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Synopsis
1805. Thomas Jefferson is about to begin a second term, but with a new Vice President. Aaron Burr, dropped from Jefferson ?s ticket, is a bitter and resentful man bent on revenge. In Boston Jean Marie Macleod, a middle-aged lawyer, is a worried man. His young and beautiful wife, Marie, seems restless and dissatisfied. Macleod decides to seek advice from a friend in New York and, while there, meets an old acquaintance, Sebastian Francisco de Miranda, South American freedom fighter, Russian secret agent and adventurer. This chance meeting sweeps Macleod into a dark and dangerous world of espionage and violence. His young wife, Marie, sets out to discover what has happened to her husband, also falls in with old friends and is sucked into the terrifying vortex. A Union Not Blessed is a story of treason and betrayal by those who founded America and were appointed its guardians, the men who had become the enemy within.
Release date: October 24, 2013
Publisher: Accent Press
Print pages: 367
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A Union Not Blessed
James Green
Chapter One
Philadelphia
Library Hall, home of the American Philosophical Society
10.30 a m Wednesday March 13th 1805
‘Treason, sir. An ugly word and a dangerous one.’
‘Would you prefer me to dissemble, sir, an outright lie perhaps?’
Anthony Merry, Envoy Extraordinary to the United States of His Britannic Majesty, King George III, shifted uneasily in his chair. His blunt companion was Aaron Burr, lately Vice President to Thomas Jefferson.
Merry sat back and tried to look at his ease.
‘Let it be called treason then, Mr Burr, as it will be your neck in the noose if you fail.’
The room in which they sat was liberally supplied with comfortable chairs and writing desks, the walls lined with books and the high ceiling decorated with ornate plaster-work. The venue had been well chosen by Burr, their presence in such a place would arouse no particular comment nor any surprise, and the time of day gave them the room to themselves. If two men of consequence happened to cross paths while in Philadelphia, what more natural than that they should meet and talk and if both were of a philosophical turn of mind then what better place than the home of the Philosophical Society?
‘Come, sir, an answer if you please. Will London support me?’
‘My dear Mr Burr, you are a person intimately familiar with the workings of governments so you of all people must know that I cannot give you any such assurance.’
‘Mr Merry, today I am no more than a private citizen. But as you say, I do indeed know intimately how governments work, so my question to you again is, will the British support me?’
‘Do you ask me as Envoy from the Court of St. James or do you ask it, keeping in mind where we are meeting, as a philosophical question?’
‘I ask it as a blunt question and expect an equally blunt answer.’
‘Oh dear, American directness. Tell me, Mr Burr, why are bad manners considered a virtue in this country of yours?’
‘Take care, sir. Envoy or no I’ll not sit and be insulted by you or anyone else.’
‘But my dear sir, I do not refer to you. My comment was drawn from my experiences of your illustrious President Mr Jefferson.’
‘To hell with Jefferson and to hell with your experiences. Answer my question or bid me good day.’
‘Well then. If, and I stress the if, His Majesty’s Government decided to offer you some support for your venture what would you expect?’
‘Three frigates and as many support craft as necessary to hold open New Orleans.’
‘No forces on the ground?’
‘No. The troops needed are already arranged.’
‘Indeed! You have a private army somewhere?’
Burr ignored the question.
‘And five hundred thousand dollars.’
‘You say the sum lightly, sir, as if it were mere small change.’
‘So it is to the British Crown.’
‘No, sir. It is a great deal of money, a very great deal.’
‘A pittance to get the Louisiana Territories. Two years ago Jefferson paid almost four million dollars to the French for them. Or don’t you think they are worth it? I dare say I could go to the Spanish if your war with Napoleon has so emptied your treasury.’
Envoy Merry edged towards an answer.
‘And if I was to recommend the support of your venture, what assurances could you give me that our money and ships will be a sound investment?’
Aaron Burr gave Merry a somewhat pitying smile.
‘Your father was a successful London wine merchant, was he not? I therefore presume you are a person intimately familiar with the workings of business so you must know that I cannot give you any such assurance. Or do you, keeping in mind where we are, ask the question merely as a philosophical speculation?’
Anthony Merry, justly rebuked, returned the smile.
‘Touché, sir.’
Aaron Burr leaned forward.
‘Merry, you do not know me well, but you know me well enough to understand that I do not waste my own time nor that of others. I can deliver the Louisiana Territories. The military resources are already available to carry it out. What I need is money and sufficient sea power to ensure that America cannot blockade the mouth of the Mississippi. That is all I will tell you at this time. Now, sir, there are other people I must see and places I must go. You agreed to come here to Philadelphia to this meeting so I assume you take my offer seriously. Well then, will the British support me?’
Anthony Merry felt uncomfortable. This man, lawyer, soldier, politician, co-founder of the American nation and until so very recently Vice President, was a formidable man, a serious man. And he would not be put off any longer. Merry doubted very much whether he would go to the Spanish, but he might, he just might. The Louisiana Territories were vast and opening up rapidly. Merry couldn’t even begin to calculate their economic potential. But in Burr’s ambitious venture he saw something far more important than commercial gain; he saw the possibility of recovering Britain’s lost colonies. Added to which he had a strong personal reason to support the venture, his intense loathing of President Thomas Jefferson. Ever since Merry had arrived in Washington Jefferson had been at pains to insult and belittle Britain through him.
‘And if I recommended support, Mr Burr, what exactly are you offering?’
‘I can take the Territories but I couldn’t hold them, not without naval support and more troops. When I become master of the Louisiana Territories …’
‘And, of course, take a suitable title. King perhaps? Emperor?’
Aaron Burr ignored Merry’s facetious question.
‘When I will control the Territories I am prepared to allow Britain to station troops there and give full facilities to the Royal Navy in New Orleans. I will also grant full and free passage for British trade on the Mississippi River. That would give King George a highway to ship goods from Lower Canada through the Territories all the way to the Caribbean.’
‘You would trust us that far?’
‘No, not trust. As you said, I am intimately familiar with the workings of governments and from my recent experience at the hands of my own government I would say that my days of trusting anyone, anyone at all, are well behind me. I have been a soldier, sir, you have not. I understand warfare. Believe me when I tell you that this thing is done in all but name, if your government supports me.’
