Stolengood
Banned
Very nice reference to Look to the West.
As for Caroline... oh, dear. Are her OTL health problems coming to bear ITTL?
The Dead Skunk
- Thread starter Lycaon pictus
- Start date
As for Caroline... oh, dear. Are her OTL health problems coming to bear ITTL?
Coronation (2)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
We haven’t checked in with William Davidson in a while. The last we saw of him, he was being drawn into some kind of web of intrigue…
Beginning in early 1820, a firm of British “timber importers” made periodic visits to southern Georgia and Alabama, ostensibly to search for good lumber for housing and shipbuilding in the fast-growing city of Trafalgar. Although the businessmen did in fact turn a profit on lumber, their actual purpose was espionage. They reported to Governor Raffles, who shared his findings with the British Foreign Office.
Raffles had two motivations for doing this. The first was, of course, to determine the military readiness of national and state forces in the event of another war with the United States. The second was to create a system of paths and safe houses which slaves in Georgia might use to escape south. The abolitionist Raffles was creating the southern Hidden Trail. His agent in this was the importers’ apparently quiet and unassuming black servant, “Bill” — a.k.a. William Davidson, a Jamaican-born radical from London who had moved to Florida to escape Lord Sidmouth’s repression…
For the runaway slave, there were no risk-free paths across the border. In the east, the 2nd U.S. Infantry Regiment[1], headquartered in St. Marys, patrolled the north bank of the river of that name as far as the Okeefenokee Swamp. Although Secretary of War Tompkins was personally very much opposed to slavery, which he had once called “that reproach of a free people,” this did not translate into the U.S. Army assisting runaway slaves in violation of state law. That said, there was only so much one regiment could do to secure two hundred kilometers of river.
No one on either side of the border patrolled the Okeefenokee. The swamp was an ideal smuggling route for anyone who knew where the game trails were. The poor white “swampers” who lived around the northern edge of the swamp, and the Creeks and Seminoles who lived around the southern edge, knew the land as well as anyone could. But although the swampers could not afford slaves themselves and had no real use for them, they were only too happy to turn in runaways for the reward.
Between the Okeefenokee and the Apalachicola lay the greatest danger, but also the greatest opportunity. This area was patrolled by the Georgia militia, which (at least in the southern part of the state) had come a long way from the humiliation of Levy’s Field.[2] Although the militia was officially under the command of the state governor, several successive governors had entrusted Major General John Macpherson Berrien with command of the regiments along the border. Berrien had done much to increase the level of training and discipline in these regiments.
And there were good reasons why he had. Not ten years ago, much of southern Georgia had been Creek land. The Creeks had lost this land, either in the Treaty of Fort Jackson or in the immediate aftermath of the War of 1812.[3] They had been forced to settle across the border, in the parts of Florida that were now called Apalache and Muscoghea, and were not happy about it. From time to time, gangs of young Creeks would cross the border to raid the small farms that were constantly appearing in the land that had once been their home. Both Raffles and the Creek elders did what they could to police the Creeks, but with little success — particularly since the Creeks themselves were by no means united, and still resented Raffles for forcing them to give up their own slaves. Nor could they easily keep the Georgia militia from retaliating in kind.
The result of all this was that during the 1820s, this part of the border was straddled by a nearly uninhabited strip of land over ten kilometers wide, studded with American forts and Creek encampments. But these could be avoided. Paths through the wilderness could be found, and in 1820 and 1821 Davidson was able to trace a few.
The western bank of the Apalachicola was patrolled by the 1st and 2nd regiments of the Alabama state militia. These were Cherokee regiments, and took military preparedness even more seriously than Berrien did, largely because they were acutely aware of the possibility that the state government — or even the U.S. government — might turn on them at any moment. And the Cherokee, some of whom owned slaves themselves, as a rule had little sympathy for abolition. They did not, however, coordinate their efforts with the Georgia militia — although the Cherokee people had far more legal protections in Alabama, the majority of them still lived in northern Georgia, and had a highly antagonistic relationship with the government of that state.
But the chief obstacle to any runaway slave was simply not knowing which way to go. Many of them had rarely, or never, been more than a few miles from the farm or plantation where they were born — and since so few of them could read, written directions were of no use, and maps not much better. The one reassurance they had was that even if they were caught and returned, they stood a good chance (having proven themselves too willful for their masters' comfort) of being sold to the Southern Inland Navigation Company to help dig the Great Southern. That, too, carried the promise of freedom for those who survived it…
In 1821, the Creeks began to accept a few tenant farmers on their land.[4] Some of these were freedmen themselves. With their help, Anderson was able to set up the first safe houses of the southern Hidden Trail. In years to come, some who had escaped would return to the paths they had walked to guide others…
[1] IOTL, this regiment was folded into the 1st Infantry Regiment after the war.
