to glitter on the blade, and he would not have noticed if it had.  He held that glitter brittle in his heart. 

“Forward!”

The blade swept down.

Chapter Text

“...must assume that one of these attacks is a feint, and as it is more convenient for the attackers to link up their two northernmost forces, sense and experience indicate that it is the Alexandrian that shall most easily be frustrated without reinforcement… Ah.  Colonel Burr.”

If Major Cushing’s heart could have sunk any further, it would have done so.  As if it weren’t bad enough that he was sitting on the wrong side of his own desk in the White House, awaiting direction from the human hurricane who had taken over his chair and who was even now engaged in writing decisions on his papers with the curt confidence of long familiarity.  What Colonel Dearborn would say when the goverment returned to Washington, he dreaded to imagine; and yet somehow he had found himself unable to do anything other than yield.

Hamilton was looking up at the door of his office with an air of haughty command, and a slightly belligerent lift of his chin.  Cushing turned his head to see the former Vice President standing in the doorway, though he hadn’t heard the door open.

Colonel Burr did not hesitate, but walked into the office and closed the door behind him just as though he had expected to find the man who had bitterly opposed him, and then shot him, and then supported him and stood trial with him, waiting for him in the almost deserted White House.  His command of the situation was so palpable that it was only as he turned the other seat slightly before he took it, so that he could face both Hamilton and Cushing himself, that Cushing took in the bruised puffiness under his eyes, the stark pallor of his face, the dirt and blood that caked the right arm of his irregular uniform, and the smell of gunpowder and horse that wafted into the office with him.

“General Hamilton,” Burr acknowledged.  “Major Cushing.  The main Spanish advance has been turned at Bladensburg.  They have retreated north; Generals Lee and Stansbury are marching to Baltimore in anticipation of an attack there.  I should like some men to take south to Alexandria.”

“Denied,” responded Hamilton curtly.  “You brought men enough with you; if your stewardship has failed them, then all the more reason we should carefully husband what reserves remain available to us.”  His tone was haughty; Cushing sternly suppressed the urge to shrink back into his seat.  He reminded himself that he was a soldier, not a clerk, no matter how long it had been since he had seen real action.

“I was not aware that you were in command of the army's resources, General Hamilton,” Burr said mildly.  “That being the case, I apologise for my abruptness.  Nevertheless, I must reprovision before I go south.”

Hamilton's palm slammed down on the heavy oak desk, so hard that the ink quivered in the well.  Several papers slipped off one of the carefully arranged piles and fluttered to the floor.  Cushing wondered whether there were any way, short of a Cinderella-like transformation into a mouse, that he could escape this room without attracting attention.

“Then you go south alone!  My men whom you have seduced will go north to Baltimore, and then to New York where they should have remained all along, lest Spanish depredations reduce all to blood and devastation!  How dare you, Burr?  How dare you expose my family to slaughter, our enterprise to ruin?”

Hamilton surged up out of the chair and stood straight-backed, glaring down his hawk-like nose at Burr, who had lifted his chin to meet his… old acquaintance’s… fury with a composure that approached to arrogance.  Cushing heard a faint squeaking, and realised that it was from the legs of his own chair scraping backwards.  He went immediately still, but fortunately neither man seemed to have noticed. 

“I,” Hamilton continued, his voice swooping down into a low grate of fury, “have intervened with your creditors and your bailers.  If I have erred in my handling of your affairs I feel myself able to justly meet any inquiry that you might seek to make of me, as I was forced to act without the instruction of the principal who was not present to offer it .”

Cushing flinched.  Burr did not. 

“I gave you my word that I should assist you into the position from which you could achieve those objects foremost in your desires, at hazard of my own conscience.  I should, if reasonable strategy and self-governance had found any purchase in your breast, have entrusted to you the most precious object of my soul, the improvement and prosperity of this nation that I, more than any other, caused to come into being, pregnant with the possibility for a wise and benevolent governance unimaginable to the despots of the old world.  And what have you done with my trust, Burr; a thing I flatter myself to think not entirely without value; but discard it upon the ground like a broken toy?”

Hamilton's fist clove the air.  His hands clawed, and he struck his own thigh in passion.  “This was to have been the final blow that would finally cast down the corruption at the heart of the nation, to unseat the Virginia cabal and return the Union to its golden path towards prosperity and enterprise.  Jefferson would have been broken like a reed, his counsellors shown fools and his character exposed in all its impotence and pusillanimity.  All of this would have been provided to us without our own exertion, by the Spanish advance and by Jefferson’s own failure to comprehend; we had but to pluck it.  For what end have you done otherwise?  For what have you frustrated our strategies at their moment of triumph and defended a man who treats our Constitution as a dish-rag?”

He paused for a moment, both fists clenched in the air, chest heaving, his face contorted.  Cushing dreaded lest Burr might be foolish enough to actually answer the question.  But the other man merely waited, his dark eyes fixed intently on Hamilton, his face apparently carved from marble.

“Without a word you abandoned me to pick up the pieces of your own diabolical craving for glory!  The regiment that was to have been the world's proof of the ability and loyalty of negroes, you scooped up like labourers and odd-job men, their high-minded purpose betrayed into your venial craving for adulation!  You have sought to play me the dupe in service of your own detestable ambition!  You are a scoundrel, Burr, a scoundrel! ”

Frozen in place, Cushing shrank back a little despite himself.  He could feel his shoulder blades trying to dig their way through the back of his chair.  He did not want to be here to witness this.

“If you mean that, General Hamilton, then I am very sorry for it,” Burr said quietly at last.  His words dropped, measured, into the still pool of silence, neither conciliatory nor angry.  “I confess freely that I have, though rather through error than intention, robbed you of kindnesses which you had every reason to anticipate, and I feel acutely distressed to have brought you such unhappiness.  But we are both gentlemen.”

He stood, very stiffly, briefly placing one hand on the arm of his chair to assist.  “I must ride south now.  I will speak with my friends on my return.”

“Wait,” Hamilton commanded, his voice still angry.  “Towards what godforsaken end are you determined on the south?  The attack on Alexandria is a feint to which no response is requisite or wise.  You are not a fool, Colonel Burr.”

“I am glad to hear you think so.  However my daughter is not here, and nor did I meet her on the road.  I must find her.”

“Wait.”  There was a different edge to the word this time.  “She was coming by the Washington route?  And you chose, rather than take me into your confidence, to conceal the circumstance and essay an individual hand in affairs?  I take it back, Aaron, you are a fool.

“No.  Wait .”

Burr paused on his way out, looking coolly back over his shoulder.  Hamilton was leaning over, one hand to his lower back,the other rifling through the papers on his - no, Cushing’s - desk, spreading them out in quick, certain movements.

“You are only one man, and we have here an army's worth of eyes and ears.  Major Cushing” - Cushing twitched, having been sure both men had somehow forgotten his presence - “It seems prudent that, in addition to a more careful review of reports received, we should send a message requesting that any information be transmitted, immediately, regarding a lady travelling by private carriage - she is bringing her son, I recall? - with a little boy four years or so in age.”

Hamilton looked up from his task, papers spread beneath his slender fingers, and met Burr’s eyes.  “It is the invariable lesson of experience that good decisions are but rarely the province of men tired and bloodied by action.  I should be reluctant, in times future, to be forced to name you as a proof of this axiom.  It shall take some hours to gather what information we have.  However little value you may place upon my expertise or my company, I still esteem you gifted with wit enough to credit my advice as not completely without worth.  With the city so denuded by cowardice, there are beds aplenty; I am confident that you can find one to your liking, Little Burr.”

Burr was staring expressionlessly at his… New York compatriot.  After a moment, he bowed slightly.  “The words of my renowned friend are always worthy of the highest consideration,” he said levelly.  Cushing could hear layers of meaning, but in pure self-defence he declined to attempt to parse them all.

Instead, as Burr turned and walked away - was he limping slightly? - Cushing grasped at the opportunity to get up himself.  “If the Spanish are turned away and our forces moving north, I have much to do, General Hamilton.  Please, do keep the use of this office until I return.”  Despite his efforts a little sarcasm bled into his tone.  Fortunately Hamilton ignored it, intent on the papers.  His papers.

Cushing, unlike Burr, did not bother with the courtesy of a bow as he made a tactical, but speedy, retreat.

***

Peter woke to an unaccustomed warm, close atmosphere, acrid with sweat and gunpowder, someone breathing slowly close by.  His thoughts felt treacly, pulled down by sleep; slowly, like a child's puzzle, he reassembled the memories.  The forced march.  The short rest.  The battle.  The exhausted stagger on to Washington after.  The order to make camp, half-abandoned after master Burr had gone into the city, when everyone associated with the militia had simply crawled into whatever tents were up and slept as they fell.

In retrospect, he was lucky the tent hadn’t fallen on him in the night.  On them - someone who he couldn’t see properly in the darkness was lying so close he could feel the heat of his body, his breath hot and moist on his cheek.  He wriggled carefully away.  The free soldiers might sleep until wakened by the bugle, but he hadn’t that dubious luxury.  Master Burr must have slept in the city, but he would expect his tent to be standing when he returned.  And hot water, probably, for water or washing.  Actually, everyone would want hot water, including himself…

They had bought some firewood from the locals last night, though there had been no energy to build more than a small fire or two, which had burned to ashes before providing much warmth or the ability to do anything but half-sear food.  The woodpile was currently seeing rather better use as shelter; there was a man curled sleeping in the hollow under it, wrapped up in a greatcoat.  As Peter reached for a few bits of kindling, the man coughed and curled up a little tighter, tucking his head closer in, revealing the remnants of a tangled queue below his crown. 

Peter froze.  That tangle of black-and-grey was made of locks shinier and straighter than his own puff of springy black wool.  And now that he was looking he recognised that greatcoat, much newer and finer than anything he had seen among the soldiers, even the free craftsmen who had signed up to fight for the ideal of black liberation more than for the Union.

Master Burr hadn't stayed in the city.  He had returned to the camp to find no tent, no fire and no Peter, and when he woke he was finally going to carry out his oft-repeated threat to strangle him. 

Peter backed away slowly with the wood, and very quietly proceeded to one of last night's haphazard firepits.  He kicked the dirt into more of a bowl shape, stacked the kindling carefully over his wisp of tinder, and blew gently upon the tiny yellow flame made by striking his flint until it had burned a secure foothold into the sticks. 

He went back to the woodpile by a slightly circuitous route and took a few larger pieces from the back.  This time master Burr did not stir, though Peter held his breath until he was well away regardless.

It was not until the fire was crackling and he was carefully nudging the pot of water closer in the hope that it would warm enough without having to wait for the flames to die down, that he heard his name called.

Turning, he saw master Burr struggling stiffly into a sitting position, and quickly ran over to help.  Master Burr’s joints had seized with the cold and the unyielding ground, and he had to be supported over to the fire and lowered carefully to sit on a discarded backpack, where he could slowly begin to warm again.

“Peter,” Burr croaked, then coughed until he was able to speak more normally.  Peter tensed, awaiting his punishment.  “Fetch paper and ink, and then eat quickly; you must run messages to the army stores, for I have done illy by these brave men.  And fetch me fresh clothes; there are calls I must make.

“I shall not ask you also to raise my tent.”

That last held the bite Peter had expected, with a withering glance from beneath lowered black brows.  Peter hesitated, bracing for the worst, but master Burr merely turned his head away and held out his hands to the fire.  He slowly realised that he was not going to receive further punishment.  That master Burr had so many other things on his mind that his slave’s negligence was simply not particularly important to him.

He would almost have preferred the lash.

***

The Washington Federalist , October 1806

WASHINGTON SAVED BY THE EXERTIONS OF GENERAL HAMILTON AND COLONEL BURR

The citizens of Washington City, and by extension of the entire nation whose pride is here embodied, must give thanks for our salvation from a fate most bloody and unfortunate.

Though repeatedly assured, by the Secretary of War, that the preparations seen by the Enemy were mere feints to distract from the main advance upon Baltimore, many citizens had feared the worst; fears that seemed given some legitimacy by the government’s own withdrawal from any position so closely threatened by the spectre of war.  Nevertheless, with only a small number of men spared from Mexico for the defence of Chesapeake, preparations continued for halting the northern advance.  A few militia only, under the nominal command of General Stansbury, were tasked to stand between the First City of the Union and any small number of aggressors we were informed we might face.

Into this cauldron of terror and uncertainty, the city denuded of protectors and thrown into chaos, came General Hamilton.  Foreseeing, through experience, the real threat disguised behind the feint, he took no time for recovery from the legal troubles under which he has laboured, nor even to kiss his family what might have been a final goodbye, but rushed from New-York to the relief of his fellow-citizens.  The advice of this veteran of many conflicts brought order to the confusion left by the departure of the Secretary of War, and reassured the concerned citizens of a relief hastening to bolster the defences of our under-defended city. 

We now hear that a great military force, of which we were all unwitting - the very main part of the Spanish advance - was halted as near to the nation’s heart as Bladensburg, and through the intervention of a most unconventional militia led by Colonel Burr.  It will astonish the world to discover that our capital city was saved by a regiment composed entirely of blacks!

Surely such an unexpected deliverance in an hour of great desperation can only be a sign of the favour of the Almighty.

On page 3: personal accounts of curious incidents that took place during the battle

Chapter Text

Damn Burr.  Damn him, damn him, damn him.

Hamilton pulled the next set of reports towards him, cast a glance over them, and added a few neat lines to the summary he was collating.

It would have been so easy.  All they had had to do was sit blameless in New York while Jefferson, once again, abandoned his capital to be razed by the enemy behind him.  Cowardice was perhaps not a basis for impeachment; however much the common name of ‘treason’ might be applied to it, it did not constitute an overt act.  However, the silent accusation of the smoking ruins of George Washington’s palace would have been difficult to answer, not only for Jefferson but for his near allies; in particular Madison.  With Cushing’s letter, Hamilton had seen Aaron’s path to the White House not only opened, but strewn with blossom.

Pain seized him and Hamilton laid down his quill for a moment to arch in his seat, pressing his hands to his lower back.  After a few moments it drew back like a wave and he sagged briefly, feeling suddenly nauseated.  The long stagecoach trip - at speed and without rest - had not helped his complaints.  If Aaron had just told him, he could have been ready.  They could have planned this properly.

He had thought he had Aaron’s trust.  He could still feel the smooth broadcloth of Aaron’s coat under his hand, warmed by his body, shoulder tensing with erratic breaths; see in his mind’s acute eye the back of Aaron’s bowed head as he hid his face in his hands.  He could still feel the obscure, joyous pain in his chest at the resumption of an intimacy he had not been able to claim for ten years or more.

A lie.  All a lie.

He forced his breathing to remain slow and deep as the fury clutched at him again.  No.  Not entirely a lie.  He knew Burr’s habits of reticence by now, the way his easy warmth and charm belied a reflexive secretiveness.  And perhaps it was possible, even, that he himself  had miscalculated when he had published the account of Mexico City, although he could not regret so clear a necessity.

But for Aaron to abandon him to march his regiment south without so much as a letter… Betrayal clawed at him, anger and pain.  He wanted to hurt Burr.

Oily dark hair spilling loose and tangled over bandages.  The indecent intimacy of exposed skin sheened with sweat, a rasping struggle for breath.  

Hamilton dropped his quill and folded forward over the sudden pain in his stomach.  He swallowed down a feeling of nausea.  He would not, of course, fight Aaron.  Aaron surely did not want to fight him.  If Hamilton offered the slightest gesture towards reconciliation, Burr would immediately put the argument behind him, as he always did.  All Hamilton’s passionately sharpened words would make no lasting impression on his polished courtesy.  He forgave as easily and lightly as breathing.

Which was of course why, whether business was concluded between them or no, Hamilton was going to have to get him out of Washington before Jefferson’s return.

He grabbed the next papers and wrote a set of orders with a savage competence.  The familiar routine steadied him; the clarity of black ink on cream paper, the words that spooled onto the page in complete obedience to his will.  The situation could still be salvaged.  Burr could still be put in the White House without reliance on the inconstant whim of the multitude.  His desire to go south after Theodosia was, in the circumstances, useful.

Hamilton tasted bitter bile at the thought.  Burr’s love for his daughter was too powerful, too all-encompassing.  She would always come before anything else, maybe even Burr’s own ambition.  And Hamilton… understood that.  He could not help but remember, though the remembering was like razor shards, the morning he had woken to find his own child gone.  The world had broken around that point, and it had never truly come together again.  Theodosia had the power to hurt Burr as nothing else did.

He fanned the papers, arranged them, scanned quickly through them.  A word caught his eye and he read, quickly; read again.  Tears pricked his eyes as his chest tightened, and he took off his glasses for a moment to dab at them with his handkerchief.

Which of Burr’s friends had remained in Washington when Jefferson had fled?  Gallatin had gone with Jefferson, Monroe was in France.  He clearly could not go himself.

He swept up the papers and clipped them together, took a moment to compose a covering note, then called in a clerk.

“Take these papers to General Sumter, and ask him of his kindness to deliver them unto Colonel Burr, as I may not presently do so myself.  Inform him that this is a matter of some urgency, but that if he has any curiosities that he cannot help himself but indulge, he should call upon me at his early convenience.”

“Certainly, General.  I understand.”

That, Hamilton very much doubted.  He watched briefly as the clerk stepped briskly out of the office, then sternly forced himself to attend to his papers.  Trying determinedly to ignore the ache growing in his gut.

***

The last time Sumter had had this much difficulty tracking someone down, he had been rousting out unwilling volunteers for the Continental Army.  It seemed that wherever he went, young Burr had departed just a few minutes before.  Finally he simply did what he should have done all along and returned to his lodgings, leaving word everywhere he could think of for Burr to call upon him.

It was well into the afternoon by the time Burr finally did.  “General Sumter,” he said courteously, bowing his head with reflexive dignity.  He looked tired, but then he always did.  “Please forgive my disarrangement; I came to you hot-footed once I received your message.  How fares Nathalie?”

“Nathalie?  Well, as far as I know,” Sumter responded with some surprise before realising his error.  He had forgotten Burr’s unusually conscientious attachment to his former ward.  He hesitated, then decided it was best to just plough straight on.  They were both soldiers, after all.  “I am sorry for the confusion; it is your other daughter of whom I have news to give you.  This comes from General Hamilton, though why he could not speak to you directly passes my understanding.”  He handed Burr the papers, then turned away to busy himself with his whisky decanter.  The message had not been sealed.  He knew what it said, and why Hamilton had wished it delivered by a friend, of sorts.

To Colonel Burr,

The news contained within these reports is not such as to occasion hope, but it is I know my Dear Friend not in your nature to succumb to despair.  On Thursday past an overturned carriage was found upon the Post Road south of Alexandria, along with the body of a groom or coachman upon whom lay many marks of violence.  I have inquired as far as is possible or practicable and have been able to discover no thing relating to any woman or child, whether in proximity to the carriage or otherwise.  This is the only observation contained within any of the messages I have received that may bear upon your anxiety.  I enclose all the details at my disposal.

Adieu Dear Sir

Hamilton

Sumter heard a shuffling of papers from behind him.  He placed the stopper back in the decanter with an audible clink, then slowly turned to offer a glass to his associate.

If Burr had had any reaction to the contents of the papers, he was completely in control of himself now.  “Thankyou,” he murmured in response to receiving the glass.  “And thankyou also for conveying me this message.  There is a difficulty in communication between General Hamilton and myself at present, and we have not yet had a chance to bespeak any friends to resolve it.”

Sumter was too much a gentleman of the old school to miss that implication.  “Surely not again?” he asked, appalled, his gaze momentarily dropping to Burr’s chest as though he could penetrate wool, silk and linen and see the scars beneath.

“No, no,” Burr said with a rejecting flick of one hand.  “General Hamilton spoke under a misapprehension.  I think a peace treaty would not be unwelcome.  But I am, as you see, under the present necessity of going out of town.”  He began to fold the papers, not glancing up, or hesitating, or in any way hinting at a request that, strictly speaking, they were not on terms intimate enough for him to make.

Sumter considered for a moment, then realised that his daughter-in-law’s father (of sorts) was probably operating under a misapprehension himself.

“I believe General Hamilton would not be able to receive any friend of yours at present in any case,” he said bluntly.  “I hear that he has been taken very ill.”

Burr finished placing the papers in his pocketbook, and took a sip of his whisky.  “Then this is an ill day indeed,” he said, calmly, but with every appearance of sincerity.  “General - I am embarrassed to be unable to requite your kindnesses.  But there are claims upon me even more severe and urgent.  Might I have the use of your carriage, for an hour or so, that I may discharge those duties with the alacrity they merit?”

Of course he wouldn't have his own carriage, after marching from New York.  “Do, do, Colonel.”  He waved his hand.  “Make your arrangements.  Find your daughter.”

“General.  I hope to see you on my return.”  Burr bowed himself out with his habitual good manners.  Sumter looked after him thoughtfully, wondering whether he had just aided a fugitive felon, or a future President.  Or both.

***

There were any number of reasons he should not be here; not least that it was twilight already and he would now be forced to start for Alexandria well after full dark.

But he would have been riding in the dark in any case, and unable to act before light.  And much though his heart goaded him south; difficult though his relationship with Hamilton had often been, especially now; he owed him this small courtesy.

Burr left Sumter’s carriage waiting in the street, and went up to Hamilton’s rooms.

There were, as he had expected, others in the sitting room; friends or would-be allies paying their respects.  In New-York there would have been more, and despite his capacious memory for people he did not recognise either of those present.  He introduced himself, and made desultory small talk, entertaining them with an exaggerated account of how he had once been tricked into an act of apparent heroism by a stray dog.  After a few minutes, one of the others rose to go in to the sick man. 

Burr rose also.  “Do me the kindness of telling General Hamilton that I called,” he requested.  “I must away.”  That should, he judged, convey his concern without putting either of them to any awkwardness.

But the lady emerged only a moment later, before he had even donned his much-abused hat.  “General Hamilton should like to see you before you leave, if you please, Colonel.”

Burr stopped dead in the face of this surprise, pinching shapes in the hat brim he held in his fingers.  He wanted nothing less than to be forced to linger, but how he might decline such an invitation was a difficulty beyond him.  Finally he recovered his self-possession.  “Of course.  My apologies, madame, for the unanticipated pre-emption.”  He dropped the hat back onto its peg, took the few steps necessary to bow courteously over the lady’s hand, then went in.

Even illness could not entirely dishevel Hamilton, he noted absently with a frustrated amusement.  Even propped on pillows, his face sallow and a little puffy, Hamilton was wearing an expensively embroidered nightgown, and his hair was neatly clubbed and powdered heavily enough almost to subdue its tendency to frizz.

Burr took the seat by the bed.  “General Hamilton,” he said with a formal courtesy that could not, he thought, be unacceptable, whatever Hamilton’s intentions in asking for him.

“Why are you here, Colonel?”  Hamilton’s voice had an edge to it that could have been either impatience or pain.  This close, Burr could see a slight dew of sweat beading his temples and neck.  He decided to disregard the tone.

“Because our present situation does not absolve me of the obligations of friendship.  I should think myself an ungrateful dog indeed if I should fail to offer you such a minor delicacy.”

Hamilton closed his eyes for a moment.  “That is not the meaning I had intended.”  He shifted uncomfortably beneath the blanket, his breath catching for a moment before he mastered himself.  “Your immediate purpose, on receipt of the message I sent you, must have been to voyage south.  For what cause do you remain here in Washington's city?”

Burr wondered why Hamilton cared so much.  Even he could hardly be intending mischief behind Burr’s back, not when his pain and weakness were so genuine and disabling.  And it was not to be entirely dismissed that, despite his hot and intolerable words, he had also given some evidences of affection.

A sick man was a pitiable creature.  “I heard of the carriage, and of your illness, almost in the same breath,” he said gently.  “If I am to break my neck in the dark on those roads, I may as well cheat the devil by doing so a half-hour later than anticipated.”  After a moment’s further consideration, he reached out and covered one of the hands that lay over the blanket with his own, offering a consolation which, being wordless, would not compromise him any further than being here at all already had.

***

The pain came and went in waves, like the nausea.  Only at its peak did he become, for a few moments, a brute animal incapable of higher thought. 

So of course it occurred to him that this visit might be a ruse, an attempt by Burr to win back his trust.  Insulting if so; as though his honour could not be relied upon to carry through what he had said he would do. 

But Burr also had his honour and he would not, Hamilton thought, contravene the Code Duello so lightly.  It was tempting to think he might have delayed his search for his daughter out of sincere affection.

Too tempting; not to be trusted.

Aaron’s hand was warm over his, his grasp gentle, his skin dry and a little rough.  A gesture of comfort he had not been asked for, nor provoked into.

He would betray him again.  The Senatorial election.  The Manhattan Well Company.  The regiment.  Aaron was clever, intriguing, and too sanguine about consequences ever to be reliable.  His own ambitions would always come first.

But he had come.

***

There was a faint glistening of wetness in the fine creases at the outer corners of Hamilton's tightly-closed eyes.  He must be in intense pain, but he made no complaint.  Burr was considering how he could console his friend, when suddenly, without opening his eyes, Hamilton spoke.

“To immediately apprehend the full course of another’s reasoning,” he said, “when faced only with the consequences that result, is not a thing that lies in the nature of man.”  His voice was rough and shook a little at the end, and his lips pressed together so hard they turned yellow-white.

Burr waited until the spasm had lessened before he responded.  “A knowledge of character, however, might be expected to arise during twenty years’ acquaintance, if only by chance,” he observed mildly.  He did not withdraw his hand, though, and he felt Hamilton’s twist slightly to grip it.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Hamilton sighed, his shoulders slumping a little as his grip relaxed, and opened his eyes.

“An argument that works to the same effect when imposed in reverse,” he pointed out.  “But,” he added quickly, “that error was acknowledged; it is forgiven.  And even had it been a veracity that your sole motive was the worst kind of rapaciousness, the world is sufficiently full of evil; nothing is gained by the addition of further meanness.  It would have been more appropriate and reformatory if I had met perceived treachery with Christian charity; base behaviour with an elevation of virtue.  It ill becomes a gentleman to use the terminology of the common mob, and I regret doing so.”

Only Hamilton, Burr thought with a weary amusement, only Hamilton could make an apology with such airy arrogance.  It was a part of his genius, of course; the way he won arguments not with his clever logical constructions, but by slipping his assumptions through so that his audience’s thoughts were constrained to the world he had built.  He could keep his pride, however, if it brought this nonsense to a close.

“It will be pleasant not to be put to the necessity of being your enemy,” he granted honestly.  “But Ham…” he sighed.  “This is the fourth time your depredations on my character have brought me to the point of bespeaking a friend, and it seems really desirous that I should know how many times I must accept your apologies.”  He squeezed Hamilton’s hand.

“I am conscious of it.”  Hamilton’s pupils flicked from side to side, as though he were looking at something that was not there. “I fear,” he confessed, at last meeting Burr’s gaze, with his own vivid blue, “that the severity of my animadversions may have, at times, been influenced by the hopes I had of your absolution.”  A soft, regretful smile hovered about his lips for a moment before he suddenly grimaced.  He let go of Burr’s hand to wrap both arms around his midsection as he bent over convulsively.  “The pail, if you would…” he gasped.

Burr found the bucket on the floor and got it under Hamilton's head in time, though the man’s painful retching produced only a thin stream of bile.  He reluctantly placed a comforting hand on Hamilton's back, feeling how his spine ridged as his stomach spasmed.

After a few minutes Hamilton fell back against his pillows, his face yellow-white and sweaty, one arm laxly holding the bucket on his lap.

“Have you been attended by a physician?” Burr asked with concern.  Hamilton always recovered from these bouts, but this one seemed worse than most.  “I know one or two who are but incomplete charlatans.”

“I have sent for a friend,” Hamilton responded, his voice reedy and exhausted.  Burr moved his hand to his friend's shoulder and squeezed, once, reassuringly, before he let go. 

“You know it is by no want of mine that I must leave you.  But with our mutual affection restored, all else must wait.  My heart is adrift in the south, and I must follow it as best I can.”

“Of course.”  Hamilton closed his eyes over tears of weakness and frustration.  “Save your daughter, if you can, Aaron.  God grant it is not too late.”

Feeling like an arrow released from a bow, Burr sprang up and reached for the door handle.  For a moment, as he opened the door, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Hamilton’s head was turned away, his shoulders shaking a little.

Poor man.  He never had fully recovered from Philip’s death.

Theodosia and Gampy were still alive.  It needed only exertion to find them.  Burr shook his head in sympathy and went out.

Chapter Text

Various newspapers, October 1806

BRITISH MAKE ADVANCES IN CUBA

CHOCTAW ALLIES REPULSE SPANISH AT BATON ROUGE

SLAVE INSURRECTION AT BAYOU PIERRE

***

The Negro Problem Continued

A Full and Practical Refutation of the Anonymous Critics of Manumission

By Alexander Hamilton

It is said that a man must be far gone in sanguine speculations who would deny that men are apt less to gratitude for favours tendered than to a sincere animus that the favour was ever required.  This is the position, it has frequently been falsely represented, in which the Union, and especially the agricultural South, would be placed with regards to previous black slaves, if manumission were ever to become widespread.