And Anthony Merry found that he did indeed believe him and, although he could never like the man, decided he would recommend to London that they support him in his venture to become master of the Louisiana Territories. Merry’s only regret was that by the time the thing was done Thomas Jefferson might have served out his second term and would no longer be President when British troops were once again garrisoned on American soil and the Union Flag flew from His Majesty’s warships in the mouth of the Mississippi.
‘Well then, Mr Burr, I will make my recommendation and if London accepts it you will have your ships and your money. But the decision rests with London. All I can do is recommend.’
Aaron Burr stood up.
‘I ask no more. Good day, sir.’
And without offering his hand he turned and left.
Several days later, from Washington, Anthony Merry despatched a letter to Lord Mulgrave, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs …
I am encouraged to report to your Lordship the substance of some secret communications which Mr Aaron Burr has sought to make to me since he has been out of office. Mr Burr has mentioned to me that the inhabitants of Louisiana, the lands recently purchased from France, seem determined to render themselves independent of the United States and the execution of their design is only delayed by the difficulty of obtaining previously an assurance of protection and assistance from some foreign power. It is clear that Mr Burr means to endeavour to be the instrument for effecting such a connection. He pointed out the great commercial advantage which His Majesty’s dominions in general would derive from furnishing almost exclusively, as they might through Canada and New Orleans, the inhabitants of so extensive a territory. Mr Burr observed it would be too dangerous and even premature to disclose to me at present the full extent and detail of the plan he had formed. In regard to military aid, he said two or three frigates and the same number of smaller vessels to be stationed at the mouth of the Mississippi to prevent its being blockaded by such force as the United States could send and to keep open the communications with the sea would be the whole that would be wanted; and in respect to money the loan of about one hundred thousand pounds would, he conceived, be sufficient for the immediate purposes of the enterprise.
Aaron Burr, after his secret meeting with Anthony Merry, continued his clandestine journey. He left Philadelphia for Pittsburgh where he had arranged to meet an old army colleague with whom he had served in the late war and who had subsequently prospered considerably in his military career, not least from Burr’s quiet but insistent support when Vice President. It was this colleague who would now return those favours and provide him with the army he needed. After that he would take boat down the Ohio River to meet a man who had already created for himself his own small kingdom, albeit only an island one, but whom he felt sure would be both able and willing to provide funds and other necessary support for his venture.
It was perhaps not altogether true that the thing was done in all but name. But that had been, at Merry’s own suggestion, more a philosophical answer to a philosophical question. He almost had his army, soon he would have funds and now, he felt sure, he had the support of the British.
Aaron Burr was well pleased with his progress and he allowed himself to consider whether his answer to Ambassador Merry had been so very philosophical after all. For once the thing was done in name then it would be done in fact and he would be a private citizen no more. Nor would he have to serve as second-in-command to some vain, weak ingrate. As for titles, others may have joy of that false grandeur and welcome. King he was happy to leave to Mad Farmer George and Emperor to the likes of Napoleon.
No, they were tyrants all and he had fought long and hard to throw off the yoke of such ancient tyranny. The title he wanted was the only one worth having. What Congress had denied him he would take for himself. He would be acknowledged at last by Jefferson, Adams, Clinton and all the others as President, President of a free nation made up of free men. President Aaron Burr.
Chapter Two
The Gallows Tree Club, Boston, Massachusetts.
3.30pm Friday March 15th 1805
‘Gentlemen, I think I speak for all right-minded men of business and patriotism when I say that this is an age of golden promise …’
A loud snort interrupted.
‘Dammit, sir, if I hear one more jackanapes tell me that this is an age of golden promise, then hang me if I won’t call him out. Call him out, sir, and damn well shoot him down.’
There was an uneasy stirring. Lunch had been taken and the best business brains of Boston had foregathered, as was their custom, to smoke, take wine or coffee and set America and the world to rights.
But things were not going well, no one in that gilded room of powerful minds and high morals was truly comfortable. Peace there might be, but the times were unsettled and tensions rose too quickly even among friends.
Having gained the floor with his outburst the Angry Man pressed his advantage.
‘Damn and blast any golden promise. What we have, gentlemen, is a mess, a political porridge of incompetence, corruption and damned self-serving.’
An ally took up the theme.
‘And porridge of any sort, as we all know, is poor food for business to work well on. Gentlemen, I run merchantmen, and trade must …’
An opposition sniper, keen to disrupt this new advance, chanced a shot at the Angry Man.
‘Corruption you say?’
The Angry Man glared at his questioner.
‘Corruption I said and corruption I meant.’
But the sniper had aimed well for other than glowering at his assailant the Angry Man failed to take his accusation any further and the leader of the Golden Promise faction re-took the field.
‘If our government’s all you say it is, sir, and if you say it is I must defer to your superior knowledge of such things …’ and here he smiled, paused and looked about him to let the slower minds take up his satirical intent. ‘If it is indeed as you say, then how do you account for the Louisiana Territories?’
There were murmurs of assent and support. Golden Promise had, without doubt, made a significant advance.
But the Angry Man, though he had suffered a setback, was not ready to admit defeat.
‘And why do we have the Louisiana Territories? Money, sir, money. Those territories were bought and paid for with solid American dollars made by honest men, men of business not damned politicians.’ The tide of battle swayed once again. Golden Promise was forced to give up his gained ground. To attack the Angry Man’s point meant attacking money and business, always a bridge too far. The Angry Man pressed his advantage. ‘Jefferson sits in the clouds in that new capital Washington while honest business is hedged about with laws and taxes. Honest men make the money and damned politicians …’
But he paused. It was all very well to damn politicians but you had to have something to actually damn them with.
Another ally stepped into the breach and eyed the sniper.
‘You asked earlier about corruption, sir. Well, my friend here is a man of sentiment and discretion, and being such a man he declined to name names. But I’m given to plain speaking so I’ll give you a name, sir. Yes indeed, I’ll give you a name’. He paused, looked about him at the expectant faces, then exploded his mine. ‘New York.’ He sat back and looked with ample satisfaction at his handiwork. Heads nodded and looks were exchanged, words of agreement were spoken and muttered. Seeing that it had been a masterstroke, the ally pressed on. ‘New York is left free to gather to itself the scum of the earth, to fill itself with Jews, Irish and God knows what else. It hauls in the polyglot sweepings of Europe by the boatload and uses them to steal the bread out of the mouths of true-born Protestant Americans. And who runs New York? Is it men of business, honest men of sweat and toil like ourselves? No, gentlemen, it is not. New York is run by idle, self-serving jacks-in-office, damned politicians.’
The Angry Man looked around enjoying his ally’s victorious assault. Attack New York and Boston fell in line to a man. The defeat was turning into a rout. He drove home his ally’s success
‘Look to New York and you’ll soon see exactly what I mean about politicians, gentlemen, exactly what I mean.’
The feeling took the room.
‘Damned porridge, couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘Scum of the earth.’
‘Jews.’
‘Irish.’
‘What the hell does polyglot mean?’
‘New York.’
‘Then why not damn well say so?’
The Angry Man and his allies sat back well satisfied. The field was theirs, Golden Promise was in the basement with no takers. With no more need of anger he took undisputed possession of the field and continued. ‘Look at the place, gentlemen, could anyone here breathe its air and not feel tainted?’
His ally shared the victory.
‘And look at the men who run the place, villains all.’
It was a mistake.
New York, in the abstract, as a name and a rival, was fair game. But men were individuals and were far from abstract. Republican Democrats and Federalists in the room readied themselves to defend their own.
Yes, indeed, a mistake had been made, a strategic blunder in the very moment of victory and it was quickly taken up.
‘What’s that? Put names to these villains, sir. Do you mean Clinton?’
‘No, sir, no. Not Clinton of course.’
A retreat.
‘Then who? Schuyler, perhaps.’
Neutrals began to stir and take an interest.
‘Dammit, I served with Schuyler.’
‘Damn fine officer, good-looking wife as I remember.’
‘Burr? Do you say Aaron Burr’s a villain?’
The ally realised too late his error and knew that without relief he was doomed. He turned to his Captain who looked at him as if to say, fear not, I shall not fail you, and the Angry Man took to the field once more.
‘Aye, gentlemen, the names you speak are all ones we can honour as Americans. But mark me, gentlemen, what did the foul air of New York do to two of the best of those men. Brought them down, sirs, brought them low. Hamilton dead at the hand of Burr just last summer. Two of our best men down by a single shot –’
‘How two? Burr didn’t die.’
‘No, sir, Aaron Burr lives, if by living you mean no more than breathing, but in every sense that matters to this country Burr is as dead as Hamilton.’
The mood changed as they reflected on the fatal meeting of the two men just outside New Jersey the previous year.
‘Pity it was Hamilton that went down. Not a man I could agree with but a true American. Now Burr, well Aaron Burr’s another kettle of fish.’
‘A pity then that Hamilton wasn’t a better shot. But none of the Hamiltons could hit a barn even from the inside. It’s only three years ago that his son was dropped in a duel.’
‘Good shot or bad shot, Hamilton was called out by Burr. What could a man of honour do but accept the challenge?’
Several heads nodded in agreement when Golden Promise, though only a moment ago so down, returned to the field revived.
‘Wrong, sir, wrong. Burr was finished before the duel. Jefferson had dropped him as Vice President and he lost out as Governor of New York, and in my opinion, gentlemen, that is all to the good. The country is better off without Aaron Burr. It wasn’t New York air that did the damage it was –’
A somewhat diffident voice as yet unheard insinuated itself firmly into the talk.
‘I sometimes wonder, gentlemen, whether New York isn’t in the right, and a rigorous suppression of duelling might not be in the best interests of the common good in these more enlightened times.’
Heads turned and looked at the speaker of this double blasphemy. There was a second of strained silence. Then someone laughed loudly.
‘Ha, ha. Damned good, Macleod. Damned good.’
The tension passed and the room was full of laughter. Lawyer Macleod had made a joke, although from the look on his face he seemed unaware of having said anything amusing.
‘Truly, gentlemen, I think that in this day and age there should be no place for honour killings.’
There was more laughter and one man remarked quietly to his neighbour that Lawyer Macleod had a very dry manner in his wit but it was somehow all the funnier for it. The neighbour nodded and spoke loudly the thoughts of the room.
‘Aye, Macleod, we all know your feelings in the matter of honour killings, and there’s two men in a cemetery near here, each with a pistol ball in his head, who know it as well.’
There was more laughter and even the Angry Man seemed willing to forget his earlier manner and concede that his previous conflict with Golden Promise was now finished.
‘I see married life agrees with you, Macleod. There was a time, and not too long ago either, when you wouldn’t have been here in this club taking lunch, never mind making jokes at your own expense.’ He turned and offered an olive branch to his erstwhile opponent. ‘I agree with you, sir, up to point. There’s one man among us who has a future of golden promise now that he has a handsome young wife by his side.’ He turned back to Lawyer Macleod and raised his glass. ‘You’re a lucky man, Macleod, I drink to your good fortune and to your charming wife.’
He drank and others joined in his salute which, if it did anything for the lawyer, seemed to cause him embarrassment more than pleasure. He rose.
‘Thank you, gentlemen.’
‘Not going so soon, Macleod?’
‘There’s work to do, I must return to my office. My compliments, gentlemen, and good-day.
And Lawyer Macleod was gone.
The supporter of Golden Promise used the silence after this sudden and abrupt exit for a friendly sally.
‘Well, sir, I wonder if you’d have been quite so emphatic about shooting people down if it had been Lawyer Macleod who had suggested this was an age of golden promise?’
His remark was greeted with gentle laughter and the man, his anger well passed, took the barb well and smiled.
‘Perhaps I might have phrased my words differently.’
Another offered an opinion.
‘A funny stick, our lawyer, and still a degree too touchy for my taste.’
‘But still not a man anyone would want looking at them down the wrong end of a pistol.’
There was thoughtful laughter of agreement.
‘Strange man, Macleod, and much changed in my opinion. I can’t say I can make him out since he flitted away and then flitted back.’
‘Aye, a bit of a mystery our lawyer ever since he took to wandering.’
‘I’d wager there’s an interesting story behind it all if he’d care to tell it.’