It is argued that within our own memory, stands Toussaint L'Ouverture, whose uprising on Saint-Domingue made orphans of children, widows of mothers, and silent accusers of those families that remained together, only in their shared graves.  This is the example, we are frequently bombarded with, of what should happen were we to free the vast communities of negroes that uphold the southern economies.  And yet this repeated statement is trivially shown to be specious, for it cannot escape the notice of men of rationality that the example so frequently pressed, by those in favour of enslavement, was a revolution not of freed slaves, but of those who had consistently been suppressed with all the vigour that anti-abolitionists prescribe.  Lashed down with the maximum cruelty that a fearful master, with an eye on his family, might persuade himself an adequate precaution, such men still rebelled.  Brutality is a strategy that fails upon each employment, with a regularity that should recommend it if the act of revolt were what we were attempting instead to provoke.  No quantity of suppression prevents our west from being troubled regularly by negro revolutions, for it is a fact, which cannot be contradicted, that to endure an infinity of punishment without a kindling of fury in the breast is not in the nature of any man.  Furthermore it is a well attested principle, in scientific advancement, that the tighter a thing is screwed down, the greater the pressure that prevails within it, and the greater the subsequent likelihood of explosion proves to be.  The anti-manumissionists thus provide by their very own argument, its disproof, by the demonstration that the cruelty that they excuse as the prevention of worse evils, is instead the peculiar and specific cause of those very evils they claim to avert.

But this is a necessary evil, claim those again, whose profits and perils are most intimately entwined with the repugnant institution, and who are thus naturally driven to defend it.  They say that black labour is the source and wellspring of agricultural prosperity, that without it, the costs of raising crops must be so high, that the produce must be raised in price in like proportion, and that this would render it an impossibility for American goods to compete, on equal ground, with the sugar and tobacco harvested by the British and French islands, on which the plantation system still prevails.  Again L'Ouverture’s failures are held up before us, although it is a triviality to perceive that the panic of those who never thought to achieve supremacy, opposed most fervently by their previous governments and the pernicious fears of allied regimes, is no comparison with the considered policy of a government of educated men, from a country whose economy has already endured the pangs of birth, with international friendships the most solid and well-attested.  It is contrarily the case that the most persuasive argument against slavery is economic , and let him seek who doubts it in the writings of Adam Smith.  Set against the claimed benefits of slavery - the cheapness of the labour, the robustness against tropical diseases of the African constitution - are the costs incurred in the need for overseers, for chains and whips, in the fear that accompanies women and children to bed every night and wakes with them in the morning, and in the slow, reluctant, bad work that is all that can be forced, even with the most rigorous discipline, from the worker who gains nothing from the exertion.  If negroes are lazy then consider how willing we might be, who once fought a bloody war of years against the unjust imposition of duties upon paper and tea, if called upon to exert our utmost faculties for a government whose duties spanned all species of thing, and amounted to a total of one hundred per cent of our labour. 

Consider how bloodily we might make war against any such despots!  But it is one thing for a man to risk what very little he had in the hope of gaining every thing, and quite another to risk the fulfillment of all his wants merely to chase a hollow grudge.  Consider that, when we achieved our own liberation, we did not expend our last energies on pursuing the British across the sea, but turned aside for the more valuable and desired work of making our own prosperity.  So too we may reasonably assume it will be with the blacks, for once free to make a family, and to provide for them, and to join with their fellow creatures in creating a just and admirable nation, surely they will find themselves too much occupied, with the wholesome purposes for which they desire their freedom, to wage a war that can gain them no thing. 

And even in the unlikely case, that the love of a husband for his wife, of a father for his children, and of a man for his life and legacy, proved so much weaker a motivation than unnatural vengeance, it would be a man lost indeed to irrational paranoia, who saw in this war only a slave uprising writ large.

An army, so large as seriously to menace the liberties of Americans, could only be formed by progressive augmentations; which would suppose a continued conspiracy for a series of time. Is it probable that such a combination would be persevered in, and transmitted along through all the variations in a body of thousands of individual blacks? Can it be supposed that there would not be found one man, with concern enough for his family, or with gratitude enough for his freedom, or with patriotism enough to apprise his friends of their danger?  Do we not have before us, even now, the example of negroes who love their country enough to fight, not against those who enslaved them, or their fathers and mothers before them, but for them against a mutual enemy?

Let us turn from airy speculations to the lessons to be drawn from experience.  Most proximate is that of New York’s black regiment…

***

Hamilton stepped into the luxuriously appointed room.  Candles glittered in silver candlesticks; the portraits on the wall glowed warmly in the dim light.  The air was heavy with the smells of fish, beans and sausage; paprika and garlic.  His stomach almost rebelled; he sternly swallowed down the bile and breathed shallowly through his mouth. 

Jefferson had surely known of his illness, but all of those food smells were heavy, rich and well spiced.  Well.  That the president hated him was one part of this dinner that wouldn't come as a surprise.

“General Hamilton, welcome,” said a soft voice.  “I had gathered from my reading that you were recovering.”  Out from all this pomp and elegance stepped a man in wrinkled finery, an old housecoat thrown carelessly over an expensive blue silk waistcoat that showed the marks of old grease stains.  Jefferson moved in his habitual slightly hunched sidle, apparently blithely unaware of how much he did not belong in this hallowed place of executive power.

Hamilton stood as straight as he could, ignoring the lingering ache in his abdomen.  “President Jefferson,” he said with bare courtesy, annoyed at the familiar ache in his neck as he was forced to tip his head back to meet the eyes looking down from under bushily unkempt eyebrows.  “I am pleased to see you returned to Washington's city.”

“With the government preserved from destruction, a swift return had clearly become essential,” Jefferson muttered in response, turning half away.  Hamilton wondered, as he so often had, how this man had ever thought he might pursue a career in the law.

As if in response to Jefferson's movement, another man, rather more appropriately apparelled, entered through a side door and paused a moment before starting towards them.  Jefferson's lips turned up a little in his best approximation of a smile.  “I believe you know Colonel Dearborn.  I believe there are many military matters he looks forward to discussing with you, matters of troop movements and so on.”

“Colonel Dearborn.” Events had moved too quickly while he had been incapacitated; Dearborn had had too much opportunity to intervene.  Still, he would show no weakness before these men.  Hamilton stepped boldly forward and took the hand of the Secretary of War.  “If you require an accounting of any of the decisions that I enacted in your absence, sir, I will be contented to answer for them.”  If he got into another duel - or worse, another trial - Eliza and the family would suffer for it.  He must be careful.

“I am confident that you can explain any of the decisions that you made before your unfortunate illness,” Dearborn allowed with a frustrated edge to his voice, and Hamilton relaxed a little.  They had not, then, intercepted any of his New York correspondence; and the orders sent to the various militias could be made to appear to anyone as mere precaution, after the Spanish sallies.  One of many reasonable precautions that Jefferson and Dearborn had declined to take. 

“However,” Dearborn continued, “I should prefer to delay any such discussions of policy until the arrival of our final guest.”

Hamilton had already noted the four place settings; the china richly patterned, the cutlery gleaming silver, everything as proper to the dignity of the place as Jefferson was not.  The fourth would be Madison, of course; or very possibly Gallatin.  Jefferson could make no significant move without the advice of at least one of his other Secretaries.

The man himself, having brushed a nonexistent speck from the table runner, drifted back to join them.  “And how is your dear wife, not too overset by your latest troubles?” he asked, and Hamilton wondered whether he even had it in him to say something that was not snide.

“Mrs Hamilton is the daughter of a general, and the wife of another,” he said with a lift of his chin.  “A toothless indictment can arouse little apprehension in any person who has endured war.”

“I am glad to hear it,” mumbled Jefferson vaguely, not meeting Hamilton’s eyes, his gaze sliding to the door behind him.  “I should very much hate to think of your family as suffering any more hardships, when you have already had your fair share, have you not… ah.  Here is our final guest.”

Hamilton turned, prepared to meet the barbs of his once-friend, long-time enemy - and stopped dead.  For instead of the diminutive frame and stony face of James Madison, he looked up at the ringletted hair and condescending expression of The Most Excellent Carlos Martínez de Yrujo, Spanish ambassador to the United States of America.  As he saw Hamilton recognise him, he smiled.

Very well.  He had known this was a trap when he had walked into it.  Now to continue on to spring it, and see how he could turn it back on its makers.

***

“I caught a rabbit, master,” Peter announced proudly, if quietly, as he returned through the trees in the first dim grey light.  Master Burr was standing waiting, sweeping one boot to drag damp earth over the sad embers of last night's fire; two cups sat on a stump nearby.  Neither was steaming.

Master Burr looked up and smiled.  “See?  It wanted only sufficient motive.  Only a little time ago you were complaining of hunger; now you have procured us a feast to look forward to.”

Peter’s stomach dropped.  He did not want to spend a day looking forward to half a rabbit; he had rather hoped to eat it now.  His mouth had already started watering in anticipation.

“Draw the carcass quickly and find a bag for it,” master Burr ordered over his shoulder as he picked up the saddle that rested, ungainly with its skirts spread wide, at the base of a tree.  He approached the grey gelding with it.  “Then drink your porridge.  We need to get on the move.”

They had been moving, constantly, for days.  Ever since they had come down the road to Alexandria in the garish pink light of breaking dawn to see that several of the ships rocking gently in the harbour were Spanish warships, and that the guards at the gates wore familiar blue bicorn hats.

“I must congratulate the español commander on the success of his feint,” master Burr had commented with wry emphasis.  “I find myself most extremely fooled.  Peter, give me the name Arnott; I shall contrive to have us turned away at the gates.”

And they had been, master Burr expostulating with the guards in English and giving no sign that he understood or was tailoring his act to what they said between themselves in Spanish.  Peter was very glad to stay quiet behind him, except for one moment where it seemed that the summoned superior was looking a little too thoughtfully at master Burr, and it seemed expedient to annoy the bay mare into a distracting dance of hooves.

They had come away from the city without the bay mare - “I shall take her price out of your wages,” master Burr had said dryly, but with an approval that made Peter's chest expand - and had been combing the farms south of it ever since.  Asking for word of a woman and a boy; hearing none.

“Master Burr, where are we going today?” Peter asked as he finished drinking down the gritty mixture of half-cooked oats in warm water and put away his makeshift snares (where had master Burr learned to make snares?).

“North.”  Master Burr’s voice was a little strained as he heaved the girth tight against the gelding’s preference.

Peter was shocked.  “But, master Burr…” he trailed off before he could voice an inappropriate protest.

“The Spanish have them,” master Burr said evenly.  “My daughter lives, or we should have found her body on the road.  But she has not come to any near refuge, and the area is riddled with enemies.”  He put one foot in the stirrup and vaulted lightly onto the horse's back in a smooth movement Peter still couldn't quite mimic.  Not that he was likely to have much opportunity to practice unless master Burr was able to acquire another horse from somewhere.  “I cannot walk into Alexandria to speak with their commander without being captured; I need an intermediary.  And if, God grant, she is free, she will send word north.  I have wasted too much time. We must return to Washington.  Quickly, boy.”

Peter numbly handed up the various bags and rolls, and master Burr tied and strapped them as best he could about the saddle and his own person.

They were meekly giving up the search.  Master Burr had explained why.  He was not sure which surprised him most. 

As master Burr set off in a slow trot that forced him to jog to keep up, he found himself almost grateful for the normality of it.  Settling into his master's demanding pace, he let himself imagine that they would return through disputed territory without a hitch, and that soon he would be toying with sausages and sweetmeats.

On second thoughts, he decided to make a point of really appreciating the evening's half-charred rabbit.

***

Hamilton toyed with a date, trying to ignore the rich smell of the almond paste that squeezed out of one end, and the equally strong bitter scent rising from his coffee.  He ached in every fibre, and wanted nothing more than to lie down for just a moment on some couch.  But as usual he hadn’t that luxury. 

The conversation over dinner had beaten around enough bushes to flatten half of the Virginian plantations, especially with Jefferson insinuating smooth platitudes any time the conversation became too heated.  He had clearly had discussions with Yrujo beforehand, and was now content to sink into the background and let the bombastic Spaniard and the annoyed Secretary take any criticism for their negotiating tactics.

They wanted him to turn over command of the militias raised by his allies and return to New York; of course they did.  Dearborn spoke carefully of the possibility of friction between the militias and government troops, but more likely he was afraid that the nearby units of the Continental Army might decide to throw their lot in with the militias and the leaders who had saved Washington, instead of those who had so badly fumbled its defence.  That struck Hamilton as rather a reason to stay in Washington and send encouraging messages to the commanders.

They wanted him to turn on Burr again, as he had in 1800 and 1804.  Assuming that Burr was still alive, amidst the chaos that had somehow been permitted to occur to the south.  Yrujo and Jefferson were dancing around a peace treaty, and Jefferson must be thinking ahead to the problem of the Mexican lands claimed by the Diablo Atrevido (Hamilton noted that epithet in the part of his mind where he kept Little Burr ) and his associates.  If Burr and his allies could not collect the proceeds of their filibuster it would bankrupt them, financially and politically; and Hamilton no less than the Alstons and others.

So what Hamilton did not understand, and what was making him increasingly wary, was what they thought might motivate him to toss away his good sense and his self-respect.  Jefferson was dishonourable enough to offer a bribe, but not so much of a fool as to think Hamilton would accept anything from him.

That left threats.

He shifted slightly in his chair, the unyielding back becoming increasingly uncomfortable over this interminable dinner; unless that was just his kidneys beginning to ache again.  To cover his discomfort he picked up the dainty china cup and took a small sip of the bitter black liquid within.  It lingered on his tongue with an edge of oranges and ash.  A silence fell over the table.

“Although you have employed your most persuasive arguments to convince me of the rectitude of these expedients,” Hamilton said at last, “still I am of the mind that my present course is the more virtuous and durable, for causes that I am sure will occur to your reason without the tedious necessity of detailing each.  I am perfectly satisfied, as far as perfection is possible, that it does not lie within the public good to withdraw regiments from a place that has but lately been assailed, nor to perform the sundry other acts that, though you describe them as mere courtesies, form a direct and impermissible menace to future good governance.  It is not my intent to offer offence, but it is incumbent upon both my nature and my honour to be honest, no matter what hardship may result; and so I do not ask pardon for speaking truthfully and straightforwardly in the society of men.”

“Well said!” Yrujo declared with approval, pushing his own chair back from the table.  “Every man should be so honest in service of his government.”  His accent - which Hamilton had noticed tended to wax and wane depending on the situation - was in abeyance now, with only a little throatiness on the H, a slight roll of the R.

“Since you have favoured us with such transparency,” Yrujo continued, “I shall show the same respect.  Vicealmirante Rodríguez - the commander here - has contacted me to resolve a little… difficulty of courtesy.  We hope you can assist.”

And here, finally, it was.  Hamilton poised attentively.

“ Vicealmirante Rodríguez is currently host to a lady of good breeding who was found in distress on the road a little to the south.  I understand she was rescued from a carriage accident.  He should very much like to be able to return her into the care of her father - once it is safe to do so, you understand.”

Yrujo popped a date in his mouth and raised his eyebrows at Hamilton.

“I understand.” Hamilton picked up a napkin and began fastidiously cleaning the stickiness from his fingers.  He understood that Rodríguez and Yrujo would not consider the environment ‘safe’ until Jefferson declared that it was.  He understood that ‘safety’ referred not only to peace between the Union and Spain, but the retreat of his own threat against Jefferson’s government.

Burr would have agreed in a heartbeat.  He would sacrifice principles, ambitions, friends, anything for his daughter. 

Hamilton wondered what would happen if he simply left Theodosia where she was.  Would they risk arousing public fury by killing a woman?  Would there be an ‘accident’?  Or would they merely take her with them to Spain, which would have the same practical effect with less provocation of outrage?  What of…

“I am told the little boy is quite charming,” Yrujo added as Hamilton parted his lips, clearly anticipating the question.  “The vicealmirante is quite taken with him.  He is fond of children, having none of his own.”

“The lady is a married woman!” Hamilton could not keep himself from protesting.

“Then it is a great pity that her husband did not take better care of her than to permit her to travel alone with an incompetent coachman.  We take better care of our wives in España .”

He understood now why neither Madison nor Gallatin - Burr’s friends, once - had been invited to this dinner.  Jefferson was not certain of them.  He had no doubt that, when he emerged, he would find them dealing with crises that would prevent him speaking with them for a crucial day or two.  No, Jefferson was offering him a very simple choice; betray his plans and principles, or betray Burr and sever their alliance.  A win for Jefferson's beleaguered political position either way.

It seems really desirous , Burr had said, sitting by his sickbed, squeezing his hand with concerned reassurance, that I should know how many times I must accept your apologies.   A dead man by now, perhaps, and that his final memory of an old friend.

How close, Hamilton wondered as he pushed away his cup, was that militia of Dayton’s.

Chapter Text

“Doña Theodosia,” came the familiar baritone voice from outside the cabin door.

Theodosia stood, wondering once again how the larger Rodríguez managed to do so in this small space. Warships, it seemed, were not made to be commodious; she felt stifled, constantly on the verge of a fever or a headache.

“¡Tío Rodríguez!” Little Aaron shouted enthusiastically, scrambling up from the small scattering of coins which she had found to distract him for a few moments. Theodosia winced, but did not correct the boy. The admiral’s fondness was a protection; and her son would forget him soon enough when they were returned to land. When, she told herself sternly. Not if.

“Vicealmirante Rodríguez,” she said with careful correctness. Her little Spanish, and his little English, were all they had with which to communicate. “Por favor, entre.”

“Gracias,” Rodríguez lisped in the way of the Peninsular Spanish. He ducked his way in through the little door, a task made no easier by the four-year-old obstacle trying to catch his attention.

The admiral was of a similar age to her own father; old to be still unmarried and childless. He handled Aaron with a slightly awkward indulgence, rather than her father’s authoritative playfulness. Like her father he was handsome despite his age, with striking black eyes; but he was also a little stout, and a little pompous, and his small mouth was all but hidden beneath a wide, bushy moustache.

“¿Qué es lo que quiere?” she asked politely. And then, remembering, she fumbled for the words to thank him for the gifts he had sent her earlier, on hearing she was unwell. “Gracias por la fruta.”

“De nada,” he said with a deprecating gesture of one hand. And then, very laboriously, in English, “You feel better?”

“Un poco, gracias.”

“¡Tío, tío!” Little Aaron was jumping up and down, tugging at the admiral’s coat to get his attention. That could not be permitted.

“Aaron!” she scolded gently, stepping forward to pull him back against her. “Be patient! I am sorry - perdón - he is so active - él gusta correr -”

“He is young,” Rodríguez said indulgently. “Come up. He can run on the - la cubierta - when we talk.”

Fresh air! Theodosia suddenly felt the need for fresh air like the need for water, or for food. She gladly acquiesced, and climbed up, a little shakily as the ship rocked gently beneath her, to the quarterdeck where a few sharp words from the admiral put her son under the watchful eye of a not-too-evil-looking seaman. Nevertheless she thought she stopped breathing every time he went near the rail.

“He can…” Rodríguez paused and then made little paddling gestures with his hands and raised his brows enquiringly. 

“Un poco,” Theodosia replied, smiling at how silly he looked, this bushy-moustached man, playing charades like a child. She took advantage of the natural smile, tilted her head so that she was looking up at him under her lashes; a subtle alteration of meaning. 

He nodded. “So if he… sumerge en el agua… he” - he made the gesture again - “and we get him out. Don’t you… preoccupy.”

“Gracias.” It was frustrating, her limited ability to converse, the impossibility of giving her words subtle shades of meaning. But it had been the same in her father's house, when the French she had practised with Nathalie had met the quick-spoken Parisian argot of adult dignitaries. She was her father's daughter. 

She would not ask what was going to happen to her. It would show a weakness of character, and tell her nothing. “¿De dónde viene usted?” she asked instead. “¿En España?” 

For several minutes she breathed the cold breeze, tasting beneath the salt the land smells of cooking smoke and damp earth, while she listened to her captor talk about the Mediterranean island of his birth. She could only catch a few words and phrases, but she watched his expression closely to make sure her own reactions were appropriate to the skeleton of the story he was telling her. A boy when he had left home; and still ill-educated in the world beyond war and naval politics, she deduced. For all that he could have been a contemporary of her father's, he was more like the optimistic young politician who had once courted her - and unexpectedly, she felt a sudden pang of fondness and regret for her husband. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, then leaned a little forward as though she had been reacting to what the admiral was saying. In the back of her mind she noted a rhythmic splashing sound from somewhere. Odd, it sounded beyond the confines of the ship; then she realised what that must be, and turned quickly around. Not quickly enough, as young Aaron was already climbing the rails to look for the rowboat. The Spanish sailor reached him a moment later and pulled him off, with many apologies to the admiral who was also now standing, a look of thunder on his face. 

There was a short exchange, and then voices shouting from the rowboat below, answered by others muffled by the wooden deck. Many words she did not know; but no diablo, nothing of her father. Rodríguez’s face grew distant and stony; a moment later the sailor was ushering her boy towards her, and she stepped forward to put her arms around his shoulders. 

“No, we can't stay to see the men come up the side,” she bent over to tell him softly. “We have to go below now. Did the man show you the cannon?”

A few moments later Rodríguez turned to her, then lifted his gaze in slight surprise when she was not where he had left her. He nodded his approval at seeing that she was already at the hatch, beginning to guide little Aaron down from the quarterdeck. His gaze rested on her face for a moment; she met it calmly, then looked down to see her own footing. When she looked up again a second later, he had turned away. 

Her belly ached, and her tongue was dry in her mouth despite herself. In the world beyond this ship - so big and imposing from outside, so tiny when you were upon it - something important had clearly happened. 

Not a battle, she prayed. Not an engagement that needed to be fought at sea, with herself and her little boy trapped in the middle of it. If need be she would let them carry her away to Spain, to a sunny little island an ocean away from her papa. Ships crossed the ocean all the time, to Europe and back. But the ferry went only one way across the Styx.

She reached the door of her cabin, opened it, closed it again behind her. And then she tried very hard to smile and nod as her father’s precious heir babbled to her about cannon.

***

It had been midnight by the time Burr entered Washington, after several long days of arduous travel along game trails, streams, and, where unavoidable, across the clumped, uneven mud of harvested fields. He had been forced to walk the last few miles after the grey had gone lame; he had been footsore himself when he finally fetched up at Gallatin’s lodgings only to find his friend mysteriously absent.

Undeterred, he had sent Peter to quest for a lodging-house that might give them a bed for the night; or at least somewhere to tie up his horse, though really the gelding deserved rather better than the rotten straw of some tick-ridden stable. A few hours’ sleep on an inn couch had provided adequate refreshment, though he had been forced to borrow of Sumter again in order to appear at the Spanish Ambassador's house properly clothed and arrayed.

The Ambassador was not at home.

He tried Hamilton, but the lodging-house owner informed him that his friend had suffered a return of his malady, and was seeing no one. In some ways that might be fortunate; the situation was volatile enough without Hamilton’s particular brand of diplomacy. But by the same token, if Hamilton had been physically able to play a part in matters, he would be up and doing so. Burr left a message of sympathy, and retired with heightened concern. Madison was also away from home; genuinely so, it seemed, for Dolley had received him kindly. But she was so genuinely shocked and sympathetic to learn that Theodosia was missing that he concluded the Secretary of State must likewise know nothing. So after a half hour of pleasantries - her sprightly, clever conversation was like a balm, and he had not realised how much he missed it - he was forced to his last recourse.

“Ah, Colonel Burr, what an unexpected honour,” Jefferson said without feeling as he finally put aside his papers and looked up from the presidential desk, at where Burr had been standing for at least five minutes. It was a petty insult, easily borne.

“Mr President,” Burr said with punctilious correctness. “I come to you not as your former vice-president, but as any republican and father. My daughter has fallen into the hands of the Spanish, and it is a surety that they will view this as an affair of state and entrust her wellbeing to your offices. I look to you to relieve my anxiety.”

Jefferson leaned back, not offering him a seat. Burr stood, straight-backed, and waited, as comfortable as if he had been ‘at ease’ on military parade.

“Mrs Alston,” Jefferson said at last, “is become a question of some complexity, so that I cannot myself tell whether I can relieve your anxiety or no, though I can indeed tell you something of her.”

She was alive, then. Burr had been certain of that all along, so he did not understand why his heart jumped, or why his limbs began to tremble. He forced them to stillness.

“Certainty is always to be preferred to the unknown,” he assured Jefferson. “Your news, I will receive as any man ought who has been relieved from fear of worse.” He almost added that he was not a blockhead, to confuse the messenger with the message, but stopped himself in time. To point out the obvious would be on the verge of insult, and discourteous to a man of whom he was asking a favour.

“It is of course impossible to share state communications or even the substance of them, with someone who is not a member of the government of the country, no matter the cordiality that may have existed between us,” Jefferson said in a near-inaudible mutter. Clearly he had never had Paterson providing instruction on his oratory. Burr had been fortunate to have such an involved mentor.

“If my inquiry be deemed improper, the error must be ascribed to the influence of former habits,” he said politely, accepting for the moment his role in Jefferson's game.

“All that it is expedient and permissible for me to express is that there are complexities in negotiating the correct and appropriate navigation of a lady of breeding through an area of military unrest and the associated potential dangers and distractions,” Jefferson continued, looking slyly up at Burr.

He was missing something. “I was under the impression that my regiment had returned to New York,” he said coolly. He did not, of course, know what had occurred on the line of Spanish retreat to the north, but the occupation of Alexandria had looked peaceable enough, and the occupying force was unlikely to be troubled on its return to the coast. Also, neither of those had anything to do with him. Jefferson was referring to something else, and he must find out what. 

“Unfortunately it is clear that there have been miscommunications between Colonel Dearborn’s office and certain other persons, resulting in an unnecessary and annoying gathering of troops in this area under no clear leadership, and as you know yourself unemployed troops are at best a nuisance in an area of peace. They would be better employed in the west, where they can be used to quell the negro uprisings with which our newest provinces are being assailed lest seditious elements take advantage of them to effect a separation.”

Burr quickly assimilated this information. When had Hamilton decided to proceed with his dangerous coup idea? Surely his illness should have stopped it? Burr cursed himself for having left the capital without ascertaining exactly what Hamilton had been doing in - and with - Cushing’s office. As for a slave uprising in Louisiana, well, any man who read the papers could have predicted that, and he could not conceive what Jefferson could possibly expect him to do about it. 

“If you wish me to quell the uprisings,” he began, considering whether he might reasonably be able to sell the planters on the idea of conscripting restless black slaves into a free militia to oppose the Spanish, killing multiple birds with a single stone.

“It would clear the way and expedite the restoration of Mrs Alston and her infant if you were to remove the irregular troops here and march them to restore peace and harmony west of the Mississippi,” Jefferson agreed. “An immediate answer would forestall the potential for complications you and I should both find undesirable.”

And that made everything quite clear. Burr considered quickly. If he came to an agreement, he would bring relief to Theodosia and little Gampy. It would put an end to Hamilton’s violent and destabilising plans. It would allow him to pursue his and Hamilton's abolition agenda in the west. It would get him back to the Mexican front. It would, to some extent, reconcile him with Jefferson. His daughter and his boy, in enemy hands…

“Where are these troops currently encamped?” he asked.

***

There had been no way to conceal their arrival; the Spanish raiders retreating down the river knew they were out here.

It would not matter.

Hamilton watched the river, brown as mud in the rainy autumn, with bits of twig and other debris swirling occasionally in little eddies atop the silent flow. Then he lifted his eyes to the ships moving ponderously downstream under the bluffs on which stood the burned-out remains of Fort Washington. Their sails were furled as they carefully navigated the twisting main current. There were blue-uniformed men on the ships; a few blue-uniformed men on the bank, marching beside heavily laden wagons. The rapaciousness of men was the one thing in the world to be relied upon, and as he had expected, they had plundered Alexandria thoroughly. But, as he had also expected, their plunder slowed them, separated them, and made them vulnerable. 

His side hurt as though he had torn something on the secret, swift ride out of Washington to the camp, though he was familiar enough with his own condition to know that was impossible. But he had men to lead, again, and an enemy before them, and the pains of his insufficient physical frame would not prevent the victory he had planned. 

Was this how Burr had felt in Mexico, he wondered? Where was Burr?

Never mind. It was not relevant. He quickly ran through the variables again; the distance to the coast, the terrain along the shore, the limits of the frigates’ ability to depress their guns. The already-muddy roads, the silty river that hid everything within.

There was a sudden hitch in the movement of the wagons. A whinny carried to him where he lay ahead of his troops on the low ridge; he could just see the thick neck of one of the draught horses thrown up as it struggled. With his old artillery instincts he calculated distances and angles as the ships continued to drift a little further…

“Go,” he said, and the low, urgent voices behind him, the creaking leather and clinking steel, were cut through suddenly by the unnatural blare of the bugle. More than a hundred heavy boots thudded past him, shaking the ground.

The frigates opened fire; shot slammed into the ground. Men screamed as they were flung like skittles, and he smelled the familiar acrid smoke of gunfire as he scrambled aside into a less exposed position that would still let him see. His body felt light, restless; he remembered running, with his men, into the settling darkness that shadowed the number ten redoubt, and that old yearning ripped through him like the pain that arced through his body when he moved too quickly, too carelessly.

The grassy slope that rolled down to the river was now scattered, here and there, with bodies; some still, more slowly writhing, their groans and shouts almost lost in the shouting and gunfire from the river. But the majority of his men had reached the bank now, and were overwhelming the small guard on the wagons as the drifting ships struggled to manoeuvre. From the other side of the bluff, the boats in which his other men had crossed last night shot into the river; unnoticed for a few vital moments.

Despite the pain, Hamilton grinned fiercely. In a few hours, no more, this battle would be won; the frigates would be forced to return unencumbered to the fleet, leaving plunder and prisoners both in his hands. And then he would contact the vicealmirante himself, and find out which he would really rather have: soldiers, wealth and provisions, or a single sickly woman and her son

Chapter Text

Rodríguez had wanted to wait until General Hamilton had been able to provide a carriage, to convey her and the boy in comfort and relative propriety.  It had taken all her strength and powers of argument to change his mind; her own mind full of terror that events might intervene, and trap her on the ship.  It would be distastefully cynical of her to suspect that that might have been the point.

She had been unable to find out where her servant had been taken; she had not been on shipboard.  But the Spanish freed slaves, didn’t they?  It was a constant worry of her husband’s friends, that their workers might run to Florida and never be seen again.  Perhaps she was better off where she was, wherever that was.

Thinking of which… “General Hamilton,” Theodosia politely caught the attention of the man riding a little ahead of her, slightly stiff-backed, “Perhaps it is only the anxiety of the past weeks that deludes my brain, but this does not seem to me like the main road to Washington’s city?”

Hamilton reined in his horse to ride beside her.  “Forgive me, madame, it had not occurred to me that you would notice,” he said with a reassuring smile.

“My father taught me to keep my wits about me,” Theodosia replied pleasantly, and then softened the rebuke further by adding, “A trait that is particularly useful when traveling with an active infant.”

Hamilton glanced back at the officer who was carrying young Aaron before him, occupying him by teaching him the basics of horsemanship, and his face softened a little.  Theodosia felt something inside her relax.  She could not forget that this man had shot her illustrious father; that after years of trying to end his career, he had tried to end his life.  But his manner showed no ill intent now. 

“I do not know the current whereabouts of Colonel Burr,” he told her.  “And it is into his care that I must deliver you, or I should not feel that I had carried out my commission with the delicacy and thoroughness that is due from a gentleman.”  His lips tightened for a moment, his eyes darting away from her, and her heart caught in her breast.  There was something he was not saying. 

But then he smiled at her, the expression giving his features an almost feminine delicacy despite his beak of a nose, despite the bitter words she knew he could wield when he chose.  “There are accommodations that can be made to be fitting for a lady, near enough to the protection of the forces that I currently command.  To send messages to Washington city from that resting place will be the simplest of tasks.”

And what was going on in Washington that General Hamilton was avoiding the capital city?  How had he and her papa come this far south, in defiance of the court case that had been proceeding against them in New York?  Had the rift between her father’s friends and the present administration widened into open hostility?  She could not imagine such old friends as Gallatin and Madison permitting it.

She felt her heart beginning to pound at such thoughts, and took slow, measured breaths to calm her brain.  “Then I thank you for my father’s sake, as well as for myself and my son.  Is it far to the accommodations you spoke of?  I have been in low spirits, and feel myself growing fatigued.”  Fatigued was not quite the right word for the pain she was feeling from the unyielding saddle, and the constant jolting of even this gentle amble; to think that she had once loved to ride!

“No, dear madame, not far.”  Hamilton reached out to pat her forearm, and she took some reassurance from the gesture.  Although the general could be a little patronising, he had always been courteous.

Their party must be approaching the main encampment; there was a faint smell of smoke in the air.  A little further and she could hear through the trees the clanking of people moving about, the occasional shout; she glanced across at Hamilton, took his calmness as her cue.  She had never thought to spend time in a military camp, and she felt both unnerved and interested.

A man in blue jogged out from the undergrowth beside the path and saluted General Hamilton, who returned it with a snap of his elbow.  “General Hamilton, sir.  Commander’s compliments, and he would be obliged if you would join him in the command tent at your earliest convenience.”

“I recognise no commander of this militia, which was sent directly into my own oversight,” Hamilton said with a kind of haughty wariness.  He halted his horse, and absently reached a hand towards her own reins; she understood and brought her mount to a similar stop, her heart hammering again as though she were fevered.  She glanced back, but her boy was too busy craning his neck for glimpses of tents and uniforms to have noticed any tension in the adults.

“If this commander wishes to speak with me,” Hamilton continued, his voice flat, “then he shall infallibly find me attending to the comfort of my guest.  The succour of a lady, to any gentleman, is of an importance that eclipses all less elevated concerns.” He turned his head towards her, apparently dismissing the sentry from his mind; though she noticed that his horse sidled just out of reach of the man, and closer to her own.  “Do you think you could endure a short trot without too much inconvenience, Madame?”

It would hurt intensely, but her life of the past few years had schooled her in enduring pain.  She too had no interest in lingering amongst men whose allegiance was uncertain.  “I can, General.  Let it be quick.”

He kicked his horse on and she fell in behind, gripping the left pommel horn between her thighs and wishing she could ride more securely astride as she had sometimes been permitted to do as a young girl.

From behind her she heard the low voice of the officer shushing young Aaron as he laughed delightedly and demanded to go faster. 

They trotted between the irregular rows of creamy tents that stood between the thinned-out trees, tack jingling gently, but the soldiers paused only briefly to watch them with mild curiosity, rather than leaping to alert action.  She winced as Aaron’s voice rose from behind her; he was excited and unnerved by the adventure, and too high-spirited to endure hushing.

They were almost to the middle of the small camp, the flaps of the tents ahead of them being thrown open as men looked out to see the commotion, when suddenly from behind her there was a shout and then a high-pitched shriek that turned into sobbing wails.

She yanked hard on her reins without thinking, stopping her horse so fast that she bruised her pelvis on the pommel horns.  For a moment she could not breathe or think as pain exploded through her.  Then she pulled the horse’s head around, tapping it urgently with her heel to go back to where their small escort was breaking and milling around a little figure on the ground, almost under their hooves.

As she stared in panic there was a flash of movement from one side and someone from the camp plunged into the chaos, shouting a sharp command, and skidded onto his knees next to her boy, shielding him with his body, hands running briefly over his arms, his legs, before pulling him with gentle urgency into a protective embrace.  The group circled in confusion as he ignored the peril of the horses, tucking Gampy’s head into his neck and turning his head a little to speak softly to the child. 

Theodosia felt giddy, almost faint, as stumbling, shying horses cut off her vision of, she knew, everything she loved.  “Papa,” she felt her lips move soundlessly.   She had seen him for barely a moment, but she did not need to see to know her own soul.  There was no other commander who would fling himself so reflexively and heedlessly of his own danger towards a child's cry of distress.

Her horse shifted slightly and she turned her head to see Hamilton come alongside, his eyes slightly narrowed as he, too, tried to penetrate the mob.  Then, “McGillicuddy, clear this crowd,” said a familiar rich tenor, and she saw for a moment an expression of such agonised relief that she felt a pang of sympathy with the General.  He brought up his hands to his face, pretended to rub his temples, and when she could see his expression again he looked merely pleased and anticipatory.

But her father… With some shouting and grabbing of reins the men were getting the horses under control and clear of the confusion, and now her papa was levering himself up from his knees, the effort obvious with the weight of a four-year-old in his arms, clinging with his face hidden in his grandfather's shoulder.

“Papa!” she called and urged her horse forwards.

He merely inclined his head to her, his gaze immediately moving to the man beside her, before he was forced to turn his head aside to cough briefly. “Theodosia.  General Hamilton.” He smiled, a little wryly.  “I am relieved indeed to see you risen from what I was assured was your death-bed.” His eyes flickered back to Theodosia, measuring her in one sweeping glance from crown to foot, although his next comment was still addressed to the General.  “I should be sincerely obliged if you could assist my daughter from her horse, since as you can see I have a slight encumbrance.  There is rest and refreshment in my tent.”  And then he turned and walked away, straight-backed despite Gampy’s weight.

She would not disgrace her father's steel with any unseemly lack of control.  Theodosia graciously thanked Hamilton as he helped her dismount, and then of necessity they both followed her father into the command tent. 

Inside, her son was seated precariously on the edge of a folding table while Burr, crouched in front of him, gently turned one of his feet this way and the other.  “Un moment,” he said as they entered, and then addressed Gampy with adult gravity.  “Master Alston, my diagnosis is that you will survive your injuries.  Will you show how brave you are now, and go to your maman?”

The boy nodded, unwontedly shy, and slipped off the table to skip to her and press himself into her skirts.  She put her arms around him as her father straightened with a slight cracking of his knees.  He regarded her for a moment before, to her astonishment, striding forward to embrace General Hamilton.  “My words are inadequate to the necessity,” he murmured as he stepped back, and then finally he turned to her and his arms came warm and strong and close around her.  After a moment he dropped one hand to young Aaron’s head, but still he held her gathered in the other for what seemed like minutes, until her knees began to tremble with belated reaction.  He immediately broke off, motioning both herself and Hamilton into rickety-looking chairs.

A short time later they were settled, with cups of wine - “Please do not judge me too harshly on the quality, but it is arguably better than perishing of thirst” - and bread rolls and other simple fare.  Her son was on her lap, lying against her, and so thankfully quiet she decided to let numbness set into her leg rather than risk disturbing him. There was a moment of fragile peace.

“What agreement have you made with Jefferson?” Hamilton said sharply into the quiet, scowling at her father's epaulettes.

“One that I deemed of benefit,” her father said uninformatively.  “You understand that I should like to see my daughter and grandson settled prior to any political discourse.”

“Si tu veux éviter l'écoute malveillante, on peut parler en français,” Hamilton pressed, and Theodosia suddenly realised that she would have to beware of the temptation to think of the tent as a private room; its canvas walls were all too permeable.  A moment later, she also realised that Hamilton had quite naturally tutoyéd her father, and that her father showed no objection to the intimacy.

“Petit Aaron parle un peu le français,” she pointed out, though she was not sure how much the tired boy would be paying attention.  She was not entirely sure how much she would be paying attention herself; now that the adventure was over and she was safely with her father, she felt aching and feverish.

Her father looked across at her.  “I am glad to hear it,” he said gently, then snapped his attention back to Hamilton.  “Mes enfants need rest and the attentions of a physician.  What arrangements had you made for them?”

“No,” Theodosia protested without thinking, feeling her heart kick at the thought of mounting again and riding away from her protector.

“You are my daughter,” was all that her father said, and she closed her eyes at the layers of meaning; the love, and the expectation.  “I will see them settled,” he said again to Hamilton.  “What little I have to offer in these rude surroundings, I set entirely at your disposal; command my servant as though you were me, for what happiness I have in this world I owe to your attentions.”  There was a moment’s hesitation.  “Though,” he added with a sudden ironic undertone of amusement, “I should take it as a very great favour if none of those commands should be ‘forward march’.”

***

Hamilton put his hand over his cup to prevent Burr refilling it.  Burr’s ebullience was only making Hamilton's mood darken further.  The tent shivered a little as the servant pushed aside the flap on his way out; the candles flickered in the draught of damp autumn air that made its way inside.  It was all so familiar.  If he closed his eyes he could imagine Washington in front of him, waiting to receive his report and advice. 

There was a light tap on his wrist and he opened his eyes to see Burr smiling crookedly at him, his dark eyes glinting amber in the candlelight.  His stomach lurched, and he tasted bile.  Burr’s smile faded into a concern that he could not look at.  He pressed his hands to his eyes.

“Are you still unwell, Ham?”

“No.”  He felt almost dizzy in the damp, close atmosphere, suddenly uncomfortably laden with the familiar scents of damp canvas, leather, and oiled metal.  “No, General,” he added with a bitter emphasis.

“You think my head turned by a little gold braid?”  Hamilton heard Burr stand, a box being opened and closed, the shuffling of papers.  Then the chair opposite creaked a little as Burr sat down again.  “Well, maybe a little,” he admitted, amused by his own vanity.  Hamilton’s throat hurt.  “This is not how I would have preferred to achieve promotion, but better late than never, as the actress said to the elderly bishop…”

And now Hamilton had to swallow down bile in truth, suddenly remembering how determinedly he had intrigued with Washington against Adams to prevent Burr’s promotion to General years before.  If he had not done that then, would things be different now…?

“You are unwell.” Burr’s voice was suddenly different, soft with concern.  The chair creaked again, there was a draught of air, and then Hamilton could feel the warmth of a body just behind him, the gentle weight of a hand on his shoulder.  He breathed in the smell of wool and stale tobacco smoke.  “Take my cot and rest, Ham.  I will likely be at work all this night anyway.”

“And that is why you always have such bags under your eyes,” Hamilton managed to make himself say.  He opened his eyes and tilted his head up to meet Burr’s mildly lifted eyebrows.  “If I am unwell, Aaron, it is from the unavoidable apprehension that there is no longer any fit place for a man such as myself in this terrestrial country.  Perhaps no man in the United States has sacrificed or done more for its weal than have I; and yet I find myself opposed by friends as well as foes no matter how I labour to prop its frail and worthless fabric.  This world becomes daily more disgusting to me.”

“That is not the case,” Burr said with stern sympathy.  “This despair is unworthy of your mettle.  Do you not see… I apprehend that you do not.  Have patience and I will pay all, as is said.”

Burr straightened, moving a little around Hamilton's chair so that he could stretch to reach some papers he had laid on the desk and draw them towards them both.  Despite the awkwardness, he did not move his warm hand from where it rested on Hamilton's shoulder.  “Read these.”

Reluctantly, feeling the weight of all his years, Hamilton straightened in his seat and picked up the first sheet, making his eyes scan the familiar plain, round handwriting he had learned to despise.  It was a few moments before he began to take in the substance of it.  Slowly, resistingly, his tired and sluggish brain began to turn like the wheel of a watermill.  

He stopped, lifted his head, turned to Burr and addressed the issue he should have raised hours ago.  “Why are you showing me this?  It is hardly such a confidence as Jefferson would approve.”

“I am no man's pawn, Hamilton.” Hamilton's shoulder felt suddenly cold as Burr’s hand was removed.  “If we must discuss this now, I will ensure we are not overheard.”

He heard Burr go out of the tent, and speak to someone in a low voice.  He took up the next sheet, his eyes flicking back and forth, absorbing information as quickly as he could and assembling it into a picture that began to make a kind of twisted, Burr-ish sense. 

Canvas flapped at his back, with another thread of chill air; Burr had returned.

“Aaron,” Hamilton said tiredly.  “Please tell me that to all the power and cunning that can be employed by an embittered executive, you do not intend to oppose mere legal chicanery?”

“Law is the bulwark of society, Hamilton; do I not recall reading some persuasive argument that its writ restrains even the power of the executive?”  Burr came up beside him and glanced at the papers to gauge how far through Hamilton had read.  “And it is better,” he continued seriously, “than that I oppose force of arms.  I had rather not see my country torn between you and Jefferson, and I will not have my sanction applied to events that I have not approved.”  

He moved around to the other side of the table and sat down.  His expression was earnest, his eyes black and intent on Hamilton's own. 

Hamilton felt stung out of his lassitude.  “Our country is torn already, due to the pusillanimity of our abominable executive.  These papers to which you attach such importance elucidate only what was already known; he has paid you much, and to this extremity he can only have been impelled by the belief that even more was endangered. By this admission we may be certain that Jefferson had determined that any inducements he could have made to motivate forces in his defence should have been insufficient to deter an advance on behalf of the popular will.  A word only, Burr - nay, only the first letter of a word - should have lifted you to greatness.”

“And branded both of us traitors, and candidates for removal by violence in our turn, having set the precedent.”  Burr pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, then shook his head and changed tack.  “Jefferson thinks to send me away from the places where policy is made, but consider how much I can accomplish in the west, with the authority granted by this agreement.”

“I am certain that Jefferson has already considered it, and that he has prepared already the means by which you shall be frustrated.”  He looked across at Burr, who was leaning a little forward, the candle on the table picking out flecks of amber in his mesmerising black eyes.  Hamilton’s momentary energy flickered and died into an empty ache.  “If there is any thing at which even his enemies can acknowledge he excels, it is in Jefferson's understanding of what levers will move a man.  You have taken his silver, General, and you will fall in the western fields that you seek to buy with it.”

Unbelievably, Burr’s lips twitched slightly, as though he were suppressing a smile.  “It is fortunate for me, then, that potters’ fields are so rare there.”  He sipped his wine; Hamilton ignored his own, his stomach roiling.  He had tried to kill this man, once, and that memory still hurt; like the discovery that Philip’s negotiations had ended, like the hand he had clasped with Laurens before Laurens had gone south. But he understood, now, that it would still have been better if he had succeeded.  A hook caught in his gut.  No, never that.  It would only have been better if Burr had.

“You know I do not kiss and betray,” Burr continued, good-humoured, and Hamilton closed his eyes, hating Burr, despising himself.

“The possibility will not be in question.”  Hamilton rose from his chair, forcing his back straight despite the ache in his belly.  “Our alliance must now terminate.  Send to me, in New York, when you are able, to tell me into whose hands I should place your affairs.”

Burr rose only a moment after him, drawing in his breath sharply and then putting his wrist to his mouth to stifle a fit of coughing.  Gone was the hint of a smile that had been playing around his lips, and Hamilton's sour satisfaction at this evidence of shock was agonisingly bittersweet.  The sooner he was away from here, the better.

“You must do as you feel in accordance with your conscience,” Burr said finally, carefully.  “Though I understand it not.” He paused.  “You may speak for yourself only,” he added with measured softness. “For it does not lie within your power to exile yourself from my affections.”

For a moment Hamilton was struck breathless, like a bullet to the abdomen.  He made himself turn away, feeling as though he was ripping something out of both of them.  He felt his eyes sting.

He walked out of the tent before Burr could guess at his tears.  He did not look back. 

Chapter Text

To Alexander Hamilton, New-York

Although this letter may be unwelcome - though it may stir feelings better left to time to appease - a presumption upon a long and intimate acquaintance cannot offend.  Our parting was unsatisfactory, I believe - hope - on your part as much as on mine, and you must know that your tranquility and welfare are so dear to me, that I should make any proper expedient to restore them.

I have mused greatly upon that evening.  You understand what good humour I was in, for you yourself were the prime cause of it.  My intention was that you should join me in gaiety; apprehending your distress, I thought - or felt, for I thought not - to raise your spirits by a species of contagion with my own.  I did not then see any urgency to explaining my actions in Washington's city, trusting to your knowledge of my character to assure you that my dealings with Mr Jefferson represented no intention, nor actuality, of any slight to our joint enterprise - least of all to my friend.  I apprehend now that in my haste to cheer you I was insufficiently solicitous of the causes of your displeasure - your unhappiness.  A better explanation of my decisions was owed, and I erred in not immediately seeing the necessity and providing for it.

For the rest I can say only that I am sorry and mortified that by any thing I have said or done I should have given you a moment’s pain.  If through inadvertence I should have conveyed any intent to trifle with our alliance or, worse, our affection - that intent is foreign to my heart.

On rereading this I am not satisfied, but can think of no better way to apologise.  The labour that you have had in reading, I must rely upon your recollection of past civilities to pardon 

Your friend,

A. Burr

***

To Matthew Davis, New-York

Truly I am become another Hermes, travelling hither and yon and rarely at my own desire!

The reasons for my return west are arduous to write, and must wait more leisure to explain.  However you may be certain my name will be in contention in 1808, if your industry be not wanting.  If there was doubt of Virginia before there is none now; we shall not have it, and we shall lose ground with the other southern states in addition.  New York must be secured.  Speak with Mr Jay and Mr King, for it is my belief that the Federalists can be swayed with or without the assistance of General Hamilton. 

On that subject, you must not permit any of our friends to make free with the Genl’s character nor to engage in an affair with him no matter the provocation.  Write to me of any news you think proper for me to know.

If you can obtain any word of Wilkinson, send that to me also, under cipher.

Affectionately yours,

A. Burr

***

To William P. Van Ness, New-York

I enclose a mystifying letter from Colonel Burr.  He goes west again, and yet expects to have New York in 1808!  How such a thing is to be accomplished I do not know, for Mr Clinton is undoubtedly to be nominated once more for Vice-President, having proven so gratifyingly accommodating to the administration, and if Mr De Witt Clinton shows such industry as before we shall find it difficult indeed to oppose without the force of our principal.

I am troubled by what is said of Genl. H.  He has more popularity among the people now than he did during the gubernatorial debacle, and if he is no longer a friend he will once more be an implacable foe.

Your H and obed. serv.

Matthew L. Davis

***

To Matthew Livingston Davis, New-York

I have had frequent opportunity to observe Genl. H lately, in awaiting the final jury verdict (there is cause to expect that W. will subsequently be indicted for perjury), and from his demeanour & irritability presume the rupture to which Col. Burr alludes to be serious.  In confidence, it is my opinion that any friend to the Col. would regard with relief a separation that proposes to be permanent.  The Genl. is by nature choleric and prone to unwise intrigues.  Nor do I think any poison that drips from his fangs will be permitted to work in the body public unopposed, for it is only Col. Burr’s presence that has in the past restrained his friends from his defence.

I am respectfully yr obed. h. serv.

W. Van Ness

PS I have just now been handed a letter in cipher from General Burr.  Its contents are of great interest.  I shall call upon you with it tomorrow morning.  Of Genl. H however he is silent, and I can only suppose some grievous argument between the two.  Do I dishonour our friend if I am glad that this time they are separated by the width of a continent, and not by ten paces?

***

Various newspapers, November 1806

MEXICO CELEBRATES A TRIUMPH FOR FREEDOM AND DEMOCRACY AS SPAIN AGREES TO WITHDRAW FROM THE MAJORITY OF ITS AMERICAN COLONIES

SOLDIERS MUSTER AT BAYOU PIERRE TO CRUSH SLAVE REVOLT

EMPEROR NAPOLEON INVADES SPAIN

***

The cold of the year was beginning to truly set in, but with the curtains pulled closed against the dark, and the fire burning so high she could hear its background roar almost over the tinkling of the piano, and the honeyed light of the candles, and the warmth of full bellies, the parlour was almost uncomfortably warm.

Eliza fanned her face a little with her hand and was grateful that this Thanksgiving was only an intimate dinner with friends, not the exhausting parties of previous years.  Not that she didn't enjoy the parties, but after the stresses and expenses of the trial, the desperate fundraising work for Isabella's new Orphan Asylum Society project, and her husband returning to war and coming back to her as brittle and flammable as kindling… a family celebration was easier.  On Angelica too, she reflected as she watched her daughter play a four-handed piece with the elder of the Troup sisters.  She was growing into a lovely woman, and with a small, familial group like this she would come out of the shell that she was increasingly retreating into, frustrated at a world that she couldn't make sense of.  But Louisa had inherited her parents’ sunny patience and tonight, Angelica was sparkling. 

“Do they mean it?”

Eliza came out of her pie-induced reverie and looked questioningly at Jannetje, who gave a subtle nod towards the other sofa where James and John were both leaning in towards a laughing Charlotte.  She considered her middle sons for a moment with a soft smile, feeling the indulgent pride (and obscure pain) of the toddling boys that she had carried on her hip slowly turning into men.

“I doubt it,” she decided.  “They are all so very young, though it will not do to tell them so.  Though I imagine we will have tears and tantrums and heartbreaks to weather nevertheless.”

“Oh, please no.” Jannetje rolled her eyes, laughing.  “I was so tired of my own by the time I married Bobby, if I had known I was only creating a reprise…”

“Surely you were not so inconstant?” Eliza protested, entertainingly shocked.

“Oh, most of the men in question never even knew I existed.  I am not sure that all of them did.  I read ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and cried over Mercutio for days .”

Eliza laughed a little.  “It was Arthurian romances for me.  I was hoping for my very own knight.”  Her gaze moved across the room, to where the soldier who had come to sweep her off her feet was standing near the fire, gesticulating to Troup.  It gave her a deep pleasure to see him forget, for a moment, his many disappointments.

“And speaking of knights…” she added as William and young Eliza burst into the parlour breathless and at top speed, ten-year-old William handicapped only a little by lugging a laughing Philip on his back.  “I think I'd best see young Philip to bed now, it will take time to get him settled from this.  Do you think you could organise everyone into a game?  Maybe Thus Says the Grand Seignior , something simple that Eliza can join in with?”

“I think Magic Music , since we have such good pianists,” Jannetje suggested as they both rose. 

“Angelica might…” Eliza hesitated, her desire to keep her daughter completely safe warring with her fear that her daughter's world was getting smaller and smaller.  “Keep an eye on her,” she said instead.  “If she does not seem to understand how to pace the music, ask Ham to speak to her.  He knows how to cheer her.”

Jannetje’s whole face pinched with concern, but though she drew in breath she let it out again without speaking.  Instead she just nodded, and gave a brief, sympathetic touch to Eliza's wrist as they separated to their different errands. 

Settling Pip took just as long as Eliza had anticipated.  She was backing slowly away from her third attempt at a goodnight kiss, hoping she would still be in time to join the revelry indicated by the speeding piano music and staccato bursts of laughter drifting faintly up from downstairs, when she backed into a warm body.  Wiry arms slid around her to steady her as she tottered for a moment. 

“I do apologise, my angel.  Angelica is coping remarkably, and it had occurred to me to wonder whether you needed reinforcements with Pip.”

She sighed, and pressed one hand to her speeding heart.  Then she nudged her husband with her hip and he obligingly drew them both back into the hall, pulling the door closed.  They both paused for a moment, listening. 

“I think we have safely escaped,” Hamilton murmured into her ear, his breath warm against her cheek.  One hand traced its way up her arm and splayed long fingers across hers, over her corseted breasts.

“Hamilton,” she whispered, matching his tone, “we have guests.”

“Our guests are well occupied and we do nothing that is improper, between a man and his second soul.  Turn around, my salvation, and permit me the pleasure of gazing upon your lovely face.”

She never could resist his blandishments.  Eliza turned in his embrace, smiling up at him; his sharp, handsome features were softened by the hint of a smile on his own lips.  He bent his head to press those lips to her own and her mouth opened a little against them, feeling the slight scratch of his stubble against her cheek, tasting the familiar salt of his skin.  She allowed herself to be pleasurably lost for a moment in the deep, almost violet hue of his eyes in the darkness of the corridor, and from the intensity of his gaze she knew he was losing himself just as deeply in her own black ones. 

Then suddenly he drew back and turned away from her, straightening his cuffs and his cravat unnecessarily with the twitchy energy she knew so well.

“My Hamilton?” she asked uncertainly.

“It is nothing.  I thought I heard a cry from Pip.  Go down and attend to our guests, my dear; I shall make sure for my own satisfaction that he is truly sleeping, then I shall join you.”

Slightly confused, Eliza took a step back, and then another, and then turned and delicately descended the stairs.  Entering the parlour, Jannetje whispered to her that John was meant to be dancing a waltz with Charlotte, and before long she had joined the rest of the room in laughter at his bemused dragging the girl up and down the room like a recalcitrant mule as the piano slowed to a dirge to indicate the inaccuracy of his guess.  At a familiar chuckle from behind her she turned her head to see Hamilton step away from the door.  He gave her a smile of greeting and came forward to link his arm in hers, and soon she had forgotten that the odd incident upstairs had ever occurred.

***

To Theodosia Alston, c/o Dolley Madison, Washington City 

You will have heard that this region has been in a constant ferment since the removal of Carondelet, but if such a fearsome army of rebellious blacks has truly gathered since the recent tumults, they have been unwilling to approach a group of well-armed, well-drilled men.  In truth the only thing that offers any real peril to my health is some fever from these infernal swamps.

However the place can scarcely be described as peaceful, unless it is the peace that Caesar brought to Uxellodunum - of which, if you know it not, you may read in the Commentaries on the Gallic War .  I believe Mr Madison has a copy - it is the final or near final volume - pray send me the passage when you find it.  The wretched spectacle of human heads thrust onto rude poles sickens me so that I can barely stomach food, for in a rotted skull there is nothing of black or white, but only pitiable humanity.  The main employment I have found for the men I brought with me is to form burial parties, and to protect the same from molestation.  Several times a day I repent bringing young Peter into such an unhealthy atmosphere, but only by example can I hope to convince the local authorities of the intellect and morals of negroes.  He is steadfast and goes about his duties without murmur; how that young man loves me!

My hopes of a quick resolution to this affair are dashed by the news of peace with Spain.  Not only is there a popular expectation that the army may now be freely employed to crush the rebels, but I can make no argument to expand military service to blacks when there is no enemy to fight.  Tant pis .  How convenient is an accommodating enemy!  How I must now labour to create alliances without one!  Still, if mari proceeds with our Mexican claims as I advise, there may still be something to be done here that is worthy of the name.

Write me of your health.  Resist any temptation to give in to prostration; you shall find that work, and particularly the continuance of the boy’s education, recovers any disorder of the nerves more swiftly than indolence.  If your spirits are intolerably low, try a vegetable diet.  An egg now and then will not prove harmful.

Adieu,

A. Burr

***

“General Hamilton!”

Hamilton looked up from the papers he was gathering together, and smiled as a familiar figure made his erratic way against the flow of people leaving the courtroom.  “Mr Pendleton!  I was ignorant, sir, of your presence in town.”

“A small matter of business.  Mrs Hamilton informed me that you were in court, so I thought I should come here to enjoy the close.  Your powers are undiminished, Ham; though I admit to feeling some sympathy for the opposing counsel.”

Hamilton felt a violent shiver run down his spine at the implied criticism.  “My words were within the limits to which the animadversions of judicial opponents upon each other may justifiably extend,” he said in a clipped tone as he tapped the sheaf of papers to align the edges, then placed them in his satchel.  “It is a fool that enters the arena of law without the expectation that he shall be vigorously opposed.”

Pendleton looked a little startled.  “No disrespect was intended, my dear sir,” he said apologetically, which only irritated Hamilton more.  He swung the satchel over his shoulder and picked up the legal texts he had used for reference.

“No offense was taken, I assure you,” he said as he knew he must.  He must do better.  Pendleton was a good friend.  “Will you dine with the family tonight?”

“Unfortunately I am already engaged,” Pendleton demurred, and Hamilton felt his irrational anger rise again.  His fingers tapped tensely at the edges of the books he was holding.  Why had Pendleton bothered to come here at all?

His question was answered in the very next second.  “General, I know you have been very busy; I wondered if you had seen this?”