‘Or if that pretty wife of his would.’
‘But they neither of them do care to tell it, in fact they’re both damned tight-lipped on the subject.’
‘Hell’s teeth, why doesn’t someone have the gumption to come straight out and ask him?’
Heads turned to the questioner.
‘Aye, sir, you ask him, and if he calls you out for prying into his private life –’
‘Which he takes a deal of care to keep private.
‘– just tell us where you want the body sent.’
There was laughter and the questioner’s look showed the assembly that he had withdrawn his suggestion.
But Lawyer Macleod’s skill with a pistol was not a serious topic, not the stuff on which these powerful minds chewed after their lunch. There was a warm blaze in the big fireplace and the early spring weather outside remained as it had been all day, uninviting. The gathering settled down deeper into their chairs, refreshed their cups and glasses, drew on their pipes and once again returned to business. There could be neither respite nor triviality for these men and the call of duty always found them ready. There was a world to set to rights and the place to begin, as always, was with America.
Chapter Three
Outside the warmth and comfort of the club a bitter wind blew and the March sky threatened late snow. Macleod walked through the busy Boston streets wrapped in his thick coat, one gloved hand plunged deep in his pocket while the other held the brim of his tall hat securing it against the wind. He was not headed back to his office. He was going home. The small lie told to his companions caused him no pang of conscience. His private life was exactly that, private.
If anyone had told Lawyer Macleod that he was considered something of a mystery to Boston society he would have been amazed. In his own eyes he was a commonplace man of business who chose to keep himself to himself, nothing more. But the Boston that lunched, dined and gossiped thought otherwise. Until three years ago he was known as the city’s best business and contracts lawyer. He was also known as a bitter, middle-aged widower with no family and no friends, a man who lived little better than a miser, shut away in a few rooms of the big town-house left to him by his father and served by one ancient, crotchety maid-of-all-work. So the years had passed until, suddenly, he had shut up his office, left Boston and disappeared, only to return some months later with a beautiful young woman twenty years his junior.
Boston morality was shocked, nay, stunned. Lawyer Macleod may have been that rara avis; a wealthy Boston Catholic, but even a Papist must have realised that the young woman’s position in his home was at best highly ambiguous and at worst downright scandalous. But before Boston could suitably express its perfectly justified moral outrage both Macleod and the young woman had suddenly disappeared again! After several months they returned and moral Boston breathed a sigh of relief for on the third finger of her left hand the young woman wore a ring. She was now Mrs Macleod.
The new young wife, Marie, was beautiful, Catholic and came from New Orleans. That much soon became common knowledge, but, as both Marie and Macleod were strangely reticent to provide any further information, society drew its own conclusions.
Macleod had been ensnared!
It was the old, old story. The young woman had sold her considerable good looks to gain his considerable gold – and Boston society honoured her for it.
Worldly-wise tongues wagged out their version of the story as if they’d had it direct from the Macleods themselves.
Somewhere on his travels he had encountered this beauty and she, realising he was a prize, had snapped him up. But once she had seen Boston the young woman showed she had brains as well as looks and, with eminent good sense, had insisted that in Protestant Boston it had to be marriage or nothing and, so it seemed to Mr and Mrs Worldly-wise, she had got her way.
But if society cast Marie as a clever adventuress she stubbornly refused to play the part for them. Once she and Macleod were settled as husband and wife both were satisfied to live simply, happy in each other’s company. They hired a housekeeper who also served Marie as maid and a serving man who doubled as Macleod’s valet and also acted as coachman. As their weeks of married life grew into months neither Macleod not Marie saw any reason to increase their household.
Boston observed all this and agreed that marriage had, after all, not totally eradicated Macleod’s miserly inclinations. On further consideration of the situation, having nothing but themselves as models on which to build their theories, they came to the conclusion that the new Mrs Macleod was not sorry to see so little of her husband’s wealth spent. The more would come to her on that unhappy day when her much older husband finally shuffled off this mortal coil. Heads nodded knowingly and sly looks were exchanged. A deep game and a long one, but considering the rewards, a most excellent game.
In the Macleod home French was spoken. Macleod’s mother had been French and he had been brought up to speak the language fluently. Their housekeeper-maid had been employed because she spoke the language well enough. Without the stimulus of necessity Marie’s progress in English was, understandably, slow and laborious. She understood most of what she heard but only spoke enough English to be able to go out and exchange simple greetings and pleasantries and, having no need at home to improve, she went out less and less. Marie shopped in the company of her maid and sometimes lunched with a few ladies who spoke French well enough to make conversation enjoyable. But it was, for the most part, a lonely existence and, worse, it was pointless.
Boston did not know it and, she hoped, would never know it, but when she met Macleod in New Orleans she had been a woman very much in the forefront of fashion and society. But, despite all the gaiety and gushing that her position had involved, she had been no more than a thing for show, a necessary social adornment to a wealthy, aristocratic fop of a husband who preferred to share his private life and his bed with another man. Macleod had taken her from that misery and shame and given her a place in his heart and his home and she loved him deeply for that. But as time slipped past Marie felt that she was in danger of drifting into a life which, although less humiliating, was equally without a purpose. She sought comfort in her Catholic faith and confided her concerns to the priest who at once diagnosed her problem. The answer was simple, she needed a child. She was a wife, and a good Catholic woman was never truly a wife until she was a mother, God willing, a mother many times over.
She took away his advice and thought about it, and the more she thought about it the more it seemed to be the answer to all her anxiety.
For a time she brought a frequency and passion to their love-making which surprised Macleod. He did not object, rather the reverse, but he was surprised. By night Marie used passion and by day prayer. Her heart ached to be able to give her husband a new life and to have herself a child whom she could watch grow and flourish. A child whom she could love and care for. Their child.
Months passed but the cycle of her body stubbornly refused to vary. They slept together often but into her passion Macleod seemed to sense a kind of desperation which he could not understand. Nights of love-making came and went, days of candles lit and prayers offered passed, but no new life came into her.
Finally a year of marriage was celebrated but Macleod noticed that the joy of their anniversary was somewhat muted in his wife. He did not know it but a fear had crept into Marie. What if she was barren! That the fault might lie with her husband never crossed her mind. If there was a failure then it must be hers, a punishment for past sins. God’s judgment. That was the way her Catholic mind worked.