Hamilton put his books down again to take the tattered broadside that Pendleton offered to him; clearly torn from some wall.

“BLACK PRINCE BURR!” the title screamed, and he felt his stomach sour.  He almost thrust the thing back at Pendleton without reading, in a wave of disgust.  But now that he had seen it, he needed to know.  He read on, feeling Pendleton waiting impatiently at his shoulder.  He wished the man wouldn’t breathe so intrusively.

He finished.  He looked again at the title.

And then he took the flimsy paper in both hands and tore it precisely lengthways.  It was not enough.  He pinned the two scraps together with his fingers and tore them again.  And again, and again, each time with as much geometric precision as he could manage, until finally the mass of fragments was too thick to tear and he could only shake them fastidiously from his fingers to litter the polished floorboards by his feet.  He took a small step, grinding a ragged, off-white scrap beneath his shining, black, buckled shoes.

He looked up.  Pendleton had backed away a step, his eyes wide.

“No blame or responsibility attaches to you,” Hamilton heard himself say distantly.  “The fault is mine that I did not anticipate this manoeuvre on the part of the enemies of emancipation.”  Of course they would claim that Burr would raise an army of rebellious slaves and march it on Washington.  The one thing the damned fool would not, in fact, do.

“Are you well, Mr Hamilton?” Pendleton asked cautiously.

“Quite well.”  Hamilton picked up his books again.  The stack teetered a little, and he realised that his hands were trembling with rage.  “This intelligence is quite interesting.  I must consider what is best to be done.  Please convey my regards to Mrs Pendleton; you must bring her to town on your next visit, and we shall make a party of it.”

He stalked out of the courtroom past his astonished friend, noticing only distantly the few loiterers who scurried to get out of his way.  In his mind, he was already planning his response.

Chapter Text

To William P. Van Ness, New-York

!

Yr obed. serv.

Matthew L. Davis

***

To Matthew L. Davis, New-York

I received your letter and its interesting enclosures just as I had sat down to write you something in a similar vein.  The General’s defence - if one can use the term - of Col Gen. Burr is as ill-judged as it is surprising.

Such volatility will certainly hurt Genl. H’s influence among potential electors, but his incautious partisanship could also harm our own cause.  Is it your opinion that we should approach Mr. King?  He may be able to wield influence in this matter.

Respectfully yr ob. h. st.

W. Van Ness

***

On the whole, Peter thought, he had preferred Louisiana in wartime, to its current supposed peace.

Even before the battle at Natchitoches, hustling up and down various semi-navigable rivers and rude animal trails between military camps, mansions, merchants and back again had been confusing and chaotic.  He remembered how he had almost wept with frustration at all the things master Burr had somehow expected him to know and do, as though his New York valet training had covered the making of campfires, rowing of canoes, or (thankfully only once) the proper greeting of a group of half-naked Indians.

This time, the hustling was largely from grand house to grand house, with interludes where master Burr left him behind while he visited newly-built military posts or, twice, burned-out plantations.  Lingering outside with the borrowed coach he encountered and re-encountered the slaves of other masters - coachmen, footmen, housemaids, even valets like himself - and developed his own circle of acquaintances in the shadow of his master’s.  People who whispered to him in corners and under cover of darkness; warnings not to gather in groups, not to move too confidently, of persons to avoid; or invited him to come to this place at this time, or to speak slanders against his master; all of whom looked almost panicked when they discovered that their masters and mistresses knew he could read.

He had thought he had been afraid in Mexico, or travelling north with Perkins’s detachment, or on master Clay’s plantation.  He had never known what it was to breathe air so thick and cloying with fear and rage and desperation that he thought he might choke on it.

The door to the house opened, shining a line of bright candlelight down the steps and over the cobbles.  A slender, straight-backed silhouette paused in the doorway to bow gracefully to someone unseen within, then master Burr donned his hat and descended to the drive, his steps slow and careful in the flickering lamplight.  A little inebriated, again, Peter diagnosed as he helped the coachman hurriedly tighten the harnesses on the horses and get them hitched back up.  He did not understand how master Burr could be so careless of his safety, as though he was unaware that he was the lightning rod through which all the anger and horror of this country was ready to discharge.

At least tonight master Burr did not want to go for a moonlit drive to some obscure location, or to dally with a woman in his carriage while Peter and the coachman kept a wary lookout for bandits.  Peter concealed a sigh of relief at the curt instruction to return straight to their host’s house, hoping that whatever odd mood was driving his master's erratic behaviour had burned itself out.  But when they arrived he realised that the reason was far more mundane; master Burr was slumped in the corner of the seat with his fingers gently pressed to his temples, his closed eyes looking sunken in the shadows.

“J'ai mal à la tête from that vile whiskey,” he muttered as he pushed himself upright, and leaned a little on Peter’s shoulder to balance himself as he got out of the coach.  “I am a fool to have drunk so much of it.  Help me to bed.”

Peter had abundant experience with master Burr’s headaches by now; after guiding him to his room, he discarded his clothes summarily onto the floor as he removed them, his only priority to get his master into his nightgown and lying down as quickly as possible.  He started to gather the clothes up to fold and store them properly, then glanced across at master Burr’s chalky face and the spiderweb of pain lines around his eyes, and thought better of it.  He hung up the vest and went out of the room to see if the household could offer any remedy.

It was some minutes before he returned, but he could tell that master Burr was still awake by his breathing, harsh and irregular with suppressed pain.  He glided to the bed, dipped his fingers in the dish he carried, and started anointing master Burr’s clammy forehead with the thin, pungent solution.

“Nom de nom!” Master Burr’s eyes flew open and he struck Peter’s hand away with enough force to bruise.  He pressed his other hand to his head as he sat up, gasping involuntarily as the movement pained him, and then he frowned a little and wiped the trickle away from his eyes, sniffing his wrist.  “What is this?” he asked, his voice a little blurry with either the whiskey or his illness.

“Vinegar and oil of mint, master,” Peter gasped out as he crawled on the floor to retrieve the dish.

Master Burr fell back to the pillow with a groan.  “I ask only for repose, yet I find myself instead dressed like lamb for the slaughter.”

Peter bit his tongue on the remark that the mint normally came after the slaughter. “It has given you relief in the past, master,” he pointed out instead.  “I know you have no appetite for food, but you must take something!”

“How pitiful is a sick man,” Burr muttered, “that even his servant refuses to obey him.  Take it away, Peter.  Fasting and sleep shall cure me, sans additional torment.”

That was not what his mother and grandmother had taught him, but master Burr was a formidably educated man.  Feeling a little mutinous, Peter quietly and hastily started tidying away his master’s remaining effects.

“Peter,” master Burr said, softly, a few moments later.

“Yes, master?” Peter responded just as softly, wary of aggravating his master's illness, or his temper, any further.

“Have you made friends, here, among the other blacks?”

“Master?”  Peter blinked.  Why would master Burr ask such a thing?  What kind of answer did he expect?

Master Burr grimaced, and Peter realised he had raised his voice.  

“It would be fortunate if you have.  I must find a way to speak with the rebels.”

“No!  Master, you cannot!”  Peter fell to his knees again, dropping the knee-buckles he had been holding onto the polished floor with a clang as he clutched his master's arm, ignoring the way master Burr groaned and flung his free hand across his eyes.  “You do not understand, they hate you!  They will kill you!” Us.

Master Burr swallowed, his throat working visibly, then let his elbow slip aside onto the pillow.  He opened his eyes and pushed himself up into a reclining position, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepening a little as he did.  The movement forced Peter to let go his master’s arm. “The authorities here,” master Burr said, his voice slightly slurred, “demand a massacre.  I have… a few allies, a few plans.  I need a way to communicate.” He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, looking directly at Peter. “I dispense no punishments for honesty, Peter.  If you think you can find no way to send a message, then tell me so plainly.  I will -” his voice faded slightly and he rubbed at his temples again “- find another approach.”

What other approach that might be, Peter could not imagine, and that worried him even more.

“I will try,” he said sturdily.  “I don't know… but I will try.”

“Good lad.”  Master Burr reached out and briefly tousled his head as though he were a child.  Then he slumped back down onto the pillow, resting his forearm over his eyes again.  Oil and white powder from his hair smeared the cotton under his head.  

Peter picked up the discarded buckles, retrieved the dish - he would have to clean the floorboards tomorrow, but mint was not the worst smell that could linger in a room - and padded soft-footedly out of the room, closing the door with the quietest click of the latch he could manage.

He had been hoping he would have time for a dalliance with one of the house servants.  Now… well, the delicate conversations he must navigate would be very different ones.  That was all.

Peter tried not to think about the fixed white grins on the decomposing heads that had stared down at him from the road side.  He tried not to think about bodies found burned red and black inside the ruins of their pretty houses.  He shoved away the memory of the ridged pink scars he had glimpsed striping the back of one of his new acquaintances.  He shivered slightly.  He was starting to feel a headache coming on himself. 

***

“Hammie, what is troubling you so much?”

It had been so long since Thanksgiving that they were almost to Christmas.  Troup knew his friend had been out of sorts on his return to New York, and that he had chafed irrationally at the unsatisfying collapse of the trial; apparently he had intended to make a political statement with Luther Martin’s closing speech.  (On reading the version that the pair had written for publication instead, he had employed all his powers of persuasion to convince them not to.  He didn’t know how many people would have had the stamina to read all the way to the close, but it would have been sufficient to do to Ham’s legal career what his other pamphlets had done to his political career).  He knew his friend had been busy.  But too busy for conversation?  Too busy for chess, and the theatre?  That was not like Hamilton.  So here he was, once again, in his friend’s offices at an unreasonable hour of the night, and worrying.

“What could possibly be troubling me, Bobby?” Hamilton responded.  “My country has rejected me entirely - even the Federalists no longer implore my advice - even though my most fertile years of genius were given to its service, at neglect of my family and personal fortune.  Now I have arrears to make up in service of my children, and winter denies me even that traditional refuge of a discarded politician, my garden.  And so I must labour.”  Hamilton did not look up as he wrote, his quill penning flowing inky lines entirely disconnected from his speech.

“The Mexican speculations may make you a wealthy man yet,” Troup said with gentle encouragement and a carefully roundabout approach to the topic he really wanted to ask about.

“Burr’s genius as a financier is as much overrated as his ability as a politician,” Hamilton responded in a clipped tone.  “If my debts are not magnified by my investment in his venture, it shall benefit me more than I currently have any expectation of.”

There was no roundabout response to that level of coldness.  “What has he done?” Troup asked straightforwardly instead, as gently as he dared.

“Nothing but what he has always done,” Hamilton said, still without looking up.  “His talents as a military man I do not disallow him, but greater than those are his talents at intrigue.  He has a facile charm and an appearance of candour that may to the unprepared mind disguise the shallowness of his thinking, but as a statesman he lacks a fixed theory and is blown by circumstance; nor has he the humility to accept guidance.  It would be better for the Federalist party to die in obscurity and the abandonment of an ungrateful populace, than to lend itself to the use of such a creature.”

And hadn't Troup heard all that before.  “I am surprised, then, that you should have penned such a pamphlet as you published earlier this month,” he said, cautiously, feeling his way.

“For God’s sake, Bobby!”  Hamilton threw down his pen and straightened in his chair, the blue of his eyes vivid in his flushing face.  “What is it to you what I publish?!”

Troup took an involuntary step back, raising his hands apologetically.  “You know I am with you, Ham!  Your ideas on the union, on slavery; our opinions have always moved in lockstep.  But Burr…” he hesitated, rethought.  “I sometimes struggle to know whether you are his friend or his enemy,” he said at last, honestly. 

“I am neither,” Hamilton snapped.  “I think not of him.  My own affairs occupy me to satiation.  If I have any interest in the politics of my country, it is such an interest as any man might take, who has ethics and principles and a desire to exist under a government to which such things are not unacceptable.  Is that a satisfactory answer to your curiosity, Bobby?”

Despite his best efforts to keep a diplomatic expression, Troup could feel his eyes widening with incredulous disbelief at the bare-faced lie.

“Hammie…” he began, very gently. 

“ What .” Hamilton erupted out of his chair, glaring, his lips pressed together so tightly they were almost bloodless.  “I have work to do here, Bob.  I have a family to care for and a fortune to restore, in the face of indifferent health and public ingratitude.  I do not have time to bandy words with a fat dilettante who gossips like a woman, about the detestable seductions practiced by your friend.”

That stung.  “Very well, Ham,” Troup said stiffly, hurt.  “I had only thought - no, never mind what I thought.  It has been a long time since we shared a college room.  But I had hoped we might still share confidences.”  He picked up his hat from the peg.  “You know your happiness is dearer to me than my own,” he added reproachfully as he turned to the door. 

His back turned, Troup did not see Hamilton lean slowly forward over the desk as he left, hands spread on the polished wood, his fingers white-knuckled and clawed in what might have been either fury or remorse.

***

Richmond Enquirer, January 1807

Mexican Conquests: Cui Bono?

As the Spanish retreat like whipped curs, leaving their oppressed people to breathe for the first time the clear airs of liberty, an interesting legal question has arisen around the lands invaded initially by General Burr.  His backers have argued, separately and as a multitude, that custom and law allocate these lands - among the most fertile and promising of Mexico - to the ownership of their joint enterprise.  However it cannot be forgotten that, having invaded the Spanish territories, Genl. Burr could not then hold them, but must needs be rescued by the decisive action of the President, under the courageous leadership of General Posey.  The army of the whole Union having been deployed to secure this territory, then, surely it must be the government’s to dispose.

However, a third question has arisen, with the recent arrival in Washington of a deputation from pro-tem President Hidalgo.  The Mexican state, now an independent entity, has given notice of its desire to stake its own claim to lands that, it argues, were illegally seized. 

This complex question of international law is now being argued in Washington by such luminaries as Mr Madison, Mr Martin of Maryland, and other lawyers and statesmen of profound learning and unimpeachable virtue.  However, conspicuously absent from the stage are both General Burr himself and his partner in the enterprise, General Hamilton.  If the former Secretary of the Treasury is now distancing himself from a speculation worth so many millions, that must surely deal a death-blow to those who had encouraged the illicit enterprise.

[...]

Chapter Text

Master Hertzog’s footman’s half-sister led Peter through the crude houses of the slave village on the strange plantation.  Everything was dark, except for one or two shuttered windows that leaked candlelight onto the path.  At this time of year the little gardens attached haphazardly to the houses were bare brown earth; his guide avoided them easily, but his own shoes were ruined from constantly setting foot where he should not.  She stopped at one hut that looked no different to the others, gave him a meaningful look, and then left.  Clearly, whatever happened from here, she wanted none of it.

He could hardly blame her.  Neither did he.

Nevertheless, he stepped forward and rapped quietly on the door.

“Who is there?” came a woman’s voice from inside, mature and authoritative.  He thought for a moment of Peggy, so many miles away in New York, and the familiarity gave him courage in a very unfamiliar situation.

“Mama Sylvie?  I’m Peter, slave to Master Burr.  I need your help.”

“Huh.  Of course you do.  Come in then, boy.”

Peter pushed on the door and was surprised to find that it swung easily, only sticking once.  He stepped into a room that was inadequately lit by a single guttering candle on a small side table; not large, and the floor was of packed dirt, but over it were flung woven mats, a patterned rug and various cushions.  Jars and bowls stood on several shelves, and the room was gently, and slightly unpleasantly, scented with herbs.  A dim recess to one side suggested a closet; a darker gap directly ahead must lead to where Mama Sylvie slept.

Mama Sylvie herself appeared to be a mulatto woman of something past middle age, now rising a little stiffly from where she had been sewing, crosslegged, by the light of that one candle.  Her dress was respectable, if patched, and the shawl over her shoulders looked warm.

She looked him up and down.  “So you’re the General’s boy.  Come here for a gris-gris, yes?  Protection?”

Peter wasn't entirely sure what a ‘gris-gris’ was, though he had seen that several of his acquaintances kept little red cloth bundles about their person. 

“I don't think so,” he said with careful politeness.  He considered.  “Almost the opposite, really.  I would… is there a way to send a message to the rebels, Mama Sylvie?”

She looked him up and down, the whites of her eyes bright as crescent moons in the dim light.  “He beats you?” she said, not unsympathetically.  “You need a way into Mexico?”

“No!” Peter denied hotly.  “Master Burr would never!”

“Huh.”  She sounded unconvinced.  “So what is it you want, boy?  Hurry up, I don't got all night.”

“I need to pass a message to the rebels for master Burr,” Peter said, finally, honestly, and all at once. 

“You want what ?  You got a white man general wants to talk to a bunch of angry Congoes and griffes that murdered good Creole families?  What's he gonna say, boy, ‘come be killed like good boys’?”

“No!” Peter denied again, almost trembling with the insult.  “Master Burr is a good man!  He wants to stop the killing!”

“Huh.” Mama Sylvie was still unimpressed, but she looked at him thoughtfully.  “Ain't no such thing as a good master, boy, but true, some’s worse than others.  He don't beat you?”

“Master Burr would never! ”

“He treat you good?  Pretty shoes you got there.”  She nodded to his feet and he flushed, knowing he was getting mud on her mats.

“Yes.  He had me taught to read.”

“He good enough you’d take a risk for him?  A real big one?”

Peter thought about where he was now, and about the Mexico campaign, and about waiting only a little north of here for several days on the strength of a scrap of paper scrawled on in blood, and started helplessly to laugh before he was able to get himself under control.  He nodded.

“And you’re Peter, named for the saint at the door of heaven, and you come on an errand that’s all over Papa Lébat.”

Mama Sylvie didn't seem to expect a response, which was just as well because he had no idea what she meant by any of that.

“Hah,” she said at last, as the moment of silence stretched.  “You come back here tomorrow, same time, and I'll tell you what's what.  Bring me a good candle, too, not one of these melted ends, and I'll make you a gris-gris.  One way or another, you're going to need it.”

***

To General Burr, Bayou Pierre

My dear Burr,

Your friends have had no word of you since you travelled again into the West - I have written letter after letter but all have gone unanswered.  I begin to fear that some savage deception or foul air has put an end forever to our correspondence, a mischance that you must know would blight forever my hopes of a happy retirement.

If you withhold out of delicacy for my friendship with General Hamilton, then I reproach you twice over, that you do not trust in the affection I hold for you.  I do not ask what has passed - I do not wish to know - H. has told me nothing.  Though if there is pity in your heart I would cry it on his behalf, for I believe he is truly unhappy.

I shall say no more, for I owe you reproaches enough on my own part.

I do not understand what vision it can be that calls you repeatedly to such lawless country.  An ignis fatuus, I deem it, that so distracts you from those who love you, and the places where your talents may be put to better use!  There is no purpose to running here and there, putting out fires; the vice of slavery in our country can only be overcome by the constant effort of men of weighty intellect; and alas for myself, mere weight alone does not suffice.

You must also pay heed to your business interests here, for too many great men have suffered from the late discovery that fame and honour cannot be exchanged for tobacco and sugar.  I hope that your delay does not indicate that you have been seduced into some new and unwise speculation that handsomely repays all your efforts to be poor.  I have an interest in an event of this nature which perhaps you have forgotten, for I have often said that your friends would be obliged to bury you at their own expense. 

Write to me soon.  God bless you.

Yours affectionately,

Rob Troup

***

Having lately written my will, and given my private letters and papers in charge to you, I have no other direction to give you on the subject but to request you to burn all such as, if by accident made public, would injure any person. This is more particularly applicable to the letters of my female correspondents.

I am indebted to you, my dearest Theodosia, for a very great portion of the happiness which I have enjoyed in this life. You have completely satisfied all that my heart and affections had hoped or even wished. With a little more perseverance, determination, and industry, you will obtain all that my ambition or vanity had fondly imagined. Let your son have occasion to be proud that he had a mother. Adieu. Adieu.

A. Burr

***

Burr stood quietly by the pool, considering the possibility that the negroes infesting these damp woods simply intended for the foul night miasmas to save them some trouble.  At least, at this time of year, the biting insects were mostly quiet.

The greater probability, of course, was that they were simply intending to slit his throat as he stood here like a blockhead, alone and vulnerable.

But it was his experience that men were not, by nature, disposed to murder in cold blood, whatever they might do as a rabble once aroused.  He had brought no pistol but he had his sword, which would prove an inducement to caution; and he had the lure of curiosity.  With every advantage over him, they believed, these ringleaders of the revolt would want to know why he had sought them out.  Once he had them talking, he would likely be safe.

The light of the moon filtered through the thin clouds, rendering everything in shades of dark grey and black.  Odd blobs of colour blotted his vision as his eyes struggled with the darkness.  He remembered seeing the same as he had filtered soft-footed through the woods towards the picket-guards at Hackensack; at the time he had attributed it to fatigue, but tonight, twenty years later, he felt well-rested and alert.

He heard them before he saw them.  They might be living in these woods, but Kentucky woodsmen they were not, and the sound of a human was not quite like the sound of a squirrel.  He ignored the noises as the occasional faint rustles moved a little to the left, and right, and briefly behind - although his back itched.  It was only when they apparently regrouped and began to approach again that he turned towards them.  “Gentlemen,” he greeted them.  And then, only a little belatedly, “Ma’am.”

The figures that emerged from the woods - a woman and three men, their dress plain, as far as he could see, though not ragged - clumped together a little, nervous and distrusting.  He was glad he had not held his hand out to shake.  It would have been refused, and he needed every edge.  He bent his head courteously instead, then waited.

“You really General Burr?” one of the men asked with accusatory disbelief in his voice.  “Out here in the bayou all on your lonesome?”

“Is there some reason I should not be safe here?” Burr parried calmly.  “Shall we proceed to introductions?”  He raised one eyebrow pointedly.

“You don’t need our names,” the woman spat.

“It will certainly puzzle me to address you without them.”  It was hardly surprising that they were afraid.  Their compatriots’ heads being used as pole ornaments was not a sight to encourage rational cogitation.  “I am Brigadier-General Aaron Burr.  I have been asked to put an end to all this trouble, and that I intend to accomplish.  I should prefer to do so without turning the river red with gore; that is a decision it is within your capacity to influence.

“I believe it is possible to procure your freedom, though it will not be in this county.  I have already put some effort into the preparation.”

He could see them react, though in this dim light, on their dark skin, it was difficult to tell hope from disbelief.  However he did not stop there; they must know the whole. 

“There are some among you that are murderers.  You must perceive the necessity of punishment.”

Two of the men stepped towards him.  The third - he was not certain, but he thought he saw him clenching and unclenching his fists.  He lifted his chin slightly.  “There are women dead, and children,” he said flatly.  “Their blood must have answer.”

“And what about our children?” The woman did not seem to move.  “Who pays for them, master Brigadier-General Burr?”  Her voice was mocking.  “Who’s gonna hang for killing Congo children, even though most of the time they’re griffes?  Who cares what a white master does to a black woman?”

An image flashed before his eyes of his own little Louisa Charlotte, so witty and lively; of stubborn, toddling John Pierre.  Both now almost grown, of course.  It reminded him that he was behindhand in his correspondence again.  He tucked the thought away for consideration later; it would not serve him now.

“Who will champion that cause if you are all of you dead?” he asked reasonably.  “Vengeance will not reverse you to times that have passed.  Nor will you overturn the machinery of oppression by bringing its full fury down upon the heads of all your fellows.  I have told you what I will do for you.  Your choice, you must perceive, lies only between that and a futile sacrifice of all your lives.”

The woman scoffed.  One of the men looked hesitant.  They would talk to him a little longer, at least, Burr judged.  And he would - if he were not too unwise - depart unharmed.

That would be enough.  He listened, but he could not hear any other rustlings or snappings in the woods behind him; he hoped that was merely a sign of the skills of the Kentucky hunters and trappers he had hired on his way south again.  If he, who expected their approach, could not hear them, then neither would these raw farmhands they were to follow.  The blacks might refuse to give up their vengeance, but they would give up the location of the camp where even now their fellows doubtless slept, unsuspecting; vulnerable to a quick, decisive action.

He declined to be used in the way that, it seemed, Jefferson had intended to use him.   Neither butchery nor failure should attach to his name.  But one way or another, these violent events must have an end.

Chapter Text

Au Président Hidalgo y Costilla, Ciudad de México

Mon cher Président Hidalgo,

Je vous félicitez pour votre libération, et pour votre élévation personnel.

Vous vous souvenez peut-être nos discussions sur le défi singulier du nord de votre pays, nommé parfois provincia de Texas…

[...]

Veuillez accepter, mon ami, mes salutations distinguées,

A. Burr

***

There is a lady here, Burr wrote, the usually sharp slant of his letters a little hasty and formless, though the light slanting in through the wide windows was bright and sunny.  A handsome Negress of sixty or seventy years of age, who was born a slave and yet is now a respectable woman who transacts business on her own behalf.  Despite the present unrest, the nuptials for her daughter, a handsome girl of sixteen, are proceeding with all ceremony - the girl, though mulatto, is to be wed to one of the foremost families of Bayou Pierre.

Theodosia enjoyed such tidbits of gossip, the workings of the wider world beyond South Carolina. 

I have persuaded the lady to invest in the project I wrote of previously.  I can wait no longer upon news, but proceed on the assurance of victory.  

He could hear, faintly, the movements of men and horses, the crunch of wheels on gravel around the corner of the house as the carriage was brought around.  A moment later, Peter's familiar light step sounded on the stairs. 

He should not have had that dish of tea earlier; he felt a little feverish, and his stomach was uneasy.  But he must and would go out, or who knew what mischief might arise.

A part is to be enacted today.  I go now to see what transpires, though much against my inclination.  My health continues well. 

A. Burr

He addressed the envelope quickly and stood as Peter entered.

“The carriage is ready, I assume?”

“Yes, master.”  The boy looked a little pale, but showed no other signs of disturbance.  In a few years he would make an excellent valet for Gampy, though it would be hard to part with him.

“Very well.”  Burr handed him the letter.  “While I am occupied, there should be time sufficient for you to seek out the post master.”  Peter looked a little startled, but Burr continued.  “I am out of sorts and my temper begins to suffer; I must also rely on you to find me some muse .  You know my preferences; but anything so long as she is not owned by some local person.”

“Yes, master,” was all that Peter said, although his eyes were as round as saucers as he helped Burr into his coat and buttoned up the front with nimble young fingers. 

“I shall not require any dinner; I must go out again tonight.”

“Yes, master Burr,” the boy said again, though this time in a mutinous tone.  Burr supposed that later he would find himself presented with some supposed nostrum, and be forced to swallow it before he could leave. 

“Come, then.”

The carriage dropped him at the edge of the cluster of rude buildings that served as a centre of administration, of sorts, for the scattered farms and plantations.  Twenty years ago, Burr suspected, it had not been here; in another twenty it would be a thriving town, so fast was the west expanding.  He thumped the carriage door and it rattled off again with his servant inside as he walked towards the crowds of people gathered in the cleared space to one side.  Hanging over half of the field was a festival air; men, and even a few women, well-dressed in fashions five years old, mingling and chatting with a kind of febrile animation.  Fair and occasionally mulatto complexions were defended with wide-brimmed hats from the midday sun, powerful in these latitudes even in its winter pallor.

On the other side of the field the same sun shone on faces and backs of all the colours and shades of brown, from early wheat to charcoal.  Ragged, shackled and mutinous; a mass of embers, surging against the thin line of armed guards.  A few men, well segregated, were surrounded much more securely, with heavy chains linking their cuffs to their collars.  Burr assured himself of their containment with one glance, then walked towards the planters.  Among the crowd was a small number of Caddo Indians; a few of them broke off their conversations to look at him, and he thought once again that he must make time, later, to explore their village.

Today, however, he had other business.

The crowd made way as he moved unerringly towards the judge.  He had insisted on a judge.  He had insisted that there had been a trial, of sorts, though the enslaved had no right to one under the law.  That must and would change; but at least, for now, the local personages were willing to indulge the invader of Mexico and the captor of their rebels in his eccentricities.

“General Burr,” the judge greeted him, a little grudgingly.

“Judge,” Burr responded courteously.  “I assume all arrangements have been put in order.”

“To my knowledge.”

“Then let us not linger over this disagreeable business.  Shall you ask the ladies to withdraw?”

The judge looked at him as though he were insane.  “For the death of a few slaves?  I do not know how you do things in New York, but you should make a great many enemies among our wives and mothers here if you suggested any such thing!”

The separately shackled men were being led to where two carts were drawn up under the trees.  Burr glanced around the crowd, its festive mood undiminished.  He swallowed against a sudden spasming of his stomach.  He must have Theodosia send him some of her South Carolina tea; the poorly-stored leaf he had bought locally was clearly injurious to his digestion.

“Show me how you conduct your justice, then, sir,” he said coldly, and stepped to the head of the crowd.

He looked into the faces of each of these six men, unflinching.  These men had killed women, and children.  These men, and not others who had a similar colour, or had worked on the same plantations.  He had made sure of it.

(He had also heard the testimonies as to why.)

He looked back at one in the middle, held his gaze as the rough hemp was placed around his neck and the knot pulled tight under his ear.  As the judge gave the word and the wagons were driven away.  As the man staggered on the moving planks and then stumbled from the tailboard, dropping a short couple of feet that weren't enough to break his neck.  As the rope arrested him with a jerk and he squirmed, and gaped, and choked against the squeezing of his throat.  As his eyes widened in panic and disbelief, and then slowly closed again, his face becoming congested as his struggles became erratic, then weak, and finally ceased entirely.  As his head lolled slightly to one side and his body hung limp, swaying a little.

Time passed.