Macleod increasingly noticed her moods and restlessness and it slowly stole over him that she might not be altogether happy. He thought about it. He brought his dry lawyer’s mind to bear on the problem. It wasn’t money. Whatever she asked he gave, although she asked for little. He offered to hire a proper lady’s maid to be a companion. She refused. She did not want or need any more servants. He asked if she would like to open more rooms, perhaps redecorate some of the house? She did no
Philadelphia
Library Hall, home of the American Philosophical Society
10.30 a m Wednesday March 13th 1805
‘Treason, sir. An ugly word and a dangerous one.’
‘Would you prefer me to dissemble, sir, an outright lie perhaps?’
Anthony Merry, Envoy Extraordinary to the United States of His Britannic Majesty, King George III, shifted uneasily in his chair. His blunt companion was Aaron Burr, lately Vice President to Thomas Jefferson.
Merry sat back and tried to look at his ease.
‘Let it be called treason then, Mr Burr, as it will be your neck in the noose if you fail.’
The room in which they sat was liberally supplied with comfortable chairs and writing desks, the walls lined with books and the high ceiling decorated with ornate plaster-work. The venue had been well chosen by Burr, their presence in such a place would arouse no particular comment nor any surprise, and the time of day gave them the room to themselves. If two men of consequence happened to cross paths while in Philadelphia, what more natural than that they should meet and talk and if both were of a philosophical turn of mind then what better place than the home of the Philosophical Society?
‘Come, sir, an answer if you please. Will London support me?’
‘My dear Mr Burr, you are a person intimately familiar with the workings of governments so you of all people must know that I cannot give you any such assurance.’
‘Mr Merry, today I am no more than a private citizen. But as you say, I do indeed know intimately how governments work, so my question to you again is, will the British support me?’
‘Do you ask me as Envoy from the Court of St. James or do you ask it, keeping in mind where we are meeting, as a philosophical question?’
‘I ask it as a blunt question and expect an equally blunt answer.’
‘Oh dear, American directness. Tell me, Mr Burr, why are bad manners considered a virtue in this country of yours?’
‘Take care, sir. Envoy or no I’ll not sit and be insulted by you or anyone else.’
‘But my dear sir, I do not refer to you. My comment was drawn from my experiences of your illustrious President Mr Jefferson.’
‘To hell with Jefferson and to hell with your experiences. Answer my question or bid me good day.’
‘Well then. If, and I stress the if, His Majesty’s Government decided to offer you some support for your venture what would you expect?’
‘Three frigates and as many support craft as necessary to hold open New Orleans.’
‘No forces on the ground?’
‘No. The troops needed are already arranged.’
‘Indeed! You have a private army somewhere?’
Burr ignored the question.
‘And five hundred thousand dollars.’
‘You say the sum lightly, sir, as if it were mere small change.’
‘So it is to the British Crown.’
‘No, sir. It is a great deal of money, a very great deal.’
‘A pittance to get the Louisiana Territories. Two years ago Jefferson paid almost four million dollars to the French for them. Or don’t you think they are worth it? I dare say I could go to the Spanish if your war with Napoleon has so emptied your treasury.’
Envoy Merry edged towards an answer.
‘And if I was to recommend the support of your venture, what assurances could you give me that our money and ships will be a sound investment?’
Aaron Burr gave Merry a somewhat pitying smile.
‘Your father was a successful London wine merchant, was he not? I therefore presume you are a person intimately familiar with the workings of business so you must know that I cannot give you any such assurance. Or do you, keeping in mind where we are, ask the question merely as a philosophical speculation?’
Anthony Merry, justly rebuked, returned the smile.
‘Touché, sir.’
Aaron Burr leaned forward.
‘Merry, you do not know me well, but you know me well enough to understand that I do not waste my own time nor that of others. I can deliver the Louisiana Territories. The military resources are already available to carry it out. What I need is money and sufficient sea power to ensure that America cannot blockade the mouth of the Mississippi. That is all I will tell you at this time. Now, sir, there are other people I must see and places I must go. You agreed to come here to Philadelphia to this meeting so I assume you take my offer seriously. Well then, will the British support me?’
Anthony Merry felt uncomfortable. This man, lawyer, soldier, politician, co-founder of the American nation and until so very recently Vice President, was a formidable man, a serious man. And he would not be put off any longer. Merry doubted very much whether he would go to the Spanish, but he might, he just might. The Louisiana Territories were vast and opening up rapidly. Merry couldn’t even begin to calculate their economic potential. But in Burr’s ambitious venture he saw something far more important than commercial gain; he saw the possibility of recovering Britain’s lost colonies. Added to which he had a strong personal reason to support the venture, his intense loathing of President Thomas Jefferson. Ever since Merry had arrived in Washington Jefferson had been at pains to insult and belittle Britain through him.
‘And if I recommended support, Mr Burr, what exactly are you offering?’
‘I can take the Territories but I couldn’t hold them, not without naval support and more troops. When I become master of the Louisiana Territories …’
‘And, of course, take a suitable title. King perhaps? Emperor?’
Aaron Burr ignored Merry’s facetious question.
‘When I will control the Territories I am prepared to allow Britain to station troops there and give full facilities to the Royal Navy in New Orleans. I will also grant full and free passage for British trade on the Mississippi River. That would give King George a highway to ship goods from Lower Canada through the Territories all the way to the Caribbean.’
‘You would trust us that far?’
‘No, not trust. As you said, I am intimately familiar with the workings of governments and from my recent experience at the hands of my own government I would say that my days of trusting anyone, anyone at all, are well behind me. I have been a soldier, sir, you have not. I understand warfare. Believe me when I tell you that this thing is done in all but name, if your government supports me.’
And Anthony Merry found that he did indeed believe him and, although he could never like the man, decided he would recommend to London that they support him in his venture to become master of the Louisiana Territories. Merry’s only regret was that by the time the thing was done Thomas Jefferson might have served out his second term and would no longer be President when British troops were once again garrisoned on American soil and the Union Flag flew from His Majesty’s warships in the mouth of the Mississippi.