Burr flipped open his watch, then closed it again.  “Cut them down,” he instructed coolly, ignoring the muttering of the crowd behind him.  He turned and walked towards the captive blacks, some glaring at him furiously, others slumped in misery.  Several were weeping.  He scanned the group until he found those who had rejected his recommendation, what seemed now like a very long time before.  He held his head high before their glares for a long moment before turning away.

“Who claims these slaves?”

***

Van Ness watched as Hamilton stepped sharply out from behind the prosecution table, and proceeded briskly across the court to lay a paper on the polished wood in front of the clerk. “I have to offer, sir,” he said, turning back to the defence table, “a letter from a Mr Donaldson, which was called for yesterday.”

The opposition counsel walked over and picked it up.  “This is only an extract,” he complained.

“There is no other,” Hamilton said flatly, his face all hard planes, his mouth set in a thin line above the incongruous frill of his lace cravat. 

The other lawyer handed the paper back to him. “We take no extracts.”

“Unless they be of molasses,” Hamilton returned nastily, alluding to his opponent's rumoured drinking habits.  The crowd laughed, enjoying the spat, but Van Ness, watching from his privileged position before the bar, winced.  Hamilton's finesse at law was if anything greater than ever, but in these last few months it had been paired with a viciousness he had not seen since the end of the LeGuen case.  He wondered whether the once-leader of the Federalists had noticed that he was no longer receiving many social visits or invitations.  If he carried on like this, he was likely to invite himself a ‘dressing’ from one of the gentlemen he had insulted.

Van Ness should probably say something of the General's behaviour in his next letter to Burr.  He suspected that this was exactly the kind of news that Burr had had in mind, when he had told Davis to keep him informed. 

“If the force of my learned friend's understanding be not overestimated,” Hamilton began snidely, turning sharply with his heels clicking on the floor as he continued to argue for the inclusion of his extract as evidence, and Van Ness winced again.  With this sort of behaviour, and his ill-judged writings, it would not take Hamilton long to lose all the goodwill that he had gained in the last two years, and fracture the Federalists without any assistance from Jefferson or Clinton.

He was not sure what that might mean for his own faction.  On the one hand, they might gain support from former Federalists, and from moderate Democratic-Republicans who no longer felt they needed to toe Jefferson's party line after the Federalist threat collapsed.  On the other hand, the trial, and the rescue of Washington city, had linked Hamilton's and Burr’s names inextricably together; if Hamilton was really determined to fall from grace, he might drag Burr down with him.  How to act was a decision that only their chieftain could make.

The difficulty was…

Van Ness watched Hamilton stalk back and forth across the floor, gesticulating; finely dressed, hair whitened to near blond with a thick layer of powder, he looked every inch the consummate gentleman.  He always did.  He had played the gentleman and friend, sociable and erudite, while he had shredded Burr’s reputation behind his back.  He had looked just as neat standing with a smoking pistol in his hand while Van Ness shouted for a doctor and struggled to prop up his dazed, bleeding friend.

Burr was no fool.  He was as clever and insightful a man as Van Ness had ever known.  And yet he had been fooled by Hamilton's friendship, over and over again.

Hamilton whirled, the tails of his coat whipping out behind him, and returned to sit very precisely behind the prosecution desk.

Van Ness would consult with Davis.  There must be a way to solicit Burr’s strategic advice without endangering the current precious disconnection.  He just needed to find the right way to phrase his intelligence.  And as a pointed intervention from the judge recalled him to proceedings, he reflected that that diplomatic phrasing should probably be the exact reverse of whatever Hamilton had just said.

***

The pungency of perfume and sex still lingered in the air of master Burr’s chamber, though Peter had opened the window to air it the moment master Burr had gone out.  A half-finished letter on the desk attested to his hurry; he had been wearing himself to the bone, travelling constantly between plantations and preparing paper after paper regarding some urgent matter of business.  The necessity that he should always look at his best while doing so had kept Peter almost as busy, which was probably a blessing. 

Since the executions, he was no longer sure where he stood within his circle.  Some people he had considered friends were now giving him the cold shoulder, while others looked at him more favourably; he didn’t know whether they knew he had been involved in setting up the fateful meeting, or whether they were just assuming he had known his master’s business.

Master Burr had prevented a massacre.  Peter was sure of that.  He had heard what the other masters had been saying, what the other slaves had feared.  But because of what he had done, six men had died.  Men and women had been injured.  People had been returned to angry masters, and he was under no illusions about what that would mean, down here.

There was no sense dwelling on it, he told himself, swallowing down the feeling of sickness, as he knew his master would. Peter made himself turn to his work as a distraction.  Before he began, he laid a bit of scrap paper over master Burr’s letter to protect it from dust or accidental smudges.  In doing so he noticed that it was addressed to Governor Claiborne.  Curiosity rose within him; he badly needed to know the governor's reaction to his master’s proposals.  But he sternly shoved down against the urge to read further.  It was dishonourable - and besides, he had no skill at dissembling.  Not knowing was an itch, but master Burr catching him in such a detestable offence would be rather worse.  Instead he could use his brain, and make guesses; if master Burr were writing to the governor again, it must mean he was having difficulty persuading him to issue the orders he wanted, the ones to improve the lives of field slaves.  Peter shivered.  Those changes had to go through.  They had to.

There was nothing he could do about it.  He forced himself to turn to the wardrobe.  He had hoped to get through this journey without the necessity of cleaning his master's suits, especially as the methods and materials they used here were not the same as he had learned in New York.  For a moment he felt desperately homesick for the familiar city, where everything he might need was close and convenient, and not strange and requiring travel through miles of perilous wilderness.  He swallowed and opened the door to start examining the clothes.

The blue waistcoat looked in good condition, but on a closer examination he could see a couple of spots that darkened the colour and changed the shine, and if he could see that then so would master Burr.  He lifted it out and put it aside.

The black… had he been careless when putting away the black?  It felt a little lumpy, as if something had gotten caught up inside.  He lifted it out and shook it and a small object clattered to the ground.  Putting the waistcoat carefully on the bed, Peter crouched down to pick up the object.  A cross?  He carried it to the window.  Yes, a simple wooden cross, blacked with something that came off easily and smudged his fingers.  What was such a thing doing in master Burr’s clothes?  Had he maybe been given it by a child?  Though how Peter himself had missed it when undressing his master…

He shrugged and put it aside.  It couldn't be important.

***

Th: J to Mr Madison

I observe that despite the clarity & rationality of your argument the court seems set against the best interests of our government & our people no doubt due to the personal malignance of Mr Marshall.  no blame can attach to you & I continue to repose my complete confidence in your efforts.  but only chaos and confusion can be the result if a private citizen with motives the most questionable is permitted to profit from an invasion I still consider to have been most illegitimate in nature.  if the verdict is truly in doubt i am disposed to believe it may be better to lose the territory entirely than to permit it to fall to Burr.  under this dilemma, and at this stage of the business, how should we best advise the senate?  I ask a meeting at 11 o’clock tomorrow to consult on this question.

Chapter Text

To General Burr, Bayou Pierre

Honoured master,

I have received your letter of the 14th inst., and it gives us great happiness to hear that you are in good health, especially as the papers say you are sick, or slain, or marching armies and we cannot tell what to believe. I was taken sick on the 30th of last month, so that I have not been able to carry out my duties; but the woman came here the 7th of this month for the money, and I told Nancy to go to Mrs. Green, and she gave it.  I am better now, and have returned to doing the family accounts, and they will be all caught up soon.

I wish to ask, master, if it would be all right to include a few lines to Peter, to reassure him of the family's health and ask after his?  There is scrap paper I can use and it will cost nothing and take no time from my work.

Mrs. Green’s baby is doing well and they have called him after his father. 

Peggy

***

Burr considered the contracts spread on the table before him.  The addition of this consortium complicated the situation of the Mexican lands, but he had composed the original wording carefully to avoid a conflict of responsibilities with his original shareholders.  The various amendments that had been suggested, mainly to the payment terms, would not change that.

It simply had not been possible to merely add the captured slaves to his family.  He might have had legal title to those who were masterless as a result of the deaths of white families, but he had not the ready means to outfit or support them; and the local planters had made clear that they would not tolerate an inexperienced outsider, even a respected military disciplinarian, taking possession of so many men they still regarded as dangerous beasts.  And then there were those whose situation was complicated by unclear lines of inheritance, and those who were runaways and remained the valuable property of those they had run from.  Hence this complex web of sales, loans, exchanges and investments.

He had - or soon would have - lands that needed labour, and labourers who needed to be removed from where they were.  Once he had realised that, the rest had been merely a matter of finding the right levers.  By the time he needed to make repayments, he would be as wealthy as any southern slaveholder.

“General Burr?” He glanced up to meet the enquiring gaze of Mr Prud’homme.  A number of the other planters and their wives had also drifted into the doorway of this office; more than had been here when he first arrived.  He had been reading through these papers for longer than he thought.

It would be an unpardonable impolitesse to delay the celebratory dinner.

A. Burr

February 5th, 1807

He signed each contract with an appropriate solemnity, fanning the papers at the end to ensure he had missed nothing.  Then he stood.  Mr Prud’homme furnished him with a full glass, and he raised it.  “To prosperity and peace.”

“Prosperity and peace,” his new business partners agreed, looking satisfied. They all drank.

Tomorrow, he would arrange for the boats and supplies; tomorrow, he must write to John Jay with his observations about the institution of slavery here, and the particular obstacles that must be overcome in order to avoid violence and poverty in its dismantling.

For now, he courteously offered his arm to the elderly lady by the door, and walked in to dinner.

***

The Constitution Reconsidered

An exposure of the falsity of the legal and constitutional justifications claimed in defence of the institution of slavery

It was a thing hardly to be expected that in a popular revolution the minds of men should stop at that happy mean which marks the salutary boundary between power and privilege.  It was conversely inevitable that, in the phrenzy to establish a general government with sufficient potency to unite a clamorous multitude of individual states, decisions would be deemed necessary that experience proved to be less visionary than expedient.  Such a reluctant expedience is the enslavement of the negro race.

The character and talents of the negroes; the moral ills of their enslavement; and the cavilling excuses of economics and practical obstructions, have all been defeated with a superfluity of exactitude in a previous essay, and it would insult the intellect of my readers, in proportion to how much it would trouble my critics, to retread once again the same ground.  However the latest objections presented, are founded on a general denial of the authority of the Federal government to pronounce upon the legislation of the State Governments, and these doctrines, being pernicious beyond their present application, must be contradicted fully.

The first question, with which the proponents of enslavement have hesitated to thoroughly engage, is that of whether enslaved blacks are property or men.  It has been argued, with laudable consistency, that every time it is convenient that they be considered property, they are property; but every time it is convenient that they are men, they are men.  This duality of definition is instantiated in its most Platonic and corrupting form within the very first article of our Constitution, in which slaves are considered men enough to justify representation, and in the same breath insufficiently men for their interests to manifestly be represented. 

Yet at this primary juncture already the cause is betrayed, for in the states of New York and Pennsylvania no bar is made to the suffrage of negroes; if not enslaved they are considered men, and enfranchised on the same ground as any man, whose personal worth merits such a trust.  Slaves are, then, men, and I flatter myself that this is a statement which even those of an opposite persuasion will not dispute, for it has been put forth repeatedly by those most ardent in defence of the institution that slaves are men and property both.

We arrive, therefore, at a happy agreement that slaves are men, whatsoever else they may be.  This granted, the fundamental source of all the errors, sophisms and false reasonings laid before the good judgement of the American people is an ignorance of the natural rights of mankind.  Once acquainted with these, it becomes an impossibility to entertain a thought, that all men are not, by nature, entitled to a parity of privileges.  Our soaring nation was founded upon the conviction that natural liberty is a gift of the beneficent Creator to the whole human race, and that civil liberty is founded in that; and cannot be wrested from any people, without the most manifest violation of justice.  The sacred rights of mankind are not to be rummaged for, among old parchments, or musty records. They are written, as with a sun beam, in the whole volume of human nature, by the hand of the divinity itself; and can never be erased or obscured by mortal power. Civil liberty, is only natural liberty, modified and secured by the sanctions of civil society. It is not a thing, in its own nature, precarious and dependent on human will and caprice; but is conformable to the constitution of man, as well as necessary to the well-being of society.  It will therefore be incumbent upon those, who may incline to deny it, to show that a rule which in the general system of things is essential to the preservation of the essential rights of humanity is not vested within the United States Government to legislate.

The fabric of American empire rests on the solid basis of the consent of the people. The streams of state power flow immediately from that pure, original fountain of all legitimate authority.  It is not, then, the national Government, but the local that severs and pollutes the foundation of its authority when it rests it upon the bodies of a people to whom it simultaneously refuses consent to that authority…

[...]

Alexander Hamilton

***

To Luther Martin, Baltimore, Maryland

Although your letter was a bitter blow, I exhort you not to be so downhearted as you expressed yourself to me; you had given me no false hopes of a better outcome.  I cannot imagine that my own presence would have made a speck of difference - I could have asked for no more loyal or diligent friend - if there was any failing it was in the sinews of the law to serve our purpose.

All is not as lost as you may suppose.  I have received communications from friends in Mexico - you know who I mean - suggesting that there may still be something to be done in that line, encouraging enough that I have anticipated the gift by a little.  It is true that I must submit to the necessity of all my slaves becoming free immediately upon crossing the border, which I anticipate furnishing me with some small difficulty; but I console myself that it provides an unassailable bulwark against any breach of promise, should future events deliver the enterprise into another’s guiding hand. 

I do not yet know when I will be able to return north, but I intend to include Maryland on my pilgrimage.  I have promised myself the indulgence of a visit with you.  God bless you and keep you! 

Adieu

A. Burr

***

It was spring again, already.  The seasons turned so quickly these days; events spiralling ever more quickly out of control and into chaos. 

Hamilton sat on a bench in the bright spring sun, watching the petals fall from the magnolia tree.  Nearby, Eliza and Angelica were carefully picking the delicate yellow flowers of the little cushions of primroses that grew at the edges of the flower borders, for use in some perfume or lotion.  The younger children were receiving their lessons in the garden, so as not to miss out on the natural benefits of this beautiful April day.

It quieted his soul to watch them, the one unalloyed good he had brought into the world.  The one legacy he had confidence would outlast him. 

He shifted a little on the bench, trying to find a comfortable enough position to let him doze.  He did not like this increasing need for rest, at a time when he needed all his energies to work at both increasing his fortunes and opposing Jefferson’s ruinous politics.  If it wasn’t the encouragement of slavery, it was the mismanagement of what ought to be a close friendship with Britain.  He wished he had more information than rumours.  He wished… he wished he could trust the country to an authoritative and competent executive, and spend more of his time here in the garden he had made, with his family.  The sun was blinding in flashes as the leaves danced in a slight breeze, and he closed his eyes against it, listening to young William stumble slightly over his recitation…

Something hit him in the shoulder and he jolted suddenly awake, flailing at his unseen attacker.  A moment later his senses cleared and he picked up a little rag ball from his lap, lips twitching slightly as he put the discovery together with the sight of two of his children running in his direction across the grass.  Apparently he had slept through the end of lessons.

He tucked the ball behind him and busied himself with wiping his handkerchief across his lips, finding with some relief that he had not drooled in his sleep.

“Papa?” William had apparently been nominated as the diplomatic envoy.  “Have you seen our ball?”

“I have not,” he lied easily.  And then, assuming an air of sternness, “Have you not been taking care of your possessions, William?”

William’s eyes widened and he stammered an apology, as Eliza searched the long grass around the edges of the bench and peered into the flowerbeds, obediently avoiding stepping onto the earth - at least while under her father’s eye.  Hamilton waited until the two children had given up and, chastened and dejected, got almost out of the dappled shadow cast by the tree, before he retrieved the ball and threw it after them.  It struck William directly in the buttocks, and Hamilton laughed delightedly at the unexpected accuracy of his aim; and then harder at the reproach in his son's expression as the boy whipped around, rubbing at the affected area.  He pressed one hand against his side as the vibration made his belly hurt.

“Mr Hamilton?”

At the unexpected voice from behind, Hamilton managed to get his amusement under control.  He half-turned, and then stood up as quickly as he could.  “My dear Dr Hosack,” he said as he reached out both hands to welcome his friend.  “Have my overtaxed faculties been unequal to the task of recalling an appointment?”

“No, no,” Hosack said reassuringly.  “I was in the country, and thought perhaps you should not take it as an imposition if I were to visit you at home.”

“I should be a poor creature indeed if I ever viewed your arrival as an imposition.  Let us go somewhere a little more peaceful” - Hamilton turned his eye upon his openly curious children, who took the hint and ran off with their toy - “I should like to show you my latest acquisitions; although my gardens are greatly inferior to your own, I have taken inspiration for my own endeavours at cultivation.”

Hamilton led Hosack beneath the magnolia and past the eucalyptus, butterflies dancing unpredictably before them as they strolled.

“You have almost the germ of a botanical garden here yourself,” Hosack commented gratifyingly, “although I hope it has cost you rather less than those at Elgin have cost me.”

Hamilton chuckled as he lowered himself stiffly to a decorative bench that would have an excellent view of the raised beds once the current unimpressive twigs were grown.  “I cannot think that my entire country establishment can approach, in purely pecuniary terms, the magnificence of your botanical gardens.  I still think it a delicacy wasted upon the general mob.”

“Well, perhaps.”  Hosack frowned a little as he looked down at Hamilton.  “Does your stomach pain you?”

“Not unmanageably so.”

“And have you found any improvement in the ease of your bowel movements with the new treatment?”

“A little.” Hamilton met his friend's level gaze.  “I am not insensible that my accustomed ailments are worse now than I suffered previously,” he said, lowering his voice a little, “nor that the newest symptoms are such as often portend an accelerating deterioration in health.  I have said nothing to Eliza.”

Hosack let out his breath in a kind of relief.  “May I then ask you a few questions, Ham?  As your physician and your friend?”

“I take it as no impertinence.  I will endeavour to answer you satisfactorily.”  Hamilton crossed his ankles, his fingers tapping against his thigh as he watched Hosack’s face.

His friend would have made an excellent lawyer.  His expression gave nothing away as he digested the details that Hamilton provided.  It did not have to.  Hamilton had chosen to build a free nation rather than becoming a doctor on a miserable, backward island; but he had studied medicine once, and he numbered Ned Stevens among his close friends.  His understanding was sufficient to draw the obvious conclusion.

“You do not hold out great hopes for my longevity,” he stated baldly as Hosack paused contemplatively, saving his friend the necessity.  He continued, gentling his tone a little.  “If that is the direction in which your cogitations trend, my friend, then they but parallel my own.  I have never perceived that this world had any great use for me.  Indeed, I have perhaps already outlived my serviceability in the eyes of my countrymen.”  The softening of Hosack's expression was all the confirmation that he needed. 

From somewhere behind him came a childish shriek, and he closed his eyes, feeling his composure break.  “How shall my family fare without me?  My poor Eliza.  And I am never to see my daughters wedded…”  He felt tears prickling at his eyelids.  “If this is a punishment upon me then I must accept it as mere justice, but not that my innocent family must suffer the executioner's lot alongside.”

“Ham.” Hosack's voice was brisk but not unsympathetic, and Hamilton felt a strengthening hand on his shoulder.  “God knows I disapprove of some of the things you have done, but I am not aware that you have done so badly that you deserve to be struck down for it.  This is misfortune, nothing more.  In my estimation you still have many months before you; and who knows but that there may yet be a miracle in that time?  I have thought patients doomed before, who are still walking about this earth.”

“Such as Colonel Burr.”  Hamilton did not know why he had said that.  He sat up straighter and pulled out his handkerchief to briskly remove the traces of tears from his face. 

“I am not touching that with a barge pole,” Hosack said with a hint of dry humour.  He gave Hamilton's shoulder a last squeeze and then released it.  “Do you need a moment alone?”

“No, I will go in with you.”  Suddenly unable to sit still, Hamilton stood and fussily adjusted his cuffs.  “You must not tell Eliza yet.  I wish her to have hope for as long as possible.”

“Of course.  But if I might presume to advise, it would be as well to tell your family and friends before the end.”

“I will consider it.”  Some of his friends, of course, were too far away to easily tell.  In some cases that was so much the better.  “You will stay to dinner, of course?”

“I should like that very much.  Will the children be dining with us?”

Grasping at inconsequentialities to talk about, they returned to the house.  Eliza, gently herding the children together, smiled across at them as they passed.  Seeing her simple delight in being with her family on this warm spring day, it was inconceivable that Hamilton should not smile back.

Chapter Text

To Peggy Gartin, New York

Dear Peggy

Ive found another of those grey-greys, this time it was a Lizzard.  The Master doesnt care he says better a Lizzard in his writing-desk than a Knife in his Back but its not comfortable being in a House where someone wants him dead and whose to say it wont be a Knife next time?  Im keeping an Eye out as best I can but I havent caught anyone at it yet.

He says we go to New-Orleans soon which I Hope will put an end to all this Trouble.  We will stay there I think a while as he must still convince the Governor of his ideas for better treatment you would not believe how Cruel some of the field slaves are treated down here truely you would not.

Master has a Cold but it is not serious.  I am well.  He says if there is any Trouble getting money from Mr Green you should draw on Mr Van Ness.  I hope you and Nancy are well.

I have the honour to be your humble and obedient servant, 

Peter Yates

***

“General Hamilton! I do thank you for coming.”  Rufus King grasped his friend’s hand firmly.  “May I offer you coffee?  I have recently come into possession of a good claret, if you should prefer that.”

“Coffee would be most welcome,” Hamilton responded courteously, as King had expected.  He stepped into the hall and removed his hat and overcoat; there was a cold breeze off the Hudson today.  “Is Mrs King well?”

Rufus smiled to himself; half of the men of New York, he knew, were a little in love with Mary.  Even after all these years, her affection for him - big nosed and balding - was a source of both puzzlement and pride.  “She and Edward are gone to England to visit the older boys,” he explained as he stepped back to give the other man space to enter the house proper.  “And to accompany John on his return.”

“So soon!” Hamilton looked a little startled, and then his gaze went a little distant as he calculated.  His jaw clenched and Rufus knew he must be thinking of Philip.

“Will you come into my study?” he distracted him, gesturing towards the door. 

“Ah, so as I suspected this is not a social invitation,” Hamilton said with a smile, abruptly coming back to himself.  He entered the room indicated and seated himself carefully on the straight-backed chair beside the desk, crossing one leg over the other and arranging the skirts of his frock coat fastidiously.

“Well, it is in part,” Rufus defended himself quickly.  “It is too long since we have properly talked.  You bury yourself in your work so much, and of course my work is still in politics…” he trailed off, remembering the vigorous, intense young man who had convinced him to move to New York.  He was not unaware of how much of that force had now turned to bitterness and anger, though it was hard to fully credit those accounts in the gentleman waiting courteously for him to finish, one toe tapping with the inability to sit entirely still.

“You have been writing against slavery,” he said abruptly, then paused again as a footman entered with two china cups of coffee on a silver platter.  Hamilton took one, his expression sharpening a little.

“Did you have some expectation of me that was otherwise?”

“I know that you have repeatedly declared yourself to be unwilling to involve yourself in matters of national politics.  It grieves me, as a great loss to the Federalist cause, but I could not in conscience ask more of you than you have already given.”  Hamilton’s last great effort had been stirring up opposition to Burr’s governorship bid in 1804, and instead of being satisfied by his success he had seemed downcast and irritable until… well.  King had done his best to moderate his friend's apparent drive towards self-destruction, but he had left town rather than see the finale.  Nor, he admitted to himself with mild concern, did his friend look much better now.

“And what is it that you should desire to request of me now, Rufus, having securely disclaimed any volition on your part to do so?”  There was a sharp edge to the teasing in Hamilton’s tone.

“Only what I should request of every man, Ham; your assistance in the crusade against bondage.”

“It puzzles me, and causes a disturbance in my thoughts, that you should request of me, so timorously, a thing that you know you already possess.”  Hamilton placed his cup carefully on the desk beside him.  “But it would be a thing unworthy of us both if I should, from your mere mischance of words, entertain suspicions that my friends seek to goad me to return to an arena in which I was so thoroughly abused, and which I quit with such principled decision.”

He leaned forward, one forearm resting on his knee, his expression intense as he minutely examined Rufus’s own face with his strikingly blue eyes.  Rufus felt uneasily as if his mind were being flayed open and all his secrets exposed.

“I should not retread that old path again.  I am too sensible of what your political career cost you.”  And what getting involved with Burr’s Western venture had cost him again, it seemed; Hamilton looked pale and a little sallow, tired in a way King had not seen since his disillusionment at Adams’s handing of the Quasi-War.  “But the South fears even gradual emancipation, and perhaps not without reason; nobody knows better than you, the basis of their wealth.  And nobody but you, Ham, could create a plausible system by which the economic burden of freeing so many slaves, even gradually, might be alleviated.  One that might have a hope of prevailing upon at least some of those who so vehemently oppose emancipation in Congress.”

“So you and Mr Jay have thrown in your lot with General Burr.”  Hamilton leaned back again, looking suddenly excessively weary.

It had not been a question; and also, Rufus admitted to himself, even if it was not quite true yet, there would likely soon enough come a time when it was. 

“I know that you and he are enemies, since the business at Washington’s city.” Why they were enemies, having worked so perfectly in tandem to save the capital and demonstrate the ability and patriotism of blacks, King could not begin to understand.  He considered a moment.  “ Why you are enemies, after achieving such a triumph together, I cannot begin to understand,” he decided to be open.  “If Col- General Burr has acted in some way that reflects poorly upon his judgement or his principles, I should consider myself well advised.”

Hamilton stared at him for a moment, tapping his fingers upon his knee.  “The flaws and defects in the character of General Burr are as well known to you,” he said at last, “as I can previously have rendered them.  If experience does not dissuade you from partiality, more experience can achieve no alteration in your course.”

That was fascinatingly evasive.  Rufus sighed and rubbed his nose.  Hamilton and Burr had been friends for so long.  He was certain that if they had been of the same faction, they would have been intimates.  He had not understood the duel - neither Hamilton’s irresponsible words and actions in the time leading up to it, nor his insistence on risking both their lives - and he did not understand Hamilton's return to those attitudes now. 

“Thankyou,” he said diplomatically instead.  “Your opinion, old friend, is always of incalculable value to me. 

“But politics makes strange bedfellows.  You have seen the harm that Mr Jefferson has done our cause - the noose he put around the throat of Haiti, the expansion of slavery into the new territories of the west - and should he be succeeded by Mr Madison, another whose stature rests upon the backs of men in bondage, I fear that emancipation, once so near a dream, may be put out of sight for a generation.  You said it yourself, what was it - power over a man’s subsistence amounts to a power over his will?  So no matter the outward statements made by the Southern Democrats, King Cotton must rule their manifested policy.  Whatever follies and schemes may occupy the mind of General Burr, he is of our mind in this.”

Hamilton looked aside, a muscle clenching in his jaw.  “He is,” he allowed with uncharacteristic brevity.

“I should not ask you to do anything that would go against your conscience or your honour, Ham,” Rufus said diplomatically.  “It lacks a year and a half yet to the election, and none of us truly knows what may transpire.  You know that if Pinckney stands for the Federalists in his own right, I will stand in support.  But the first step against this stain on our nation’s soul will be taken in 1808, and we must be ready with the next.  Theories and principles may win applause, but we need a plan that may be enacted without breaking our nation in two over this hurdle of emancipation.  Neither myself, nor Mr Jay, nor anyone I have consulted among the Federalist loyalists, can think of anyone who can create such a thing but you.”

Hamilton had turned back to him, and Rufus again felt uncomfortable beneath the intensity of his friend's gaze.  But he made himself lift up his chin and meet it.

“Burr wrote to Jay,” Hamilton concluded, almost absently, his thumb and forefinger rubbing together with the tense vibration of a native conjuring a fire from sticks.  “Jay showed you the letter.  You agreed to convince me to continue the work.”

“I agreed to ask you,” King interjected quickly.  There was no point in denying what Hamilton’s quick and perceptive mind had reasoned from whatever cues.

“Very well.”  Hamilton stood up, very abruptly.  “My word was not given lightly, no matter how subsequent events may have revealed it to have been trifled with.  I told Burr that I should deliver him his system, and, no matter how I may be abused and betrayed, though the work cost me my prosperity and health, deliver it I shall - to you, Rufus, and Jay, since you are his agents.”  He swept past, into the hall, and King quickly put down his own cider and hurried to follow.

“Ham, I had no thought of expecting that you should…”

Hamilton cut him off with a gesture of one hand, not looking at him as he put on his coat in a whirl of sleeves and skirts.  Then his straight posture softened a little.

“It is a worthy project,” he said as he took his hat from the peg.  “God grant it may prove a more resilient legacy than the others on which I have broken myself.” He bent his head briefly to Rufus, donned his cap, and went out.

***

“...friends in Pennsylvania…”

With his head half turned back to speak to Bartow, Burr was caught unprepared by the sudden waterfall of sound, echoed and magnified by the acoustics of the opera house.  Shouts and applause that might have done honour to the appearance of a celebrated European tenor filled and overfilled the airy space.

He stepped up beside the young Governor Claiborne, who was gesturing grandly to the crowd, and the applause somehow redoubled, a wall of sound like a charge into artillery fire, and he felt his heart beat faster.  He raised one hand and the opera audience responded with whistles and shouts.

“What is it that they are shouting?” he asked as an aside to Claiborne.

“They are greeting the famous Diablo Atrevido ,” Claiborne responded, almost shouting to be heard over the tumult.

He had heard the name, of course.  But he had not realised it had become quite so widespread.  Looking down at the excited crowd, some forgetting themselves so far as to clamber on chairs and wave hats, Burr realised that he had left it far, far too late to discourage its use, if that had ever been possible.  He smiled and waved like a puppet theatre, amused that the dark mood he had been in for the past few weeks was so easily and childishly distracted.

If these scenes were repeated elsewhere… well.  Madison, Hamilton and others might disdain popular appeal as demagoguery, but that was because they understood its power just as well as he did.  Presidents were not elected by popular vote, but Electors ignored the general voice only at their peril.  Which left him with a very delicate balancing act. 

Enough of this indulgence.  Burr made soothing motions with his hands and the crowd slowly began to settle.

“I did not come here for your applause,” he said over the shouting, and the audience quieted further, many voices calling for silence to hear the General speak.  “Nor has it yet been merited.  The Spanish are gone from Mexico -” he was forced to stop again at the spontaneous cheers.  “Mexico is free,” he repeated, and was interested, if disappointed, to note far less of a reaction to that phrasing.  “But there is work still in hand.   You have done me the honour of reposing in me your trust, and your confidence; if you continue to do so, and if God grant, I shall finish the task I have begun.”  The audience began to cheer again, and he repeated his quieting motions.  “But it would be improper for me to say more.  There is a better show waiting than any I shall provide.”  He gestured to the stage, and stepped back from the edge of the box as the audience laughed and cheered again.

The conductor appeared to give up on waiting for quiet, and the orchestra struck up; warring briefly against the cacophony before the opera house finally began to quiet and pay attention to the opening curtain.

“That was an interesting speech,” Governor Claiborne noticed, one eyebrow raised with a surprising cynicism for a man in his thirties.  But one did not rise as meteorically as he had without a certain political intuition.

“I do not believe I have been reticent about my intentions, Governor,” Burr said diffidently, straightening a little in his seat for a better view of the soprano.

“Do you truly believe that you can attach Mexico and Florida to the United States, and dictate emancipation?”

“Mexico and Florida will attach themselves, without any further efforts from me,” Burr said with mild amusement.  “You must know better than most how they are situated; you can project the natural consequence of their circumstances, and the increased communion between our peoples.  And their weight added to the balance should assist materially with the other project.”

He took the glass of champagne handed to him by Peter, and sipped it consideringly.  Yes, it was a good vintage; an appropriate gift for his host. 

“It will tear our country in two,” Claiborne warned.  “Even here in New Orleans, which does not share the prejudices of South Carolina, any act that can be made to seem like indulgence towards negroes is seized upon to the detriment of the actor.  Bartow!”

Bartow turned away from his wife, who was fanning herself delicately in the rising heat, and raised his eyebrows. 

“Tell General Burr about the black militia.”

Bartow rolled his eyes; an irritating habit that had, by the time Burr took over his education, progressed too far to break him of.  “It was before my time, you understand,” he said, his voice a little difficult to hear over the singing.  “But it has caused difficulties for anyone associated with the new administration.  You might take it as a warning, General.”

Burr did not dignify that with a response; only waited with an air of polite inquiry, watching his stepson’s face.  It was at least a cause of some satisfaction that Bartow seemed to have flourished in this appointment. 

“There was a battalion of militia here, made up of free men of colour.  Mr Claiborne thought their service merited the bestowal of colours; most of the whites and Créoles disagreed.  The dispute has rumbled on now - three years?” Barrow glanced across at the Governor.  “Three years.  Twice, actions by one faction or another have ended in court.”

“My enemies like to use it as a stick to beat me with,” Claiborne took up the narrative.  “You see my position, General Burr.”

Burr did indeed, especially given the insecure nature of their unencrypted letters.  “As the tide turns against enslavement, however,” he said, lightly, as though the discussion were hypothetical, “that might become an advantage.  There can be no meaningful emancipation without suffrage.”

Claiborne's eyes narrowed a little.  “A very bold proposition, General Burr,” he commented.  “I should be interested to discuss your… hypothetical ideas of political philosophy… in more detail - later.”

“I shall be happy to call upon you at any time of your choosing,” Burr returned with some satisfaction.  Claiborne had supported Jefferson in 1801, but it seemed his actual inclinations were more sympathetic than he had thought from the cool letters he had received in Bayou Pierre.  Or he was willing to abandon a falling star to follow a rising one.  At this point, it mattered little which.

They nodded to one another and then, of one accord, turned back to the overheated theatre to watch the opera.

Chapter Text

Proceedings of the US House of Representatives, May 1807

Representative of the Territory of New Orleans, Daniel Clark: “It should be of great concern to the House, given recent events, that the Militia of the Territory has been so neglected.  They are totally unorganised.  Worse, they have seen a Black corps preferred to them, even a standard publicly given to it.  This partiality endangers the lives of those very citizens that the Governor is sworn to protect.”

***

It had been a very pleasant dinner, out here at Mr Jay’s country house.  Van Ness stood on the terrace, smoking a cigar as he enjoyed the evening breeze.  To his left, Matthew Davis leaned on the balustrade; ostensibly admiring the gardens, the self-made man was probably just glad to get away from the New York equivalent of the haut ton for a few minutes.

“Since when do you smoke?” Davis asked suddenly, glancing across.

Van Ness removed the cigar from his mouth and stared at it for a few moments.  “Since the court case last autumn,” he said finally, and then chuckled briefly.  “A decision arising from almost pure self-defence.”

“Oh,” said Davis understandingly, and chuckled himself.  They had both spent too many long evenings out at Richmond, squinting at letters and documents through an increasingly thick grey haze.

They both turned their heads at the sound of the doors opening, and Rufus King finally slipping out to join them.

“I apologise, sirs, for my delay; Mr Jay is occupied with his other guests, but will join us when he may.”

Van Ness leaned against the balustrade briefly to tap his ash into the flower bed below.  “I had understood that General Hamilton would also be joining us?”

“General Hamilton is unwell,” King said, his mouth turning down slightly as he approached in an expression Van Ness could not fully interpret.  Hamilton had been conveniently unwell several times in the last few weeks, though in Van Ness’s view what was bothering him was most likely an excess of spleen.

“I was a little surprised myself, not to encounter the elder Mr Swartwout,” King continued. 

“Ah.” Van Ness took a long drag on his cigar.  “General Burr considers that the Swartwouts have suffered injuries enough on his account.  He would prefer to spare them the worst buffets of this political campaign.”

“Ah,” King said with a sympathetic understanding.

“Has Mr Jay spoken with General Pinckney?” Davis interrupted, pushing himself up straight and businesslike. 

“He has,” King said with avuncular imperturbability, turning and resting his back against the balustrade so that he could easily converse with them both.  “He has said that he would run against Mr Madison, or any Virginian Democrat, but not against General Burr.  I believe, in fact, that should he desire it, the General might have the Federalist nomination.”

There was a brief, appalled silence.

“You have not discussed this with General Hamilton,” Van Ness said with utter certainty.  He sucked at his cigar as his mind wheeled like seagulls, barely tasting the tobacco as the smoke drifted to his left on an eddy of air. 

“I have not,” King acknowledged with a small, tight smile. 

“The General would certainly oppose him,” Davis agreed.  “The result would be bloody.  The infighting…” he paused thoughtfully for a moment, and Van Ness looked forward to discussing the full implications later.  “I do not wish to overstep,” he said at last, “but it is my feeling that the General would have to decline the honour, if such a proposition were put to him.”

“I understand his position,” King sighed, “but you see that it makes my own situation more difficult.  General Burr has been riding high in popularity since the unfortunate affair with General Hamilton, and Jefferson's attempts to ensnare him have only reversed upon their instigator.  He is uniquely placed to advance the cause of emancipation; but if he will not stand as a Federalist, we must name our own candidate in opposition or be finished as a political force.”

Well, it was no wonder Hamilton was choking on his spleen.

“It might be argued that the Federalists are already finished as a political force,” Davis pointed out abrasively, and Van Ness winced inwardly though he could not disagree.

“Nevertheless,” King said with a quiet dignity, “those are my ideals; and they remain so whether the majority share them or no.”

There was a moment's silence and then Van Ness attempted to grapple this conversation back on track.  “Putting aside, for a moment, the question of the Federalist candidacy,” he said, painfully aware - even if he hadn't caught sight of Davis’s dubiously pursed lips - of quite how much he was trying to brush under the rug.  “Do you believe that Massachusetts, under any circumstances, could be persuaded to vote for General Burr?”

“Given the choice of a moderate northern voice over that of a Virginian planter, I do not think the outcome could be much in doubt.  The state representatives favoured General Burr in 1801, after all.  Had he bestirred himself…” King spread his hands, not needing to finish the sentence. 

“The General was much occupied with his daughter's wedding,” Van Ness temporised.  Beyond King, Davis simply rolled his eyes.  This was not the time or place to rehash the arguments they had had with their chief that winter.  Old-fashioned honour and driving ambition made poor bedfellows; General Burr would surely not repeat his strange lassitude.

“If the General would be willing to occupy himself this time by speaking in favour of emancipation,” King returned, his voice, to his credit, only slightly ironic, “he should likely carry the majority of the Federalist vote.  Especially if his Vice-President were sympathetic to our causes.”

“If he publicly allied himself with the Federalists he should lose much of his support within the Democratic-Republicans,” Davis argued. 

Van Ness took the cigar from his mouth and turned it in his fingers, the fragrant smoke curling lazily from the end and scenting the evening air as he considered.  So much was a matter of complex strategy.  These Electors gained; these lost.  Whether they could put a finger on the scales to create a more sympathetic ticket.  Nobody played these games better than Burr; but they needed him in the Southern states, too, those they still hoped to win over.

“He is still inclined to Pinckney,” he reassured King, over Davis’s scoffing.  “I believe he intends to speak with him personally, during his return from New Orleans.”

“He does not intend to seek the Democratic-Republican nomination, then?” King checked. 

Oh, was that what this was about?  Van Ness shared a glance with Davis.

“No,” Davis answered for them both, although technically neither of them had discussed it with their principal.  “The party is too much ruled by the South; the General has no stomach to be trifled with again.”

Van Ness backed up the statement with an emphatic nod.

“Good.”  King relaxed a little.  “Recent reports from Washington have been troubling.  Do you know more of the situation in New Orleans?”

“The argument over the black militia?”

“Quite.  Mr Madison has been very keen to announce an investigation, for someone who is not Secretary of War.  The party seems to be moving to intensify, rather than otherwise, the machinery of oppression.”

“Governor Claiborne is - or was - a Jeffersonite,” Davis said thoughtfully.  Van Ness was startled at such intimate knowledge of politics thousands of miles removed.  “He was the territory's representative in 1800,” Davis added, and that made a lot more sense. 

“If Mr Jefferson is undermining him now, then he must have doubts of his loyalty,” Van Ness reasoned aloud, frowning as he idly turned his cigar in his fingers.  “I will communicate with General Burr… ow!”  He pitched the still-glowing stub of the cigar over the balustrade into the roses in sudden frustration. 

“That would be…” King began, then was interrupted by the squeaking of the patio doors.  “And here is Mr Jay,” he said unnecessarily as a black slave opened the door for his master and bowed him out.

“Gentlemen,” the patrician Jay said, and gestured to another slave to bring out a tray bearing drinks and a document.  “I have taken the liberty of summarising Mr Hamilton's thoughts on how emancipation might be constitutionally achieved.  He has suggested, and I agree, that we begin with the matter of the three-fifths compromise…”

***

Robert Troup, New-York

Dear Bob,

I have had a hero’s welcome to this city; tant pis , for I have done nothing that I intended to do, and instead twenty things that I did not intend, and that would have been better left undone.

It is commonplace here to resolve disagreements between gentlemen with an interview; so much so that there is a particular place by the banks of the Metairie where fashionable Créoles may entertain themselves by watching one gentleman shoot another, beneath the oaks every Sunday with the reliability of Mass (with the doctor playing the part of priest).  The Governor lost his secretary in this fashion in 1804 - an incident that need not be dwelt upon. 

You shall by now be cursing me for so wasting your time and your eyesight, but have yet a little patience, there is a point to this disquisition upon local customs.  You will have heard of Mr Clark’s remarks on the floor of the House, which I am sure did not go unremarked by the Virginian Junto.

Taking those remarks as the culmination of a thousand slights against his person, as what gentleman would not, Governor Claiborne issued a request for an interview.  I knew nothing of the exchange until the evening prior, when Mr Claiborne invited me to make up the party.  Although my first thought was to refuse I allowed myself to be persuaded, and as best I could tell (for you know that, as in the Roman mysteries, one is obliged to turn aside from the central rite) the proprieties were observed by both parties.

To cut short a tale that is already lengthy enough, Mr Claiborne was injured through the thigh, the wound of which has suppurated in this unhealthy climate and is causing him great pain.  I have consoled with him as best I can, for I am a frequent guest at his house, but this incident has retarded my departure for reasons that will easily occur to you.

For all else - my dear Bob, you know how far it is from my mind to cause you distress.  But - but! you say to yourself, anticipating me - I cannot return to New York so precipitately when the resumption of my career - the hopes that my friends have confided in me - perhaps even the fate of our country - requires me to make allies of those who will, if all goes well, soon have most cause to curse me!  I must shift busily for myself in Maryland and Pennsylvania, and the Carolinas, at the very least; and then if I return to New York in such gloomy straits as you predict, I shall at least have hopes of being provided a ceiling in Washington City, for as you know I would make a pretty poor mendicant friar.

As for the other, I have not abandoned hopes of an accommodation.  But it is not mine to mend, and I cannot conceive how it might be yours.

Adieu,

A. Burr

***

“Have you brought them?” Hamilton asked anxiously, taut neck muscles betraying his tension as he pushed himself up straight in his bed, into the golden sunshine slanting in from the window.  He was not looking exactly well - when had Ham last looked well, Troup wondered? - but there was a little less puffiness around his jaw and eyes than there had been at his last visit, and the sheen of unhealthy perspiration was gone.

“Have I brought what?” Troup wondered with as much solemnity as he could muster, as he lowered himself carefully into the seat, which creaked gently as it adjusted to his weight.

“My papers, Bobby,” Hamilton said immediately, to his astonishment.  “The financial outline is critical as a component of our strategy towards emancipation!  It was upon my desk, with the ledgers laid alongside; the record of customs transactions for Baltimore is of importance the most vital, you must away and bring it to me at once…”

Troup could feel his jaw sag, despite his best efforts, at this apparent evidence of insanity on the part of his sick friend.  But even as he struggled, appalled, to find some way to calm this fit of madness, the torrent of words paused; Hamilton leaned back against his pillows, his lips twitching, then broke into a weak chuckle. 

“I am sorry, my friend, but if only you could see your own face… the cherries, Bobby, of course.”

Troup took a deep, steadying breath, feeling his pulse slowly return to normal.  “It would serve you right if I had not brought them,” he said with mock sternness, trying not to smile at this sign of Ham’s returning health.

“You were the one who began the mischief, with your ‘brought what?’,” Hamilton pointed out, then shifted against the pillows, his jutting brows pulling together a little.  “You did bring them?”

“I did,” Troup confirmed, opening up the embroidered flap of his letter-case to reveal no letters, but only a layer of little purple-black fruits.  A couple had been crushed by the journey; he picked the wet flesh from the silk, slightly disgustedly, and looked about briefly before finding a bowl on a side table and moving it to the bed to collect the organic remains.  “I had to enter into an intrigue with Louisa,” he added, “For you know Jannetje would have told Eliza.  I’m still not sure that I should not have told her myself.”

“My Eliza is an angel, and I am indebted to her a thousand times over for the tenderness with which she has nursed my affliction,” Hamilton said with the soft smile that always crept over his face at the thought of his wife.  “But the season is almost over, Bobby, and I should… I should deeply have regretted missing this.”  He popped a cherry into his mouth, discarding the stalk into the bowl, and closed his eyes in sublime pleasure.  After a few moments he pressed his handkerchief to his mouth, collecting the stone from his lips and fastidiously letting it drop into the bowl with a soft plink .

“Really, Ham,” Troup laughed.  He picked up a cherry himself, though now that the heat of July was upon them he had been eating the luscious little fruits for over a month - raw, stewed, or baked into cakes and tarts - and had almost had a surfeit.  Almost.  He popped it into his mouth, feeling the skin burst between his teeth and release the sweet, rich juice.  His tongue found the little stone before he could accidentally bite it, and he manoeuvred it to his lips from where he could spit it with practiced accuracy into - onto the blanket right next to the bowl.  “Apologies,” he said with a slightly embarrassed lack of real guilt as he tidied the stone into the receptacle, feeling Hamilton's annoyed gaze on the back of his neck.

“I shall forgive you the impropriety,” Hamilton condescended.  “But beware how you steal my cherries!”

“I but save you from yourself,” Troup pointed out unrepentantly.  And then he felt his forehead pinch a little as genuine concern found its way through the crack in his composure.  “If you ate all of these, Ham, in your condition, you really could do yourself serious injury.” 

Hamilton frowned.  “Even my enemies allow that my errors have generally been those of principle, rather than folly.  Good judgement is a quality I hope my friends should allow me.”

He was mercurial today.  And yet from all Troup had heard, the work had been going rather well before this latest collapse; and an impossible project with a clear goal was meat and drink to Ham.  Even if the need to work around Burr’s leadership was awkward and more than a little ridiculous.  But Hamilton’s ridiculousness had built their United States…

“Just do not permit Eliza to discover it was I who gave you the cherries, or I shall never hear the end of it from Jannetje,” he backed off, and Hamilton’s cheeks creased with genuine amusement. 

“I have entered into my own intrigue in that respect; William has agreed to dispose of the stones.  If it were of less present convenience, I should be more concerned by my children's apparent talents at deception.”

That was better.  Troup leaned back a little in his chair, and it creaked again at the readjustment of his weight.  He bantered with his friend on light, easy topics, only stealing one or two cherries from those he had brought; after a surprisingly small number Hamilton's invalid appetite also seemed to tire, and he swept the remainder carefully into a small keep-sake box before leaning back against the pillows with a gratified sigh. 

Troup considered his latest letter from Burr, the topic that had clearly been on his mind but evaded behind the political news.

“There is some interesting word from New Orleans,” he said brightly, deliberately disobeying his friend’s clear instruction.

“Do not speak to me of Burr.”  Hamilton turned his head away, but he sounded more exhausted than angry.

“Hammie.”  Robert reached gently across to place his hand over his friend’s, where his fingers fretfully picked at the blanket.  “I know he has betrayed you - us - more than once.  But I believe that he is truly dedicated to fulfilling this part of your agreement.  And…” he hesitated, but Hamilton’s bony hand was still under his own, so he plunged on.  “You miss him.”

There was a very long silence.  From outside the window, in the hot summer sun, he could hear the slow, repeated tear and thump of someone heaving plants from the earth; either pulling weeds or harvesting early carrots.

“Please go, Bob,” Hamilton said quietly at last, without looking back at him.

Troup hesitated, caught between impulses.  Then, from behind him, he heard the light tap of Eliza’s feet on the stairs, the creak of that annoying floorboard on the landing.  He gave Hamilton’s hand one last squeeze before retrieving his slightly stained letter-case and standing.  Silently, feeling like a coward, he went.

Chapter Text

Claiborne knew General Burr, of course.  He had deplored his refusal to step aside in 1800, and exhorted his colleagues and cast his vote with a silent, satisfied fierceness for 36 ballots until the Federalists had finally relented.  For a year or so thereafter he had exchanged meaningless pleasantries on the few occasions they had bumped into one another in the corridors of power; and he had deplored him further for the duplicity of his easy manner, when the Senators complained that he ruled their proceedings like an autocrat.

That Burr, the scheming, treacherous demagogue he had thought he had known, was a very different creature from the man sitting at his bedside now, the fragrance of his cigar smoke keeping away the insects as effectively as his witty commentary on local society was keeping away tedium.

“...came up behind my chair,” he was saying, “and giving me a slap on the cheek, said, 'Come, tell me directly, what little French girl have you had here?' I admit that between the abruptness of the question and my surprise I assumed myself completely discovered; so I thought it best to confess and throw myself upon her mercy.  You can imagine how indignant I was when my inquisitress immediately burst into laughter!  It turned out that she was well pleased by the success of her artifice, which she had contrived merely from the circumstance of having smelt musk in the room.” He laughed as he tapped the cigar against the ash tray, and Claiborne joined him despite the jostling causing hot pain to shoot through his thighs.

Finally Burr’s laughter ended in a short fit of coughing.  He leaned back in his chair, looking as completely in his element as he had when enjoying the opera, or when inspecting the militia, or when silencing the hecklers at the local Democratic-Republican society with a single cutting remark.

“I take it, then,” Claiborne remarked, “That you have no intention of marrying again, and depriving yourself of the freedom you currently enjoy.”

“I should not say that.” The end of the cigar glowed gently, then speckled with grey.  Burr allowed smoke to curl gently up from his parted lips.  “You have not long been married yourself, I believe, Mr Claiborne - you must be well acquainted with the advantages of the institution.  Experience has taught me to be circumspect in how I laud the virtues of another man's wife” - his lips curved a little, and the sun through the windows caught an amber glint in his amused sideways glance at Claiborne, who could not resist a single appreciative snort - “but in truth a house needs a clever hostess, who can put at ease the most unexpected guests, and provide those touches of civilization that occur only to a lady’s eye.”

Clarisse’s knowledge of French and Spanish - and the incomprehensible customs of the Créoles - had made the impossible task of integration a dream he might one day hope to fulfil.  And the flowers that brightened a dark corner of the room were fresh today.  Claiborne gave a slight nod in acknowledgment of the compliment. 

“And a man,” Burr went on, “needs that companionship and consolation that only the fairer sex can provide.  And in addition, when his best laid plans end in disaster, upon whom else can he vent his spleen and restore equanimity?” He tapped the ash from his cigar again, his own equanimity unruffled as ever.  “Although,” he added, “a daughter might do in a pinch.”

Claiborne's mind flashed, for a moment, to a little body, sallow and unmoving in the cot next to her mother's empty bed.  He closed his eyes briefly, and it passed. 

When he opened them again, it was to Burr’s direct, disconcerting gaze.

“Forgive me for a blundering fool,” Burr said quietly, without artifice.

It was at that moment, Claiborne was to realise only much, much later, that everything had changed for him.

***

Technically Peter spoke French.  Master Burr had insisted that he learn it - there had been days when master Burr had insisted upon speaking to him only in increasingly impatient French - and he had begun to think himself quite an expert, understanding most of the words that the people of Louisiana dropped into the middle of their sentences to confuse outsiders. 

What he did not speak, or even begin to understand, was the rapid mess of French and English - wait, was that Spanish? - in which the cook was berating the helper who cringed in nervous defiance before her fury.

As far as he could tell, something had been put in the jambalaya that shouldn't have been.  Why that mattered, Peter could hardly imagine; it was his personal opinion that one could add a whole skunk to the pot, and if anyone even noticed they would only say that it improved the flavour.

Claiborne's footman had given up all pretence of even looking at the dice he held loosely in one hand, and Peter was glad of it because the spectacle was far more interesting than the game.  Then suddenly the footman's hand clenched around the little wooden cubes, so tightly that the pinker skin of his palm showed almost yellow.  He shot to his feet, almost overturning the chair.

“ Qu’est-çe que ç'est que dites-vous?  Y a-t-il le cœur d’un alligator dans ce jambalaya? ”

“An alligator heart?” Peter said in surprise, not at all sure he had followed correctly.  He also stood.  “Wait!  Master Burr has been asking for news of alligators.  Is this….”

He did not even finish his sentence.  Claiborne’s footman turned his head briefly, snapped “ Non, ç'est gris-gris ,” and advanced on the man backed up against the counter, his French becoming faster and more incomprehensible as he dropped into the same patois as the cook. 

Peter had understood only one word, but he had come to know that word far too well.  He also stood, and uncertainly approached the cauldron; stout and blackened with the fire burning beneath, steaming slightly, the meaty, spicy scent that had a moment ago been provoking his hunger now turning his stomach. 

Did he believe in the power of these strange Congo gods?  Surely not.  If warned, surely master Burr would simply give a dismissive stare and a raised eyebrow, and then seek out the coveted alligator heart to satisfy his curiosity and defy his detractors.

Eat something that had been given to him with such ill will, intended to do him harm… Peter thought not. 

With sudden decision, ignoring the increasingly loud and voluble discussion to his right, he caught up the damp cloth flung carelessly on the corner of the counter, swung out the fireplace crane - the pot swinging with ponderous slowness behind it - heaved the cauldron from its trammel and swayed it just enough, lowering it, that it fell on its side on the hearth step.  Hot watery brown rice splayed across the cool stone flags.  A splash burned his legs and he jumped belatedly back. 

There was a moment’s appalled silence.

Then the cook gave a howl of anguish at the destruction of her hard work and, abandoning her admonishment of the would-be saboteur, sprang at Peter instead.  Since she was still clutching in one hand the knife which which she had previously been boning the fish, Peter dodged quickly backwards, his hands defensively upraised, scrambling to try to remember the appropriate French words to drop into his hurriedly apologetic English.

The saboteur moved just as quickly, with a similarly wounded cry; dropping to his knees in the middle of the rapidly-cooling, claggy puddle to sweep his hands around in a search for the precious, cursed heart.

The footman and other helpers simply watched the circus in astonishment.  One shuffled a foot slightly backwards to move her bare toes out of the way of a trickle of savoury juice, as it meandered its way sluggishly under the heavy table.

The saboteur grabbed a large lump of meat out of the congealing, greasy, grainy mess and clutched it to his chest, muttering what from the tone must have been imprecations as he glared at either Peter or the cook.  It was a little difficult to tell; Peter’s concentration was on the blade in the cook’s right hand as he continued backing away from her passionate gesticulations.

“... le dîner is gâché and what am I now to serve the master, perhaps I should serve him votre tête you con , look at all my hard work, look at ma cuisine , aagh!”  She shook her fist at the inadequacy of mere words to express her feelings, and Peter stepped back sharply from the blade that flashed, apparently forgotten, past his chin.  His heel hit a tangle of swinging metal, he stumbled, and he and the fire irons both fell with a clanging of metal; he only just managing to avoid cracking his head on the stone surrounding the fireplace.

The stillness, for a moment, was absolute.

The man kneeling in the jambalaya stood, quietly, and began to cautiously back away.  The tableau broke and he was immediately grabbed by the back of his collar by Claiborne's footman.  “You tried to put a curse on the master, you fils de pute , did you think what would happen to us, any of us?  Why, I should…”

But as the footman launched into an accelerating fantasy of violence in French and English, punctuated by violent yanks at the collar, Peter managed to scramble to his feet.  Bruised but triumphant, his mind was working overtime now that the cook’s first fury had abated and he was no longer at risk of a sliced and festering face. “Wait!” he cried, and the footman paused in his furious attack.  The saboteur, whose face had been becoming increasingly congested as he was slowly choked by his shirt collar, hastily dragged in a whooping breath. 

“What happened to the rest of the alligator?”

***

Private Journal of Aaron Burr, 1807

July 6.  Finally, the dilatory post delivers me your letter!  Walked some time by the river, musing - my soul calls me north but can I, ought I to leave C. in his current state of dejection?  Besides, I think it would take but little to convince him to join with our project, and that should be another blow to the present administration, which cannot but be of benefit to my friends.  Engaged to dine with C.  To my surprise, not having been forewarned of it, the main dish was steaks of alligator.  After all this time and wasted expense, it is my own valet who procures me the adventure!  Truly I shall be reluctant to part with him, but to Gampy he must go nevertheless, for his cleverness and resourcefulness will be there of foremost value to me.  The meat itself, alas, a disappointment - tough, white, fishy - in texture more like turkey than beef.  Perhaps a younger beast would be better.  I still have not given up the idea of hunting one myself; for satisfaction bestows greater succulence on a dish than even the finest sauce.

***

There was no crowd; why should there be?  Just the labourers, and themselves, and a few working men and women who lingered out of mild curiosity.  Nevertheless, Eliza could not help feeling a kind of fulfilled anticipation as she looked at the cleared space, the trodden weeds grey with dust. 

The children were becoming restless already, and no great surprise; the youngest could be no older than her Pip.  She tightened her grasp on the shoulders of the girl in front of her as Isabella Graham stepped into the gap between buildings, her heavy black skirts rustling amongst the weeds, her back ramrod-straight, her hands gentle on the pages of the big, black, scuffed and gilded book she carried.  The labourers hurriedly doffed their caps.

“We are gathered here today,” she said, the burr of her Scots accent clear in her rolled Rs and soft vowels, “In the sight of God, in humble obedience to His command to protect the weak and care for the helpless.”

She glanced down at the page, but she scarcely needed to.  They all knew the text by heart, all who were involved with the Society. 

“Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray,” she said, her voice stern.  “And the disciples rebuked them. But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven. And he laid his hands on them, and departed thence.”

Isabella closed the book again, not with a snap, but with a solemn weight.  “Today we lay the foundation stone of an orphanage, to provide a home and education for these six children here today, and for as many others as we can provide.  God bless the work.”

She stepped aside as the other women raggedly muttered amen - though Isabella was not a pastor, and it had not been a prayer.

The men put on their hats again and lifted the ends of the ropes that went under the big stone, trying awkwardly to show a little more solemnity than they usually did at the accustomed task; there was a momentary clumsiness, and a ripple of stifled laughter ran through the children at the yelp that cut off mid-word.  But Eliza had seen Washington agonise over the ceremonies of the presidency, had calmed Hamilton down from frenzies when his meticulous plans went - what was Isabella’s word - agley .  There were often stumbles at the start; what mattered was that the stone was laid and they had the funding for the rest.  God willing, this would be her legacy to the world; one not so great and rarefied as her husband's, but one worth doing.

She let go the girl, who ran to where Isabella's maidservant was chivvying them together for the walk home.