‘Well then, Mr Burr, I will make my recommendation and if London accepts it you will have your ships and your money. But the decision rests with London. All I can do is recommend.’
Aaron Burr stood up.
‘I ask no more. Good day, sir.’
And without offering his hand he turned and left.
Several days later, from Washington, Anthony Merry despatched a letter to Lord Mulgrave, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs …
I am encouraged to report to your Lordship the substance of some secret communications which Mr Aaron Burr has sought to make to me since he has been out of office. Mr Burr has mentioned to me that the inhabitants of Louisiana, the lands recently purchased from France, seem determined to render themselves independent of the United States and the execution of their design is only delayed by the difficulty of obtaining previously an assurance of protection and assistance from some foreign power. It is clear that Mr Burr means to endeavour to be the instrument for effecting such a connection. He pointed out the great commercial advantage which His Majesty’s dominions in general would derive from furnishing almost exclusively, as they might through Canada and New Orleans, the inhabitants of so extensive a territory. Mr Burr observed it would be too dangerous and even premature to disclose to me at present the full extent and detail of the plan he had formed. In regard to military aid, he said two or three frigates and the same number of smaller vessels to be stationed at the mouth of the Mississippi to prevent its being blockaded by such force as the United States could send and to keep open the communications with the sea would be the whole that would be wanted; and in respect to money the loan of about one hundred thousand pounds would, he conceived, be sufficient for the immediate purposes of the enterprise.
Aaron Burr, after his secret meeting with Anthony Merry, continued his clandestine journey. He left Philadelphia for Pittsburgh where he had arranged to meet an old army colleague with whom he had served in the late war and who had subsequently prospered considerably in his military career, not least from Burr’s quiet but insistent support when Vice President. It was this colleague who would now return those favours and provide him with the army he needed. After that he would take boat down the Ohio River to meet a man who had already created for himself his own small kingdom, albeit only an island one, but whom he felt sure would be both able and willing to provide funds and other necessary support for his venture.
It was perhaps not altogether true that the thing was done in all but name. But that had been, at Merry’s own suggestion, more a philosophical answer to a philosophical question. He almost had his army, soon he would have funds and now, he felt sure, he had the support of the British.
Aaron Burr was well pleased with his progress and he allowed himself to consider whether his answer to Ambassador Merry had been so very philosophical after all. For once the thing was done in name then it would be done in fact and he would be a private citizen no more. Nor would he have to serve as second-in-command to some vain, weak ingrate. As for titles, others may have joy of that false grandeur and welcome. King he was happy to leave to Mad Farmer George and Emperor to the likes of Napoleon.
No, they were tyrants all and he had fought long and hard to throw off the yoke of such ancient tyranny. The title he wanted was the only one worth having. What Congress had denied him he would take for himself. He would be acknowledged at last by Jefferson, Adams, Clinton and all the others as President, President of a free nation made up of free men. President Aaron Burr.
Chapter Two
The Gallows Tree Club, Boston, Massachusetts.
3.30pm Friday March 15th 1805
‘Gentlemen, I think I speak for all right-minded men of business and patriotism when I say that this is an age of golden promise …’
A loud snort interrupted.
‘Dammit, sir, if I hear one more jackanapes tell me that this is an age of golden promise, then hang me if I won’t call him out. Call him out, sir, and damn well shoot him down.’
There was an uneasy stirring. Lunch had been taken and the best business brains of Boston had foregathered, as was their custom, to smoke, take wine or coffee and set America and the world to rights.
But things were not going well, no one in that gilded room of powerful minds and high morals was truly comfortable. Peace there might be, but the times were unsettled and tensions rose too quickly even among friends.
Having gained the floor with his outburst the Angry Man pressed his advantage.
‘Damn and blast any golden promise. What we have, gentlemen, is a mess, a political porridge of incompetence, corruption and damned self-serving.’
An ally took up the theme.
‘And porridge of any sort, as we all know, is poor food for business to work well on. Gentlemen, I run merchantmen, and trade must …’
An opposition sniper, keen to disrupt this new advance, chanced a shot at the Angry Man.
‘Corruption you say?’
The Angry Man glared at his questioner.
‘Corruption I said and corruption I meant.’
But the sniper had aimed well for other than glowering at his assailant the Angry Man failed to take his accusation any further and the leader of the Golden Promise faction re-took the field.
‘If our government’s all you say it is, sir, and if you say it is I must defer to your superior knowledge of such things …’ and here he smiled, paused and looked about him to let the slower minds take up his satirical intent. ‘If it is indeed as you say, then how do you account for the Louisiana Territories?’
There were murmurs of assent and support. Golden Promise had, without doubt, made a significant advance.
But the Angry Man, though he had suffered a setback, was not ready to admit defeat.
‘And why do we have the Louisiana Territories? Money, sir, money. Those territories were bought and paid for with solid American dollars made by honest men, men of business not damned politicians.’ The tide of battle swayed once again. Golden Promise was forced to give up his gained ground. To attack the Angry Man’s point meant attacking money and business, always a bridge too far. The Angry Man pressed his advantage. ‘Jefferson sits in the clouds in that new capital Washington while honest business is hedged about with laws and taxes. Honest men make the money and damned politicians …’
But he paused. It was all very well to damn politicians but you had to have something to actually damn them with.
Another ally stepped into the breach and eyed the sniper.
‘You asked earlier about corruption, sir. Well, my friend here is a man of sentiment and discretion, and being such a man he declined to name names. But I’m given to plain speaking so I’ll give you a name, sir. Yes indeed, I’ll give you a name’. He paused, looked about him at the expectant faces, then exploded his mine. ‘New York.’ He sat back and looked with ample satisfaction at his handiwork. Heads nodded and looks were exchanged, words of agreement were spoken and muttered. Seeing that it had been a masterstroke, the ally pressed on. ‘New York is left free to gather to itself the scum of the earth, to fill itself with Jews, Irish and God knows what else. It hauls in the polyglot sweepings of Europe by the boatload and uses them to steal the bread out of the mouths of true-born Protestant Americans. And who runs New York? Is it men of business, honest men of sweat and toil like ourselves? No, gentlemen, it is not. New York is run by idle, self-serving jacks-in-office, damned politicians.’
The Angry Man looked around enjoying his ally’s victorious assault. Attack New York and Boston fell in line to a man. The defeat was turning into a rout. He drove home his ally’s success
‘Look to New York and you’ll soon see exactly what I mean about politicians, gentlemen, exactly what I mean.’
The feeling took the room.
‘Damned porridge, couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘Scum of the earth.’
‘Jews.’
‘Irish.’
‘What the hell does polyglot mean?’
‘New York.’
‘Then why not damn well say so?’
The Angry Man and his allies sat back well satisfied. The field was theirs, Golden Promise was in the basement with no takers. With no more need of anger he took undisputed possession of the field and continued. ‘Look at the place, gentlemen, could anyone here breathe its air and not feel tainted?’
His ally shared the victory.
‘And look at the men who run the place, villains all.’
It was a mistake.
New York, in the abstract, as a name and a rival, was fair game. But men were individuals and were far from abstract. Republican Democrats and Federalists in the room readied themselves to defend their own.
Yes, indeed, a mistake had been made, a strategic blunder in the very moment of victory and it was quickly taken up.
‘What’s that? Put names to these villains, sir. Do you mean Clinton?’
‘No, sir, no. Not Clinton of course.’
A retreat.
‘Then who? Schuyler, perhaps.’
Neutrals began to stir and take an interest.
‘Dammit, I served with Schuyler.’
‘Damn fine officer, good-looking wife as I remember.’
‘Burr? Do you say Aaron Burr’s a villain?’
The ally realised too late his error and knew that without relief he was doomed. He turned to his Captain who looked at him as if to say, fear not, I shall not fail you, and the Angry Man took to the field once more.
‘Aye, gentlemen, the names you speak are all ones we can honour as Americans. But mark me, gentlemen, what did the foul air of New York do to two of the best of those men. Brought them down, sirs, brought them low. Hamilton dead at the hand of Burr just last summer. Two of our best men down by a single shot –’
‘How two? Burr didn’t die.’
‘No, sir, Aaron Burr lives, if by living you mean no more than breathing, but in every sense that matters to this country Burr is as dead as Hamilton.’
The mood changed as they reflected on the fatal meeting of the two men just outside New Jersey the previous year.
‘Pity it was Hamilton that went down. Not a man I could agree with but a true American. Now Burr, well Aaron Burr’s another kettle of fish.’
‘A pity then that Hamilton wasn’t a better shot. But none of the Hamiltons could hit a barn even from the inside. It’s only three years ago that his son was dropped in a duel.’
‘Good shot or bad shot, Hamilton was called out by Burr. What could a man of honour do but accept the challenge?’
Several heads nodded in agreement when Golden Promise, though only a moment ago so down, returned to the field revived.
‘Wrong, sir, wrong. Burr was finished before the duel. Jefferson had dropped him as Vice President and he lost out as Governor of New York, and in my opinion, gentlemen, that is all to the good. The country is better off without Aaron Burr. It wasn’t New York air that did the damage it was –’
A somewhat diffident voice as yet unheard insinuated itself firmly into the talk.
‘I sometimes wonder, gentlemen, whether New York isn’t in the right, and a rigorous suppression of duelling might not be in the best interests of the common good in these more enlightened times.’
Heads turned and looked at the speaker of this double blasphemy. There was a second of strained silence. Then someone laughed loudly.
‘Ha, ha. Damned good, Macleod. Damned good.’
The tension passed and the room was full of laughter. Lawyer Macleod had made a joke, although from the look on his face he seemed unaware of having said anything amusing.
‘Truly, gentlemen, I think that in this day and age there should be no place for honour killings.’
There was more laughter and one man remarked quietly to his neighbour that Lawyer Macleod had a very dry manner in his wit but it was somehow all the funnier for it. The neighbour nodded and spoke loudly the thoughts of the room.
‘Aye, Macleod, we all know your feelings in the matter of honour killings, and there’s two men in a cemetery near here, each with a pistol ball in his head, who know it as well.’
There was more laughter and even the Angry Man seemed willing to forget his earlier manner and concede that his previous conflict with Golden Promise was now finished.
‘I see married life agrees with you, Macleod. There was a time, and not too long ago either, when you wouldn’t have been here in this club taking lunch, never mind making jokes at your own expense.’ He turned and offered an olive branch to his erstwhile opponent. ‘I agree with you, sir, up to point. There’s one man among us who has a future of golden promise now that he has a handsome young wife by his side.’ He turned back to Lawyer Macleod and raised his glass. ‘You’re a lucky man, Macleod, I drink to your good fortune and to your charming wife.’
He drank and others joined in his salute which, if it did anything for the lawyer, seemed to cause him embarrassment more than pleasure. He rose.
‘Thank you, gentlemen.’
‘Not going so soon, Macleod?’
‘There’s work to do, I must return to my office. My compliments, gentlemen, and good-day.
And Lawyer Macleod was gone.
The supporter of Golden Promise used the silence after this sudden and abrupt exit for a friendly sally.
‘Well, sir, I wonder if you’d have been quite so emphatic about shooting people down if it had been Lawyer Macleod who had suggested this was an age of golden promise?’
His remark was greeted with gentle laughter and the man, his anger well passed, took the barb well and smiled.
‘Perhaps I might have phrased my words differently.’
Another offered an opinion.
‘A funny stick, our lawyer, and still a degree too touchy for my taste.’
‘But still not a man anyone would want looking at them down the wrong end of a pistol.’
There was thoughtful laughter of agreement.
‘Strange man, Macleod, and much changed in my opinion. I can’t say I can make him out since he flitted away and then flitted back.’
‘Aye, a bit of a mystery our lawyer ever since he took to wandering.’
‘I’d wager there’s an interesting story behind it all if he’d care to tell it.’
‘Or if that pretty wife of his would.’
‘But they neither of them do care to tell it, in fact they’re both damned tight-lipped on the subject.’
‘Hell’s teeth, why doesn’t someone have the gumption to come straight out and ask him?’
Heads turned to the questioner.
‘Aye, sir, you ask him, and if he calls you out for prying into his private life –’
‘Which he takes a deal of care to keep private.
‘– just tell us where you want the body sent.’
There was laughter and the questioner’s look showed the assembly that he had withdrawn his suggestion.