“Eliza.” Isabella was approaching her with swift, sharp steps, and she moved forward a little to meet her friend.

“Isabella.  Did you truly think we should see this day?”

Isabella gave a small, grim smile.  “I never doubted; no more than you really did yourself.  How fares that husband of yours?”

“Hamilton is much better,” Eliza said, her heart lifting within her as it always did when she was able to impart the good news to an acquaintance.  “He asked me particularly to thank you for the tonic you sent; we give thanks to you almost as much as to God for his recovery.  He is already reunited with his quill and books,” she added with an emotion somewhere between humorous despair and genuine pride at her husband's indomitability.

“Well I'm gey happy to hear that,” Isabella said with satisfaction, “Though make sure you give the thanks where it is more properly due.  I'd be reluctant to ask this of you if Mr Hamilton were in need - though make no mistake,” and for a moment her grey steel eyes flashed with humour, “I would have asked you anyway.”

“Asked me what?” Eliza suspected she knew where this was going; while others had despaired, she had found herself positively relishing the work of gaining subscriptions and finessing legal permissions, and Isabella was not a woman to waste an opportunity. 

“You know as well as I do that the work of managing this orphanage will be too much for one woman alone.  You have the experience with numbers, and administration, and handling difficult men” - one eyebrow quirked, and Eliza felt her cheeks dimple almost painfully as she stifled a laugh - “so.  Are you willing to take on the work of second directress, and help me put the Orphan Asylum Society on a sound footing for whatever may come?”

“Yes,” she said immediately and without doubt. 

“Are you sure, now?” Isabella was looking a little surprised by her immediate acceptance. 

“Yes.”  Eliza found her gaze drifting over Isabella’s shoulder, to the unprepossessing dirt lot; imagining she saw instead the building sketched in the architect's plans, heard the faint chorus of young voices reciting lessons from within.  She drew her gaze back to Isabella's.  “I have done little but think about it, when I was not tending to Hamilton.  There is so much work still to do, so much of what we have discussed that could still miscarry.  I need to see it through.”

“Well, then, thank all the Apostles for that,” Isabella said, stepping back slightly so that she, too, could look over at where the builders were labouring, shirts already showing spreading patches of dark sweat on this summer morning.  “I would not have liked to have to go to my second choice.”

“And who was that?” Eliza asked with mild curiosity.  Jannetje was willing, but lacked sternness; Joanna was still young…

Isabella turned back to her with a smile.  “You, again, but more firmly.”

Chapter Text

“How goes the work on Belvidere?” Hamilton asked conversationally as he turned his gelding down the muddy path, grateful for its easy paces.  Today was the first day the sun had come out in a week, and there was still a stain of green in the ripening wheat on either side.  He was glad to get out into the sunshine, gladder to see his brother-in-law’s family - of course he was - but he could not help but chafe at the thought of the papers waiting on his desk, each one a silent accusation.  Each day that slipped away was a problem left unaddressed, an opportunity lost forever.

“Slower than I would like,” John Church answered easily.  And then, with a chuckle, “Is that not always the way?  Especially if one cannot motivate the architect with regular visits, as I recall was your policy at The Grange.”

“A policy hardly practical when its object lies at such a great distance from your customary residence,” Hamilton agreed.  “I worry, dear friend, that that is not all you will find impractical.  The necessity for regular travel to New York, to transact your business and maintain a convenient status in public life, seems likely to be injurious to your health.  Would it not be better to take a property in healthful environs at no great remove, and to delegate such transports to your son?”

“It would be an inconvenient journey with a young family,” John argued, but his tone did not carry complete conviction. 

“The journey will not be more convenient for your other children,” Hamilton pointed out, “Should they prove themselves recalcitrant in their selection of spouse and living situation.  Was it your intention to live in the mansion all the year around?”

“No, no,” John admitted.  “You are right; it will make a fine summer residence, to escape from the fevers of the city, but I can hardly think of leaving New York entirely, even if Angelica should be willing to abandon you!”

He would need her company over the coming months.  Only with the support of the family could he imagine completing all he must do.  Damn Burr.  No - Hamilton withdrew that thought in a sudden panic of superstition.  Burr might be treacherous and unreliable, but he was not the one who should be damned.

All of which was not to the current point.  He absently reined his horse to the left, turning down a tree-lined track, while he considered how to best convince Church to comply with the necessary restructuring of the family finances. 

“You are surely not intending to keep the house in the city,” he decided.  “The comfort of Mrs Church, and of your family, must be paramount in your considerations, and the exposure to the inconveniences of industry, not to mention the miasmas of disease, surely unnecessary.”

“A man has to live somewhere, Ham,” John pointed out, ducking beneath a low branch.  “You are right that I should prefer to maintain a small apartment for myself, and keep a country house for the family to enjoy and for entertaining, but I am embroiled already in the Belvidere project; I scarcely have the time to also supervise the construction of a retreat like your Grange.”

Perfect.  Hamilton was unable to resist a smile, but they had arrived at where the path widened to cross a pretty stream, and hopefully Church would put it down to pleasure in their ride.  His gelding halted at the edge, prancing and snorting at the water.

“You had something like the Grange in mind, then,” he said in a carefully light, teasing tone, feeling like a man wriggling a piece of twine in front of a cat.  “Should I fear for my home?”  He took a firm grip on the reins, asserting his control, and kicked the gelding forward.  It took the little twist of shining water in an unnecessarily large leap, and the unexpected jolt on landing ripped at Hamilton’s guts, waking the gnawing discomfort that was never far away these days.  He forced himself to breathe evenly through it, though he could feel the tension in his jaw as his pelvic area throbbed.

“Hah!” Church laughed, oblivious, as his own mare took the small obstacle more gracefully after the gelding’s lead.  “If I thought you might sell, Ham…”

“The jocularity of the proposition is less than you might have supposed,” Hamilton noted as he allowed the gelding to slow and fall in beside his brother-in-law.  The trees were subsiding into a hedgerow of arcing stems studded with flat white flowers; he kept a wary eye out in case the thorns caught on his breeches.  “My industry, while I live, affords the means of support, but as you know the expectations that our gentle wives had of their patrimony were not fully realised, and this shortfall places me in a position of some embarrassment.  Sensible of the demands that might be placed upon my family were I to expire before my diligence pays off the debt, I should not like Eliza to be forced to a sale that would not realise one half of the worth of the property.”

“Then we must hope that you are spared,” Church said lightly, each innocent word feeling like a lead weight hooking itself to Hamilton's heart.  “I am aware that you have suffered losses, but you must not think of selling The Grange.  No, no, we must think of another way.”

He should tell him.  He must tell him; John was his executor as well as his brother, and must be prepared for the burdens of both rules sooner rather than later.  But this was hardly a proper time or place.  Later.  Perhaps tonight, when they retired to discuss business after dinner.  It would be best to approach the news as a business transaction. 

The track rose a little with each gentle undulation, finally joining a much larger road, heavily rutted and deeply pitted with the cloven prints of oxen.  It turned right to sweep upwards to the elegant white portico of Richmond Hill.  Hamilton reined in his horse and stared at the ravaged hill, the buildings erupting like teeth through what had once been a graceful sward shaded by flowering trees.  For a moment he fought a tightness in his chest that prevented him breathing, remembering witty conversation over sumptuous dinners, skating parties on the pond in winter.  Even further back, the way Burr’s controlled demeanor had softened as he had watched his sick wife enjoy the exquisite view from the lawn down to the boats on the Hudson.

He thought about his last visit to the house; Burr’s solitary celebration of the sale.  The man lied so naturally and expertly that he could not admit truth even to himself.  He would laugh if he saw this, even while his heart broke unacknowledged.

“Mr Astor is making a killing on reselling these plots,” Church commented from his shoulder, thankfully unable to read his thoughts.  “It's a pity General Burr was too pressed by debt to exercise such a long-term strategy.”

“I doubt that was the General's sole reason,” Hamilton heard himself say, as though from a distance, as he watched men unload stones from a heavy cart.  The clank of stone on stone seemed a little delayed, not quite real, the same way the sound of cannon always seemed to follow the horror of the barrage.

He turned back to Church, sharply, as a memory struck him.  “Did Aaron not keep back a part of the property, to develop himself?”

Church gave him a strange look, but was suddenly distracted by his mare’s seizing the opportunity to snatch at mouthfuls of grass.  He wrestled with her for a moment, the horse tossing her head and twisting her neck in protest against the bit, before resuming the conversation, whatever passing thought he had had forgotten.  “It would have been a wise decision.  Were you not in charge of his affairs for a time?”

“The matter did not arise.”  Hamilton glanced again at the chaos of the rising new neighbourhood.

“Well, he cannot take advantage of it while he is not here.”  Church ended the conversation decisively and clucked at his horse, urging her onto the unofficial path that led towards Greenwich.

“No,” Hamilton agreed absently as he followed, turning in his seat to take one last, contemplative look at this latest example of New York’s bursting out from her boundaries.  “He cannot.”

***

Various newspapers, July and August 1807

EMPEROR NAPOLEON SIGNS PEACE TREATIES WITH TSAR ALEXANDER I AND KING FREDERICK WILLIAM II OF PRUSSIA AT TILSIT

THE DANGER TO THE NATION FROM FREE BLACKS CAN SCARCELY BE ESTIMATED (letter from ‘Praetor Urbanus’)

FRENCH TROOPS OCCUPY THE SPANISH REGIONS OF NAVARRE AND CATALONIA, ELICITING CONSTERNATION

GENERAL JAMES WILKINSON DECLARED NOT GUILTY OF PERJURY, RETURNS TO MARYLAND

***

“What manner of insolence is this?” Burr breathed disbelievingly through his teeth as he returned his eyes to the top of the letter and started reading through it again, this time searching for the misdirections that must lurk beneath the characteristically haughty prose.

“What is it, papa?” Theodosia asked from the divan in the corner where she was sifting through her own letters.  She was unwell again; why the Devil had Alston not gone to the mountains for the summer, or at least sent his wife and child if he could not go himself?  The swamp airs here in Charleston would be the death of Theo., and Burr could not conceive of why he had permitted this marriage. 

“A letter from General Hamilton,” he responded absently, scanning again.  “I have not heard a word from him since we parted, and you will recall on what terms. My offence was grave, though it was not my intention.”

He halted for a moment, his eyes catching on the signature, and he scanned through the letter again, frowning, the process only raising more questions. 

“When I saw his writing upon the cover I had thought that it might presage a resumption of our friendship,” he continued, “and perhaps it is only that blighted hope that makes this letter seem impertinent to me.  But I think not.  He writes of business, only business, but at far greater length than that business can possibly excuse - even by his own standard - with a sea of unnecessary explanations as though I had no more understanding of such amusements than young Gampy.”  He paused, the act of speaking his perceptions aloud fanning his outrage; but then his eyes dropped again to the scratched-out word or two before the signature.  “And yet I think - if I am not entirely a fool - that he began to sign off as to an intimate, before correcting himself and putting a more customary close.”

He lifted his gaze from the letter and stared unseeingly at the wallpaper, considering again that strange day when his friend had, by some miracle, brought him his loved ones safely out of danger; and then, with equal precipitousness, discarded him apparently forever.

“ Voila mon opinion,” Theodosia said from behind him, her voice startling him out of his contemplations.  “General Hamilton should like to be your friend again, but his pride will not let him take back the words that he has spoken.  The business is an excuse he has found convenient to invite your correspondence.”

“Perhaps.”  He folded the letter neatly and put it aside to return to later.

“My opinion is not, perhaps, well founded,” Theodosia admitted.  “It is best to be on the safe side in your response.  If he is determined to resume your friendship, he will find a way of expressing it; or he is not worthy of such an exalted position.”

“The General has claims upon my friendship,” Burr said repressively, “that cannot be so easily set aside, not for twenty such impertinences.  If you shook your noddle just a little, you might be able to think of some of them yourself.”  He must be out of sorts, to even think of taking offence.  He must smooth over the awkwardness of Hamilton's tone, and respond to him as befitted his own honour and pride. 

“Forgive me, my guardian angel,” Theodosia said, her tone of voice well judged to offer apology while retaining her own dignity.  Burr smiled to himself, just a little, at the thought of how amply his daughter had repaid all of his efforts.  He turned in his chair. 

“I was expecting a message from General Pinckney.  Has it been mistakenly given to you?”

Theodosia blinked once, but spread her correspondence before her.  “No, papa,” she said, then looked directly at him, her dark, perceptive eyes as disconcerting as he knew many found his own.  “You know I am stupid at politics, but is it possible he is making a show of independence?”

“Contemptible if so.  He cannot win the contest, no matter who runs; I have not the leisure to coddle his pride, and I am not inclined to be trifled with.  Thankyou, mon enfant .”

He swiveled back to his own correspondence, a little deterred by the thought of how many letters he must now write.  Well, they would not write themselves, tant pis .  He picked up the quill and drew a fresh, blank sheet before him.  How cruel it seemed, to deface the bleached perfection of it, like treading footprints into virgin snow.

To Governor Claiborne…

***

Eliza was in the middle of a calculation when she heard a muffled cry from below, suddenly cut off.  Without stopping to think she dropped the quill and hitched up her skirts to run for the stairs, pelting down them at a break-neck pace.  The children had gone out to a friend for the afternoon, allowing her some time to work on the household accounts; the only other person in the house was Ham, and she prayed to God that he had not been taken suddenly ill again - or worse, collapsed.  (She prayed to God again that his health would improve soon.  She was staying optimistic for him and for the children, but in her private heart she worried.)

She caught herself on the door of the study, heart pounding and breath panting, and stared aghast at the sight that greeted her; her Hamilton, sitting quietly at his desk with his legs neatly tucked under him and one heel tapping unconsciously, holding a paper up to the light as he read it, perfectly well.

The wave of relief that flooded through her made her feel almost lightheaded, but quickly gave way to an irrational anger that he had made her worry.  She forced herself to swallow it down.

And he had not even noticed her clattering entrance.

“Hamilton?” she called as she approached the desk, unable to keep a note of asperity entirely out of her voice.

“Eliza?” he said in startlement as he swivelled in his chair.  “My Angel, what do you need?”

“I heard you shout,” she said simply.  “What has happened?”

Her husband gave an explosive sigh, and for a moment she thought he would not answer.  But clearly the need to give voice to his frustration was too much, for he pulled her gently down to his lap and laid his head for a moment against her shoulder, before clearly recalling that the oil and powder in his hair might stain her bodice and hurriedly straightening again.

“It is that impossible man, General Burr,” he said, holding the paper so that she could read it, his hand steady.  She squinted a little, trying to make out a script so fluid it sometimes looked more like ripples on the Hudson than meaningful writing, but no need; Hamilton could not help but explain it to her. 

“A little in retrospect, I wrote to him with a business proposal,” he said as though that were normal and expected behaviour towards a man whose society he had publicly forsworn.  Eliza had turned her head to stare openly at her husband before she recollected herself and composed her face.  “There were pressing reasons, and many benefits that would accrue to you, my dear girl, and to my family,” he said with a piercing blue glance sideways at her, one finger idly stroking her bared arm where he held her around her waist.  She stayed quiet, wondering. 

“The details of the transaction I recommended should be tedious to rehearse and doubtless signify little,” he continued.  “Its subject was some acres of land on Richmond Hill, which hold the promise of significant returns but whose potential General Burr is not in a present position to realise.  I suggested that he authorise me as his agent with a wide mandate.

“Instead…” Words failed him.  A velvety silence fell over the sunny office.  Hamilton stared sightlessly at the window, and she could see a muscle twitching in his jaw.  Then he blinked several times and looked down at the letter he held for her again, as though it had offered him mortal offence. 

“He has given them to me.”

Chapter Text

General Hamilton, New-York

Sir,

I regret extremely that I am unable to oblige you.  It is a matter of legal record that the property is no longer mine and its disposition therefore no longer in my power.

I prognosticate a return to New-York before Thanksgiving, if by then you still wish to pursue this matter; for my part, the business is closed.

In regard to the matter of the Mexican lands, the situation is complex but there is great good will on both sides.  There is no time now to go into detail - my friends here in South Carolina require as much courting as a maiden of twenty, with all the attendant theatre, and I must offer a performance every evening and twice on Saturdays.  I shall send more under cipher as soon as I may.

Yr ObH servant

A. Burr

***

Sir,

Hamilton contemplated the thick, creamy paper, the firm, sweeping lines of his handwriting.  He took out his knife and swept the blade lightly along the edge of the nib; he fancied he had felt a slight scratchiness.

The problem, of course, was not his pen, but his correspondent.  Such high-handed munificence was a gift that no gentleman of honour could possibly accept, even if Aaron were able to afford it which he could not.  But Aaron had a way of dodging around argument without, somehow, being moved by a hair’s breadth from whatever he had set his mind upon.  It was his most maddening trait. 

Hamilton paused, contemplating his quill.  No, he corrected himself with a painfully satisfying precision; it was his second most maddening.  His first was still, as it always had been, his ability to steal into Hamilton's affections without the least consent.

The phrase had a bitter tang on his tongue, beyond the quinine prescribed by Dr Hosack.  He could not quite remember - no, that was not true.  He could, of course he could.  His memory had always been his greatest asset, and his greatest trouble. 

Hamilton decisively pushed himself away from the desk and went over to the cabinet.  There were boxes in the basement, but those were too exposed to damp; as much of his correspondence as he could, he kept up here.

His hands slowed, fingers hesitating on the very handles of the drawers.  The letters he was looking for were in the basement, he belatedly remembered.  He had never wanted to look at them again.

He walked out of his study, called peremptorily for a candle, and waited impatiently at the cellar door, shifting impatiently from foot to foot, tugging at the fit of his waistcoat; today it felt a little tight, when just yesterday it had been loose and comfortable.  What was taking so long.  He hadn’t the time to waste, never had, and especially not now.  When the maid finally brought it, at a nervous half-trot with her hand shielding the flame, he could barely restrain himself from snatching it from her; he turned immediately and stalked down the little-used steps into the quiet darkness. 

The box he wanted was in the far corner, where the light from the door did not well reach.  He set the candle carefully down on the corner of an upper trunk where the skirts of his coat could not catch it, and knelt carefully on the cold flagstones, ignoring the immediate protest from his kneecaps.  He lifted the creaking lid and let his long fingers leaf quickly, efficiently through the stacked papers within.

Most of the handwriting was his own, copies of the many letters he had sent.  Others were in writing still familiar to him from a more recent time; John Jay, James Duane, poor Robert Morris… Hamilton closed his eyes briefly.  He had found his way into acquaintance with so many great men, in his ceaseless quest to find those who could build this nation with him.  And so many were now gone.  Used up by the struggle to build this country, which hungered still for lives and reputations; or turned against him for his principles.

There was one who would never turn.

Ah.  There.  He lifted out the letter carefully, the paper already feeling a little stiffer, looking a little more yellow - how like himself of late, he thought, the corners of his mouth drawing back in a brief rictus grin.

Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships

Really, he was surprised at quite how much he recognised of the younger Hamilton who had written that.  Already so cynical - though back then it had been partly a facade, an arch pretence to a maturity beyond his years. Well he had that in truth now, for what it was worth.  Now where… ah, there.

You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent. 

Dear Laurens.  He closed his eyes, felt the familiar crack inside his chest.  The world was fundamentally wrong.  It had faulted the moment it had somehow permitted death to lay hands on that ardent spirit, to steal away the Union’s greatest patriot from the country he had worked so hard to liberate.  That sheer serpentine ingratitude had corrupted everything that followed since. 

Slowly, reluctantly, without his own volition, his fingers walked through the rest of the papers, their edges dry and whispering against his fingertips.  Wait, no; this was 1783, he had gone too far.  How was that possible?  He leafed back again, more briskly.  The papers were in order, here was Eliza’s dear hand, but whose was…

He stopped, pulse suddenly thudding in his throat, chokingly hard. 

He had not known him.  He had flicked straight past his handwriting.

Very, very reverently, he eased the single fragment of paper out of the stack.  He looked over it with a strange double vision; the young man so fiercely happy in his friend's affections, the old man reading it, angry at his own frailties.

I entreat you not to withdraw the consolation of your letters. You know the unalterable sentiments of your affectionate Laurens.

August 15th.  Clearly a part of him had never forgotten.

If Laurens had lived, everything would have been different.  Laurens would have fought with him at the Continental Congress, stood at his shoulder supporting him with that stubborn charm as he had struggled to convince blinkered idealists that the states’ debts must be shared, that a nation needed a bank, that… He should not have been so alone and beleaguered, should not have been forced to compromise and compromise against his conscience, should not have become the man he was now.  A man Laurens would not…

Hamilton dashed at his eyes fiercely with his hand, then blinked several times repeatedly until his vision cleared.  He had left his spectacles on the desk, foolishly given this bad light.

And yet despite everything, still Burr forced upon him this insupportable intimacy.

He slipped the paper carefully back into the pile, easing it when it stuck and threatened to crumple.  He closed the box, and heaved himself back to his feet, glad that none of the servants were here to see his awkwardness.  He picked up the candle and headed back towards the stairs.

He could not allow this, any of this.  He must and would wipe from his country the vile stain of slavery; that must be his redemption, and Burr’s.  That must be his sole focus.  It was a goal worthy of them both, needing both of their genius, and there was so little time.  It was with that in mind that he would write.

(Burr would be in New York in three months.  It was not too long.  Hamilton would see him then, maybe see him President.  It would be enough.)

***

“...and I shall speak to mari about the best way for you to travel to Washington's City during sessions,” her father was saying as he stood at the window, explaining his plans.

He could not possibly think… of course he could, Theodosia raised with a pang of pain.  Her enfeeblement was incomprehensible to him, as had been her mother's before her. 

“Cher père,” she said, with an edge of astringency that he was forcing her to speak this aloud, “If you are intending that I should keep house for you, and make welcome there the great men of all the world who shall come to attend you, then I would want nothing more than to sit at your feet and guess at your pleasure, as I used to.  But you must see that it is quite impossible.”

“There is no other who will do,” her father said calmly, without turning.  “It is no wonder your health does not improve, immured in these swamps with only blacks and foolish women to talk to; a constitution such as yours requires stronger fare.  In Washington City you will meet every day with educated minds, scientists, the best doctors; it should do you more good in a week than any amount of time in inertia here.”

“It is no doubt as you say,” she acknowledged longingly, wishing that she could go with him, spend time in the heart of affairs when it was not denuded by war.  “But papa, you do ill to judge my will by your own.  I am no such exalted kind.  When my organic troubles flare up, my mind fails me; I become feeble and useless.  Do not, if you love me, force me to fail you.”

At this, her father did turn around, regarding her with the cool consideration that even she had never learned to see behind.  “You have not yet failed of the hopes that I had for my daughter, Theodosia,” he said, “and I expect and require that you shall not do so in the future.  To arrange a household and to put at ease its guests, you were taught as a child of nine; what a lazy slut you have become if you object to it now! Think of Gampy, if not of yourself; if he is to do nothing in this world but drive Negroes and plant rice his present situation may do well enough, but it is high time he began to imbibe a knowledge of the world that can only be acquired by mingling with his equals on equal terms.  I could write an essay on the subject, but you could do it just as well.  Is it not manifest that in Washington city he would acquire more in one season, and with greater ardour and enthusiasm, than he would in two years at home?  Pensae y, mes enfants.”

She should have expected the cut of her father's tongue; on some level, she always did.

“My son, your namesake” - she carefully put no emphasis on the flattery, for her father was not a fool - “is the greatest part of me,” she said firmly.  “He has already seen a little of the world, and though he bore it with all the bravery one might expect of your grandson, still, I am woman enough to prefer to keep his natural goodness untainted by the influences of the worldly for a little longer.

“I will speak plainly; what you need is not a daughter, but a wife.  Is there no woman in the north worthy of you?”

She had had such hopes of Susan Binney, but the woman had, it seemed, disappointed.  And ‘La G.’ and ‘Celeste’ had been of insufficient steel to see that her father in eclipse was worth any ten men in the full sun of popular regard.  It was perhaps just as well they had refused, and he had not been saddled with an inferior mate.

“I fear any woman in the north worth the knowing, has seen enough fools to avoid being handcuffed to one.” Her father was smiling a little as he walked back to his seat and sat sideways upon it, one ankle crossed over his knee, and she felt herself relax.  “The South has offered much entertainment and interest, but nothing yet in that line.  ‘Would that I had the counsel of my Juno’, I have thought to myself twenty times over, but it was not to be helped.  You see how essential you are to my projects.”

Her heart thudded painfully; she steeled herself to ignore it.  “Then will you hear my counsel, papa?” she asked, letting a little mock-sternness creep into her tone.

He arched one eyebrow at her.  Then he said, with judicial consideration, “I might.”

***

“Was this wise?” asked Troup, sotto voce, as he slipped into the seat King had been holding for him at the front of the hall.

“What do you mean?” King asked just as quietly, his voice almost lost in the hubbub.

Troup looked across at the others in the front seats.  There was Jay, looking solemn and patrician; a little further along, Gouverneur Morris had from somewhere acquired a short stool to support the stump of his thigh above the wooden leg.  Friends to Hamilton, and to the cause of emancipation.  But the same was not true of the whole room.  There were Federalists here who feared or loathed blacks, there were Clintonians who were enemies to emancipation and Federalism both; he had heard the whispers, the harsh edge to the soft laughter among those lining the back walls as he had entered. 

“Ham is a genius, and never more so than when speaking for a cause in which his passions are engaged,” Troup said honestly.  “But he is not always gracious or discreet.  Our enemies have no need of further excuses to inflame themselves, but you know that, if pressed, he will be generosity itself in providing.”

“And you know,” said King simply, “That there are none who can present our cause so well, or do more to convince the undecided.  And besides… well, you must judge for yourself.”

The hall quieted for a moment, then erupted as Hamilton took the stage; applause from the front, booing from the rear.  Hamilton gripped the lectern and stared down the crowd, his head lifted, chin tilted with a familiar challenge. 

Troup felt something tingle deep inside his belly, as it had when Hamilton had spoken in the Crosswell case, or, long before that, when he had set eyes on the latest issue of The Federalist.  Hamilton…  Hamilton was on crusade.

“A stranger to our politics,” he began firmly, “who was to read our newspapers at the present juncture, without having previous experience of the institution of slavery, would be naturally led to one of two conclusions; either that the Negro is an animal of a nature so bovine, so dull and inanimate that he is suited to nothing but to be goaded into the work of livestock; or that the Negro is an animal so perilous, and of such cleverness and ungovernability, that he should not be suffered to exist in our country, as we suffer the crocodile and the bear, but must be removed to some distant place for fear that he shall overcome us.  If he came afterwards to encounter a Negro himself, he should be surprised to discover, that neither the one nor the other was the case; but that the Negro is a species of man, acknowledged as a man by all branches of our government, and by our churches.  Indeed, even those most engaged in contending against his manhood, insist that the Negro is neither beast enough to be excused from original sin, nor devil enough to be excused the necessity of seeking salvation.  He is, then, a man.”

Hamilton's voice was calm and a little condescending, his gestures short and unhurried; a man explaining what was obvious and unarguable.  There was some muttering at his words, but it seemed the hecklers would wait until he had made his argument before they jeered at it; that, Troup thought with a lightening heart, was going to be a problem for them.  Hamilton could slip through a great number of assumptions in the course of making a case.

“The enslavement of a man, being so peculiar an institution, and of such interest and importance to all of us men, I must be forgiven a digression into that, which our papers have dwelt upon at length, the legality of the institution.”

Troup felt himself drawn forward for a moment (only a moment; one could not long lean forward over such a paunch as his own) in anticipation.  What thread was Hamilton going to weave through the unfortunate legislative fact that enslavement was explicitly allowed for in their very laws?

“Oft cited has been the case of Somersett, in English law, in which Chief Justice Mansfield ruled that slavery is so odious that nothing can be suffered to support it, but positive law,” Hamilton began directly.  He had prepared no cunning grounds for opposition, but was instead, astonishingly, squaring up straight against the enemy.  From behind Troup came shouts, references to the laws that existed in almost all of their states, all known and prepared in advance in expectation of this argument.  Hamilton drew breath for a moment, then drew himself up.  “I thank the gentlemen for sparing me some tiresome recitation,” he said with a wide smile, and Troup’s heart beat faster.  “Such positive laws exist, and are argued by this judgement to be valid.  But Mansfield did not claim that positive law would support slavery, only that it might be offered to; and I dare say that, despite the constellation of legal opinions here present, their expertise, as often as my own, has found that what is offered in support of an argument does not invariably carry it.”  There was a very brief ripple of chuckling from the crowd.  “And yet even in this,” Hamilton continued, a little louder, his tone hardening, “Mansfield committed a grave error.”

What… what was…

“It is a principle, long acknowledged in law, that no English legislation can recognise slavery.”

Troup’s jaw dropped open at the sheer chutzpah of the claim.  There were some halfhearted jeers from behind, but a feeling of breathlessness settled over the hall.  They wanted to see where this was going just as much as he did.  And that, Troup realised as he scrutinised Hamilton's face with the attention of a friend - the slight smile that twitched at his cheeks, the hawklike fierceness glittering in his eyes - that meant he had them, all, exactly where he wanted them. 

Troup felt suddenly lighter than a feather, as though he could flap his arms and fly right away.  He leaned back, not troubling to control his wide grin, and settled in to enjoy his friend's triumph.

Chapter Text

To William P. Van Ness, New-York

I was unhappy to hear of Genl. Wilkinson’s acquittal.  I should be obliged if it were possible to forward me some account of the argument for my perusal.  If he has not yet left the north it may be practicable to bring a private suit for slander in order to forestall further mischief, but I leave it to your best judgement.

My address remains at South Carolina; I am detained by decree, and hopeful that my future movements may be more generally banned.  The lady is of a perspicacity wasted upon the local mosquitoes, though I am sure D. would say I did better to court her father, who is a gentleman of wide and deserved respect.

The text of Genl. H.’s speech is of great interest.  His eloquence conceals defects in argument, but it is to the purpose.  Our nation cannot merely copy the British Slave Trade Act; something more visionary is surely expected.  Request D. to draft an article to that end for my approval.

Find out, if you can, the extent of Mr. Jay and Mr. King’s determination on Mr. Pinckney.  His talents are not in doubt, but our course necessitates a great deal of energy and I am inclined to think a man genuinely devoted to our aims will prove superior to one who comes to them as a second best.

Adieu,

A. Burr

***

Since Hamilton's milestone address to the New York Federalists - and others - August had faded into September, and yet still his energy had not fully revived.  Three years ago, her Hamilton had had all the stamina of a man in his twenties, able to ride directly from speech to impassioned speech, sleeping only in a snatched ten minutes here and there, all to keep Colonel Burr out of political office.  Now…

Eliza rested her head against the doorframe as she watched her Hamilton, leaning low over the desk, his legs tucked under and crossed, his elbow moving with sharp certainty as his quill scratched across the paper.  After a few moments the scratching stopped.  He laid his quill down, removed his spectacles, and rested his head in his hands in an increasingly familiar posture of weariness.

She had been his hands before; had been so proud it had almost burst her chest at seeing her own undistinguished writing give life and form to his irrepressible genius.  She had offered, several times, to be so again, but he had dismissed her - and to be fair, he showed no indication of the old pain in his wrists.  He was just tired, he said.  Her irrepressible Hamilton, tired.

He had not gone riding in weeks, either; his cherished gelding with such smooth, even paces was growing fat in the stable, taken out only by the groom and the children.  Though less and less could she really think of them as children anymore.

The gelding was not the only one growing fat.  Angelica had teased Hamilton mercilessly about the little pot-belly he was developing, just as when he had been immured in the Treasury creating a nation.  Eliza was not sure such teasing was justified; there was no excess softness in the planes and angles of his face.

She had confided her concerns to Jannetje, who had confided Troup’s concerns right back.  She would not lose her husband to the nation’s need again.

“My Hamilton,” she said softly, and he straightened and twisted in his chair to see her.

“You should go on upstairs, my angel.  I will be only a little longer.”

“You mean you will write all night,” she scolded a little, indulgently.

“Well, it is only a little night.”  His cheeks creased as he smiled at her. 

“Sometimes I think that it is not that the children take after you, but that you take after the children.”

She crossed the room to him and he reached out to place his hands on her hips and pull her a little closer, looking up at her, his blue eyes almost black in the darkness.  “Truly, Eliza, I have only a little to finish, and I must do so before the thought leaves me.”

“As though any thought has ever dared do that.  Hamilton, you work yourself to exhaustion.”  This close, her concern intensified.  The candlelight picked out all the shadowed hollows of his face, glinted on fine beads of moisture that should not be present.  She steeled herself.  “You must take a holiday to some hot, healthful climate.  Perhaps the Caribbean…”

“It is not practicable, dearest wife.”  He smiled, his face softening, and reached up one hand to gently cup her cheek.  His palm felt warm, a little rough; she caught the briefest hint of his cologne, musk and violets.  “I cannot afford such an indulgence.”

“Mr Troup would gladly give you the money,” she said, her voice quavering a little with her boldness.  “He loves you so, Hamilton, I truly believe he would do almost anything to see you restored to health.”

The hand stilled against her cheek, then dropped away, leaving only chill behind. 

“Darling Eliza, you have not been worrying your heart over my health?”

“All the family have.”  She lifted her own hand to trace the side of his head, from temple to jawbone.  His skin felt slightly moist, though not hot as she had expected.  “You should know by now that it is easier to arrange the affairs of a nation than it is to stop the concerns of those who love you.  Please, Hamilton.  There is no Union for us without you.  You must rest and recover.”

“Best of wives and best of women,” he quoted himself softly, and turned his head a little to kiss her fingertips.  He remained like that, his head turned a little aside, before he turned back to her and met her gaze. 

“You must not worry, my darling,” he began, and she felt something clench a little in her belly.  “I am, I confess, a little unwell; I have spoken with Dr Hosack; you well know the opinion I maintain of his ability, and it is better that I remain here than travel into the unknown hands of lesser physicians.”

“But then you must rest!”  She looked at him intently, tracing all the signs of illness with new eyes, feeling a tremor along her limbs. 

“My Eliza, you must be strong,” he said earnestly, catching both her hands in his own, cradling them like a fragile bird.  “There is every reason for hope, but should God choose to call me to Him, I cannot leave this work unfinished.”  His hands tightened and she realised she had given a start at his words, her own suppressed fears given sudden hideous life.

“My Hamilton,” was all she could say, looking into the familiar planes and angles of his face, the little creases worn by his smile, feeling the assurance of the strong grip of his hands.  Impossible to imagine a future without them.  Impossible to live in a world so empty.

“Remember you are a Christian,” he chided her, his expression unwontedly grave.  Then he pulled her fully onto his lap and put his arms around her, and she buried her face against his neck and felt him turn to kiss her hair, and everything was not all right, but while he was here… while he was here…

God had been so generous as to give her a claim on this great man, this genius, this sweet and tender husband.  Please, she bargained silently with God.  Please, I will pay any price You ask.  Please, only let him…

But she could feel her dreams of a long and happy retirement drifting away on the Hudson, and she was as helpless now against the mighty currents of the world as she always had been. 

***

To General Burr, The Oaks, South Carolina

I have prepared the article that you requested, though I note in passing that it is more than a month since last I heard from you directly.  If I have somehow offended I should be glad of the opportunity to set matters right.

I have heard from Mr Van Ness that you are inclined against Governor Pinckney.  If this bears more weight than but a moment’s imaginary experiment - if it is genuinely in your mind to choose otherwise - then it should prove more a relief than otherwise to your friends, though you must perceive that it risks the common cause you seek to make with the emancipatory Federalists.  However, if as I fear it is Governor Claiborne whom you favour, you must expect that the rumours that circulated previously regarding his qualification for office - by which I mean his excessive youth - should be revived by your enemies to both your detriments.  We have at present an unassailable advantage in your military record; I must earnestly beg that you consider deeply all the consequences before changing the agreed-upon election.

You have, of course, my felicitations upon your forthcoming nuptials.  This is an event that can bring your friends only a little less joy than it does to yourself.  Oh happy day, on which you forsake the rakish behaviour, for which your friends have long chided you, in favour of the marriage bed!  Mr Van Ness writes to you under separate cover, but lest that should miscarry he joins his congratulations and best wishes to my own. 

Is it yet known when we might expect your return to New York?

I have the honour etc

Matthew Davis

***

Troup had seen Hamilton in all his moods, from ebullient to vicious, but he had rarely seen him this dejected.  The chess table was set up; there were little cakes displayed on a side table, with a bowl of fresh apples and sweet late plums, and wine ready to pour; Ham was dressed with all his normal care, his hair powdered to snowy whiteness, in a gold waistcoat and powder-blue coat and beeches; but he lounged slumped in his chair, his head propped on one hand, barely glancing up at Troup from under his brows before relapsing into his preoccupation.

Troup dropped a cake onto the waiting plate, and poured wine into the fine crystal glass before seating himself, considering. 

“What has Aaron done now?” he guessed at last.

“He has gone to Virginia.”  Hamilton's words were brusque and clipped, and he did not look at Troup as he spoke. 

Troup mentally congratulated himself on not having taken a sip of the wine, as it meant he could neither choke on it nor spit it across the elegantly appointed parlour of his friend's town house.

“Why in the name of the Almighty has he gone to Virginia?!”

“Because he is a high-handed, prideful, contumacious Achilles, and Pinckney is an oaf and a fool,” Hamilton spat bitterly.  “It seems he has made a Myrmidon of Claiborne, and now insists on having his new lieutenant at his side, no matter what prudence, nor even simple rationality, might indicate.”

That was not precisely an answer.  “Governor Pinckney is in South Carolina,” Troup reasoned aloud, “And last I heard, Governor Claiborne remained in New Orleans.  Perhaps, Ham, you could favour your slow-witted friends with some clue as to where Virginia, a state completely under the thumb of our political foes, comes into the selection of our Vice-Presidential candidate?”

“You may read it for yourself,” Hamilton bit out, “Since Aaron has chosen to confide to me the entire chain of what he terms his reasoning, in a confession of detail which might have been agreeable were the circumstances otherwise.”

He retrieved a paper from beside his elbow and tossed it to Troup in a quick, frustrated motion before turning away with one hand across his eyes.

Troup picked up the letter and unfolded it, his eyebrows rising involuntarily at seeing Burr’s familiar smooth, slanted script in such profusion.  He really had explained himself.  He read through, his astonishment growing at the pains to which the letter went to explain each step of his friend's logic, emphasising that he continued loyal to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement he had made with Hamilton at that dinner after their duel, what seemed like half a lifetime ago.

“He values you highly,” he commented at last, feeling almost a pang of envy.  Ham should know, at least, what a rare gift he had been granted in their mutual friend actually condescending to explanations for once.

Hamilton made a curt gesture of dismissal with his free hand without looking back.  Troup would have understood if Ham had been raging; he felt more than a little offended himself.  Burr had abandoned their Federalist ally for a Republican whipper-snapper whose birth laid them open to attack; and in order to verify his qualifications he had left a lady at the mercy of gossip and risked insulting her respected father.  Troup had only admiration for Burr’s genius, and his kindness and generosity must be held in higher regard even than that; but his weaknesses…!

But Ham was not raging.  He was, unless Troup was very much mistaken, weeping.

How, Troup wondered with more than a little frustration, had two men with such sincere affection for each other developed such a gift for getting under one another’s skins?  But more than that, what was wrong with Hamilton?

“Hammie,” he said with gentle encouragement.  He leaned forward, realised how uncomfortable spending any time in such a position would be, and instead heaved himself out of the chair again and went around to Hamilton’s chair to put one hand on his shoulder.  Hamilton folded forward a little, his elbows on his knees, a ragged, horrible sob forcing itself from his throat.  “This is bad, but not disastrous.  Aaron wrote to me of Claiborne while he was in New Orleans, he has given encouragement to the free blacks there; and a man whose main work has been to guide the absorption of a territory formerly possessed by a hostile power must surely hold some respect for the value of a strong federation.”

Hamilton’s shoulder twitched violently, displacing his hand, and Ham surged out of his chair, grabbing the back for a moment as he hunched slightly sideways, and then stalked to the other end of the room and back again to confront Troup, his chin tilted stubbornly upward, the fingers of one hand clenching and unclenching at his thigh as he wiped roughly at his face with his handkerchief.  Troup braced himself.

“It is not that,” Ham said with a quick emphasis, in place of the attack Troup had expected. “Inevitably Burr will do as he will, I should have to be a fool beyond the claims even of my worst enemies to be unaware that instructions weigh upon him less than a straw.  He believes Claiborne will be a stronger prop in what is to come, and the man who would censure another for seeking loyalty ahead of political expedience is a man who has never been ground between the teeth of the Senate.” He struck his temple repeatedly as he spoke, his body occasionally trembling with tension.  The Senate audits had injured him, Troup remembered, more than most of his friends could conceive.

“I had expected you to be furious.” Troup watched as Hamilton stalked around the parlour, tapping at his thigh, picking up objects and placing them down again, a sudden fierce energy without direction.

“I leave that to Mr Jay and Mr King.  It is an irrelevancy to which I have not the energy to attend.  I previously criticised General Burr as a man without theory, who should be swayed by the inducements of foreign powers and evil men; and nor do I hold myself mistaken to have done so.  But it shall not be said of me that I was blind to change, or incapable of adaptation to alterations in circumstance.  You have known Aaron for as long as I have, Bobby; what do you make of that rag?” He gestured to the letter that, Bobby realised, he still held in his off hand; fine, thick paper rasping a little against his fingertips. 

He had no idea what Hamilton expected him to say.  He could only say the truth as he saw it. 

“You know I have not been slow to criticise Aaron’s political expedience, when it seemed to me that his talents were bent to ill ends,” he said sturdily.  “But when he takes a mission on himself, he is as tireless as the hounds of Diana in bringing down his prey.  I do not know what was in his heart when he went West, but he is committed now.  If it is possible for diligence and diplomacy to bring about manumission in our nation, he will accomplish it or die still trying. That is what I make of what you call a rag.”

For a moment Hamilton simply stared at him; then he put his hand across his eyes again, fumbled with one hand for the back of his chair, and slumped down into the seat. 

“Yes,” he said in a slightly muffled voice.  “That is what I make of it too.

“Oh, Bobby, I have wasted so much of my time.”

“Hammie?” Now Troup was seriously concerned.  He knelt down by Hamilton (wincing a little at the pressure on his knees), placing hands on one shoulder, one forearm, the fine wool warm and a little scratchy against his palms.  “What ails you, Ham?”

A faint laugh broke on a sob.  Hamilton heaved one breath, paused and let it out, then heaved another. 

“I am dying, Bobby,” he said at last, his voice wavering a little through a fragile calm.

The words slipped into Troup like a stiletto.  Oh, that explained a lot, he thought a moment before the burst of pain.

“No, Ham,” he whispered, appalled. “No.”  His voice strengthened.  “I know you have been unwell lately, but there must be something - a voyage, a second opinion - you have been despaired of before, and yet lived!  What has been your whole career, if not a defiance of the odds?”

“But not of God,” Hamilton responded simply.  He took another deep breath, his breathing calming, and put his own fine, long-fingered hand over Troup’s broad, blunt one.  “I need no third opinion when the first was my own.  Doctor Hosack but confirmed me in my apprehension.  There is nothing to be done; I die by degrees, and my time of use is limited.  I had hoped that I might see Aaron - that there might be an opportunity of consultation on our momentous project.  But if he will not now reinhabit New York until after the close of the year… well, the matter becomes a speculation of longer odds and fewer returns.” His hand tightened a little on Troup’s.  “I am sorry, Bobby.”

“You must write and tell him!” Why was Ham despairing when the resolution was so simple? “If he knew you were in such…” his voice failed him for a moment.  No matter how much he tried to control himself, his throat tightened and his lungs closed up. He swallowed.  “...in such a case, and desired words with him, he would find a way to come.”

A world without Hamilton’s restless passion seemed impossible.  How could the Union survive without his relentless shepherding? If he had instructions to give to Burr, a precious final direction that must not be lost to Burr’s own unreliable independence, then he must press it upon him with all the weight that he could.  Letters, Burr might disregard.  A promise in person, he would take as a sacred obligation.  And besides…

“I must not, and nor shall I countenance such action in my friends.”  Troup looked up to see Hamilton looking at him, smiling - smiling! - and clearly seeing through him as though he were a pane of glass.  “My quill, which I fancy has some skill in conveying argument, shall create a testament of rationality that, since it relies not on the vicissitudes of memory nor the transient concerns that alter, instant by instant, even honourable intent, will prove I hope of a greater longevity.  Passion may sway a man in the moment, more so the mob, but it is a fealty of no long endurance.  It is by logic, by the principles of natural philosophy, and by the demonstration of economic necessity that this revolution shall be accomplished.  Such minor matters as one politician’s mortality seem unlikely, on precedent, to carry force with Congress; it is a distraction to be ignored.”

God save him from lawyers.  Troup held Hamilton's gaze.  “And what of friendship?”

Hamilton's eyes lidded slightly, and his smile broadened, creasing his cheeks.  “You ask me that, who are here, as loyal and true a companion as ever I could have asked for.”

For a moment, Troup genuinely could not breathe.  And yet Ham continued.

“Here in New York I shall make my last stand, and think, if my great experiment survives me, that I have not been too ill-served by my strange destiny.  If you will stand by me, Bobby; alpha and omega to my career.”

“What man should I be if I did not!” Bobby squeezed Ham’s shoulder and arm for a moment, trying to convey physically what he had never had words for.

Another moment passed, during which he blinked back the tears that sprang to his eyes oddly out-of-phase with his thoughts.  He could not seem to entirely understand the news he had just been given.  Finally he carefully removed his hands, placing them instead on the arms and back of the chair to help lever himself up, his knees too stiff to fully straighten or hold his weight.  He stumbled back and subsided into his usual armchair.  The chess board between them, the cake on the plate, seemed suddenly to belong to a different Troup, one who had been incomprehensibly concerned with what he now knew to be irrelevancies.

“What may I do to help?” he asked practically, aching with ineffectuality.  “Is there anyone I can tell for you, to relieve you of that difficulty at least?”  And then, with a sudden, hysterical edge of malice, “Mr Van Ness?  Mr Davis?  Mr and Mrs Alston?”

Hamilton stared at him for a moment and then, pressing one hand to his side, began helplessly to laugh.  “Oh, Bobby.  Never change.”

And out of all this mess, Troup felt he had achieved something worth the doing.

Chapter Text

To Albert Gallatin, Washington City

It is not easy to detach a beau from the object of his fond attentions, but as you see the rumour-mongers of Washington have been equal to the challenge.

In answer to the demands of my friends I have been occupied all this week in riding to and fro in Sussex County - I fancy I could draw a very fine map, marking especially the positions of all the churches and the houses of retired pastors, for that is where my attentions have been focused.

The outcome of all this industry is that I have no more idea of the year of Mr Claiborne’s birth than when I set out, and should begin to doubt that the gentleman himself was aught but a folk tale had I not so often dined at his expense.  I conclude that the aspersions I have heard are nothing more than calumnies, bent to the ruin of an able young man.  

His qualities were not put so much to the question when first he took his seat among the Representatives, though he would have been no older then.  It is however, as you know, a game fashionable among some politicians to cast mud at the reputation of men of ability who have the poor judgement to disagree with them.  You, more than any, know also my indelible opinion that if a man of undoubted talents be willing to sacrifice professional gains in order to serve our Republic, he should on no account be hindered from his folly.

If, as I deduce, Mr Claiborne's detractors are merely enemies to A.B, then what a lot of rascals they must be to make war on one whom they do not know.  It is mere cowardice to attack a second in lieu of his principal, and it displeases me to see any of my friends so unjustly abused, and my own judgement so insulted.

You may share the results of my researches with whom you please, for I do not expect to return to Washington for the caucus.

Adieu,

A. Burr

***

In late October, South Carolina became bearable.  It helped that he was wearing an exquisite silk coat made for the occasion, rather than the simpler ones in which he had sweated through New Orleans; but it was the cooler weather that made the still air inside this plantation house bearable, the changing seasons that had decorated the great hall with pumpkins and intricately woven wreaths, and placed tall jars of flaming foliage amongst the tables and chairs.

He must discover whether Theodosia had had a hand in the arrangements, for they showed  a very pleasing artistic sensibility.

She was not visible, of course; she was with the bridal party, hopefully obeying his commands not to permit the bride to linger.  A little maidenly hesitation showed a very proper sensibility, but the delays that were becoming increasingly fashionable to his mind showed an unforgivable disrespect for the guests.  And there were a great many guests; he had run an experienced eye over them earlier as they mingled and was encouraged by this evidence of popularity.  It was fortunate that the former Lieutenant-Governor was willing to celebrate the union of their causes with sufficient largesse to satisfy a guest list appropriate to both of their positions; it should have caused him some embarrassment to provide it himself.

“There is quite a crowd here, General,” Alston commented softly from beside him. 

“There is.”

“See how South Carolina loves you.”

“I should be more concerned with how Miss Drayton loves me,” he responded dryly, ending the conversation.

Instead he felt a hand on his forearm, and tensed for a moment before he could master himself. 

“If, General, you have any doubt of that…”

Horrified, Burr realised that his son-in-law had misunderstood him, and that he was about to be the unwilling recipient of the most awkward reassurances.  If he didn't act quickly, Alston would be plagued with embarrassment for years to come. 

He half-turned towards him, the movement casually allowing the uncomfortably warm hand to slip off his sleeve.  “Forgive me; I spoke carelessly, and slightingly of whom I should not.  This election at least is settled.  I leave thought of the other to tomorrow.”

“Ah.  Of course, General.”  Alston subsided into an uncomfortable silence.  Burr knew he should do something to further smooth over the moment, but his head did not feel quite posèd enough to discern how.  Perhaps it was merely the social complexities of how to voyage as he must, and to whom he must, while encumbered with a new wife.  Martin would be welcoming, bless his good heart, but his house was that of a widower of bachelor habits, and God knew where Miss Drayton - by then Mrs Burr - would find companionship and entertainment.  He had offered her the alternatives of travelling ahead to New York without him, or of waiting in her father's house for him to send for her, but neither of those would really answer, and her determination to remain with him had quite moved him.  Of course, any friend of his daughter's would have spirit as well as a brain, no matter how indifferently educated.  In that respect perhaps it was as well they must go first to Luther, who by all accounts kept a rather respectable little library. 

Movement by the entrance brought Burr out of his musings.  The string quartet which had been playing softly at one side of the stage went abruptly silent, then drew their bows across their strings once in unison, very loudly, before beginning to play a solemn hymn.  The mingling crowd quieted and parted, and Henrietta Drayton walked slowly towards him on her father's arm.  Theodosia walked a little behind her, entirely composed, with a Mona Lisa smile on her lips from which Burr concluded some minor difficulty averted.  She looked a little pale; curse the climate of these cursed swamps!  Perhaps she could still be persuaded to travel north with them, at least for a little; it was the obvious solution to so many difficulties. 

Henrietta had, apparently, taken his advice as to the colour of her dress, which showed good judgement as her naturally rosy complexion would have looked ill in the white cotton that the planters favoured.  The pastel blue she had chosen instead was more flattering to her rounded figure, and harmonised with his own dark coat and sapphire waistcoat besides.  He smiled at her as she approached, appreciating the good sense and dignity she exhibited in spite of her nerves, and she blushed a little as she smiled back.

He offered her his elbow and Dr Drayton placed her plump, warm hand on his sleeve, patting it once in either reassurance or farewell.  With all the gallantry he could summon, Burr led his bride up the few steps to the stage.  He could not help reflecting that this posed and scripted affair was very different from his first wedding, shared with his wife's cousin to avoid expense; but then was not all the world a stage?  It was only to be hoped that their performances would pass muster.

He felt small fingers tighten a little on his arm, and chided himself for his inconsideration as he bent his attention to easing the nerves of Miss Drayton.  Soon to be Henrietta Drayton Burr.

***

General Burr, care of Luther Martin, Baltimore, Maryland

Although mine cannot be among the initial missives congratulating your union, the inevitable retardations of geography must not betray you into thinking my celebrations not among the foremost, my sentiments not the most heartfelt & affecting.  Any husband as blessed in his helpmeet as I have been cannot but hope for the same happiness in his friends, and I flatter myself that my rejoicing at this consummation can be but little inferior to your own.

Nevertheless your sudden good fortune can only make you more sensible of the grave & necessary duty to ensure that the future of our greater Union is one pedimented upon a more solid foundation than formerly, and one free from exploitation.

Unluckily for us, in the competition for the passions of the people our opponents have great advantages over us; for the plain reason, that the vicious are far more active than the good passions.  In the battle to win the latter to our side it is imperative that we make the greatest publicity of your useful ventures in Mexico and in Washington, for unless we can contrive to take hold of & carry along with us some strong feelings of the mind we shall in vain calculate upon any substantial or durable results.  

I have some apprehensions too of your replacement, by an untried Republican of unknown sympathies and antecedents, of General Pinckney, who in addition to his known and tested merit carries the respect & admiration of those sympathetic to Federalist concerns.  I apprehend the chain of thought that led you to this reversal but perhaps you forget that nothing is more fallacious than to expect to produce any valuable or permanent results, in political projects, by relying merely on the reason of men. Men are rather reasoning than reasonable animals for the most part governed by the impulse of passion. This is a truth well understood by our adversaries who shall undoubtedly practise upon it with no small benefit to their cause.

I have in mind a series of appeals to that most powerful of all human passions - vanity - in addition to the arguments of reason that have been previously laid out, by the very men who now deny their practicability.  Your friend Van Ness is not unversed in such skills and would compensate adequately, should you be agreeable to the loan, for my own want of sufficient leisure to fully address such a significant additional project.

Respectfully and affectionately Yrs,

A H

***

Van Ness had grown accustomed to conducting his political business in law courts and wealthy homes, rather than taverns, and had he been present Burr would undoubtedly have sensed his fastidious sensibilities and given him a gentle but unforgettable ribbing for them.  After all, Burr himself had gone without comment to the low places favoured by the working men of Tammany Hall, and met with them there with every sign of enthusiasm and interest.  And doubtless Mr Davis’s work required that he often do the same. 

Also, the cook here was clearly superior to his own.

He scooped up another forkful of pie while Davis made cryptic notes on the paper in his pocketbook.  Around them, cutlery and cups clinked, and voices rose and fell, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter, oblivious to the plans being made to court their favour.  Clinton was going to be a problem, and neither Van Ness nor Davis trusted their Federalist allies to be able to provide accurate intelligence about New England.  General Burr had never been so popular, but in a year, anything could happen - and the news of their new faction’s sympathy with manumission was proving polarising. 

“How's the writing proceeding?” Davis asked, clearly thinking along parallel lines.

“Well, I think, when it does go.”  He made no attempt to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Davis closed his pocketbook and looked up with a sudden sharpening of curiosity.  “Surely General Hamilton is not dragging his feet?  From all accounts this was his idea!  I do not mean merely this set of articles, but General Burr’s whole commitment to liberation.”

“That was the General's inclination even before their rapprochement,” Van Ness pointed out, a little stung by the implication that their redoubtable friend was being seduced by another’s agenda.  He sighed and dabbed a bit of bread around the last smears of the thick, meaty gravy on his plate.  “General Hamilton is not impossible to work with,” he conceded.  “General Burr’s high opinion of his eloquence is deserved, and he has a fine, logical mind - when he can be restrained from too much argument.  But he has set a demanding schedule for publication, and yet our last meeting was three times postponed; and the occasion before that, cut suddenly short.”  He paused, then added, the words drawn out of him reluctantly, “It is rumoured among his friends that his health is failing.  Some organic disease, they say.”

“The General’s friends always claim that his health is not robust,” Davis pointed out, “and yet his diligence in matters of state is scarce to be credited.  You are one of General Burr’s most able friends and defenders, but by this project you are stymied and stalled.  Perhaps their… rapprochement…” Van Ness noted the distinctly American pronunciation but said nothing “...has simply run its course.”

“Maybe.” Van Ness looked unseeingly past Davis, at where the autumn rains splashed and blurred on the cheap bubbled glass panes.  “It would be an impetuous move, and against his own best interests - though that has not prevented him before.”

“Should we…” Davis hesitated, and then fell silent. They regarded one another across the table.  From the expression of distaste on Davis's face, Van Ness could tell that their thoughts once again ran in parallel.

“Colonel Burr is much occupied with a new household, and the need to arrange affairs in the southern states,” Van Ness said at last.  “He confided matters here to our good judgment.” 

Davis did not directly answer.  He looked down at his closed pocketbook, frowning a little in thought as he took a sip of his indifferent wine. 

“When did you last speak with John Swartwout?” he asked at last in what was not a change of subject. 

“He wrote to me some time ago.  He feels deeply the loss of his brother, but I think regrets whatever expostulations were made in the first flush of grief.  I know that General Burr has been very tender of the family’s sensibilities - perhaps,” he added, answering Davis’s real question, “to an over-nice degree.”

“The General is apt to take criticism by his friends too much to heart,” Davis agreed.  “I'll speak to Swartwout.  If he is willing to aid in mobilising our supporters, we may be able to steal a march on Clinton, and thus compensate in some way for your own preoccupation.  Is General Burr still in direct communication with General Hamilton?”

“He is, yes.”  Van Ness did not need Davis’s raised eyebrows in order to suddenly feel a little foolish.  “Of course.  We have then no need to trouble ourselves on that account.” 

The faint drumming of the rain had subsided a little; the colour of the sky through the distorted glass looked a little paler.  Van Ness stood, quickly, placing a few coins on the table to cover his share of the bill.

“Thankyou, Mr Davis.  You have eased my mind.”  And he sallied out into the drizzle, hoping to reach his office before the storm closed in again. 

***

Betrayed by his body, again, this frail physical shell balking and failing under the demands of his mind.  Tears of anger and frustration stung in his eyes, a momentary relief against the pressure in his belly that felt as though it was tearing him open, bursting him like an abused pigskin football despite the laudanum. 

He must not weep.  It would distress Eliza.

“My Hamilton, you must try to eat,” she was saying now, her sweet voice determinedly calm.  “Please, try to take just a little of this toast-water.”

“Yes, yes,” he gasped, "I am sensible of the need.”  He forced himself to open his eyes and push himself up a little, though the effort just to move seemed as great as when he had risen from his sick-bed to ride, so many years before.  He subsided against the pillows and allowed Eliza to hold the cup to his lips, tip a little into his mouth; struggling with all his will to prevent his stomach from revolting at the bitter flavour of burned bread in the water.  His gut seemed to knot and he breathed slowly and with great evenness until it subsided.  “I will be well.  I will be well,” he muttered.  He must be.  This was just an inconvenient flare-up of his condition.  He still had time.  “Fetch me my quill.”

“My Hamilton…”

“Fetch me my quill.” He shoved himself upright, his teeth gritted against the discomfort, ignoring the sweat that suddenly sprang out on his brow.

“Yes, of course,” his dear Eliza capitulated.  He closed his eyes and sagged with relief as she gently dabbed a handkerchief down his neck to dry his sweat.

“Send to Van Ness,” he thought he said, as weakness dragged him under once more.