But Lawyer Macleod’s skill with a pistol was not a serious topic, not the stuff on which these powerful minds chewed after their lunch. There was a warm blaze in the big fireplace and the early spring weather outside remained as it had been all day, uninviting. The gathering settled down deeper into their chairs, refreshed their cups and glasses, drew on their pipes and once again returned to business. There could be neither respite nor triviality for these men and the call of duty always found them ready. There was a world to set to rights and the place to begin, as always, was with America.
Chapter Three
Outside the warmth and comfort of the club a bitter wind blew and the March sky threatened late snow. Macleod walked through the busy Boston streets wrapped in his thick coat, one gloved hand plunged deep in his pocket while the other held the brim of his tall hat securing it against the wind. He was not headed back to his office. He was going home. The small lie told to his companions caused him no pang of conscience. His private life was exactly that, private.
If anyone had told Lawyer Macleod that he was considered something of a mystery to Boston society he would have been amazed. In his own eyes he was a commonplace man of business who chose to keep himself to himself, nothing more. But the Boston that lunched, dined and gossiped thought otherwise. Until three years ago he was known as the city’s best business and contracts lawyer. He was also known as a bitter, middle-aged widower with no family and no friends, a man who lived little better than a miser, shut away in a few rooms of the big town-house left to him by his father and served by one ancient, crotchety maid-of-all-work. So the years had passed until, suddenly, he had shut up his office, left Boston and disappeared, only to return some months later with a beautiful young woman twenty years his junior.
Boston morality was shocked, nay, stunned. Lawyer Macleod may have been that rara avis; a wealthy Boston Catholic, but even a Papist must have realised that the young woman’s position in his home was at best highly ambiguous and at worst downright scandalous. But before Boston could suitably express its perfectly justified moral outrage both Macleod and the young woman had suddenly disappeared again! After several months they returned and moral Boston breathed a sigh of relief for on the third finger of her left hand the young woman wore a ring. She was now Mrs Macleod.
The new young wife, Marie, was beautiful, Catholic and came from New Orleans. That much soon became common knowledge, but, as both Marie and Macleod were strangely reticent to provide any further information, society drew its own conclusions.
Macleod had been ensnared!
It was the old, old story. The young woman had sold her considerable good looks to gain his considerable gold – and Boston society honoured her for it.
Worldly-wise tongues wagged out their version of the story as if they’d had it direct from the Macleods themselves.
Somewhere on his travels he had encountered this beauty and she, realising he was a prize, had snapped him up. But once she had seen Boston the young woman showed she had brains as well as looks and, with eminent good sense, had insisted that in Protestant Boston it had to be marriage or nothing and, so it seemed to Mr and Mrs Worldly-wise, she had got her way.
But if society cast Marie as a clever adventuress she stubbornly refused to play the part for them. Once she and Macleod were settled as husband and wife both were satisfied to live simply, happy in each other’s company. They hired a housekeeper who also served Marie as maid and a serving man who doubled as Macleod’s valet and also acted as coachman. As their weeks of married life grew into months neither Macleod not Marie saw any reason to increase their household.
Boston observed all this and agreed that marriage had, after all, not totally eradicated Macleod’s miserly inclinations. On further consideration of the situation, having nothing but themselves as models on which to build their theories, they came to the conclusion that the new Mrs Macleod was not sorry to see so little of her husband’s wealth spent. The more would come to her on that unhappy day when her much older husband finally shuffled off this mortal coil. Heads nodded knowingly and sly looks were exchanged. A deep game and a long one, but considering the rewards, a most excellent game.
In the Macleod home French was spoken. Macleod’s mother had been French and he had been brought up to speak the language fluently. Their housekeeper-maid had been employed because she spoke the language well enough. Without the stimulus of necessity Marie’s progress in English was, understandably, slow and laborious. She understood most of what she heard but only spoke enough English to be able to go out and exchange simple greetings and pleasantries and, having no need at home to improve, she went out less and less. Marie shopped in the company of her maid and sometimes lunched with a few ladies who spoke French well enough to make conversation enjoyable. But it was, for the most part, a lonely existence and, worse, it was pointless.
Boston did not know it and, she hoped, would never know it, but when she met Macleod in New Orleans she had been a woman very much in the forefront of fashion and society. But, despite all the gaiety and gushing that her position had involved, she had been no more than a thing for show, a necessary social adornment to a wealthy, aristocratic fop of a husband who preferred to share his private life and his bed with another man. Macleod had taken her from that misery and shame and given her a place in his heart and his home and she loved him deeply for that. But as time slipped past Marie felt that she was in danger of drifting into a life which, although less humiliating, was equally without a purpose. She sought comfort in her Catholic faith and confided her concerns to the priest who at once diagnosed her problem. The answer was simple, she needed a child. She was a wife, and a good Catholic woman was never truly a wife until she was a mother, God willing, a mother many times over.
She took away his advice and thought about it, and the more she thought about it the more it seemed to be the answer to all her anxiety.
For a time she brought a frequency and passion to their love-making which surprised Macleod. He did not object, rather the reverse, but he was surprised. By night Marie used passion and by day prayer. Her heart ached to be able to give her husband a new life and to have herself a child whom she could watch grow and flourish. A child whom she could love and care for. Their child.
Months passed but the cycle of her body stubbornly refused to vary. They slept together often but into her passion Macleod seemed to sense a kind of desperation which he could not understand. Nights of love-making came and went, days of candles lit and prayers offered passed, but no new life came into her.
Finally a year of marriage was celebrated but Macleod noticed that the joy of their anniversary was somewhat muted in his wife. He did not know it but a fear had crept into Marie. What if she was barren! That the fault might lie with her husband never crossed her mind. If there was a failure then it must be hers, a punishment for past sins. God’s judgment. That was the way her Catholic mind worked.
Macleod increasingly noticed her moods and restlessness and it slowly stole over him that she might not be altogether happy. He thought about it. He brought his dry lawyer’s mind to bear on the problem. It wasn’t money. Whatever she asked he gave, although she asked for little. He offered to hire a proper lady’s maid to be a companion. She refused. She did not want or need any more servants. He asked if she would like to open more rooms, perhaps redecorate some of the house? She did no
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