[2] See this post.
[3] IOTL, some of them kept their land until the Treaties of Indian Springs.
[4] The way this works is that the tribe turns itself into a landowning corporation to which the farmer pays rent.
Beginning in early 1820, a firm of British “timber importers” made periodic visits to southern Georgia and Alabama, ostensibly to search for good lumber for housing and shipbuilding in the fast-growing city of Trafalgar. Although the businessmen did in fact turn a profit on lumber, their actual purpose was espionage. They reported to Governor Raffles, who shared his findings with the British Foreign Office.
Raffles had two motivations for doing this. The first was, of course, to determine the military readiness of national and state forces in the event of another war with the United States. The second was to create a system of paths and safe houses which slaves in Georgia might use to escape south. The abolitionist Raffles was creating the southern Hidden Trail. His agent in this was the importers’ apparently quiet and unassuming black servant, “Bill” — a.k.a. William Davidson, a Jamaican-born radical from London who had moved to Florida to escape Lord Sidmouth’s repression…
For the runaway slave, there were no risk-free paths across the border. In the east, the 2nd U.S. Infantry Regiment[1], headquartered in St. Marys, patrolled the north bank of the river of that name as far as the Okeefenokee Swamp. Although Secretary of War Tompkins was personally very much opposed to slavery, which he had once called “that reproach of a free people,” this did not translate into the U.S. Army assisting runaway slaves in violation of state law. That said, there was only so much one regiment could do to secure two hundred kilometers of river.
No one on either side of the border patrolled the Okeefenokee. The swamp was an ideal smuggling route for anyone who knew where the game trails were. The poor white “swampers” who lived around the northern edge of the swamp, and the Creeks and Seminoles who lived around the southern edge, knew the land as well as anyone could. But although the swampers could not afford slaves themselves and had no real use for them, they were only too happy to turn in runaways for the reward.
Between the Okeefenokee and the Apalachicola lay the greatest danger, but also the greatest opportunity. This area was patrolled by the Georgia militia, which (at least in the southern part of the state) had come a long way from the humiliation of Levy’s Field.[2] Although the militia was officially under the command of the state governor, several successive governors had entrusted Major General John Macpherson Berrien with command of the regiments along the border. Berrien had done much to increase the level of training and discipline in these regiments.
And there were good reasons why he had. Not ten years ago, much of southern Georgia had been Creek land. The Creeks had lost this land, either in the Treaty of Fort Jackson or in the immediate aftermath of the War of 1812.[3] They had been forced to settle across the border, in the parts of Florida that were now called Apalache and Muscoghea, and were not happy about it. From time to time, gangs of young Creeks would cross the border to raid the small farms that were constantly appearing in the land that had once been their home. Both Raffles and the Creek elders did what they could to police the Creeks, but with little success — particularly since the Creeks themselves were by no means united, and still resented Raffles for forcing them to give up their own slaves. Nor could they easily keep the Georgia militia from retaliating in kind.
The result of all this was that during the 1820s, this part of the border was straddled by a nearly uninhabited strip of land over ten kilometers wide, studded with American forts and Creek encampments. But these could be avoided. Paths through the wilderness could be found, and in 1820 and 1821 Davidson was able to trace a few.
The western bank of the Apalachicola was patrolled by the 1st and 2nd regiments of the Alabama state militia. These were Cherokee regiments, and took military preparedness even more seriously than Berrien did, largely because they were acutely aware of the possibility that the state government — or even the U.S. government — might turn on them at any moment. And the Cherokee, some of whom owned slaves themselves, as a rule had little sympathy for abolition. They did not, however, coordinate their efforts with the Georgia militia — although the Cherokee people had far more legal protections in Alabama, the majority of them still lived in northern Georgia, and had a highly antagonistic relationship with the government of that state.
But the chief obstacle to any runaway slave was simply not knowing which way to go. Many of them had rarely, or never, been more than a few miles from the farm or plantation where they were born — and since so few of them could read, written directions were of no use, and maps not much better. The one reassurance they had was that even if they were caught and returned, they stood a good chance (having proven themselves too willful for their masters' comfort) of being sold to the Southern Inland Navigation Company to help dig the Great Southern. That, too, carried the promise of freedom for those who survived it…
In 1821, the Creeks began to accept a few tenant farmers on their land.[4] Some of these were freedmen themselves. With their help, Anderson was able to set up the first safe houses of the southern Hidden Trail. In years to come, some who had escaped would return to the paths they had walked to guide others…
--Leo Freedman, The Hidden Trails: A History
[1] IOTL, this regiment was folded into the 1st Infantry Regiment after the war.
[2] See this post.
[3] IOTL, some of them kept their land until the Treaties of Indian Springs.
[4] The way this works is that the tribe turns itself into a landowning corporation to which the farmer pays rent.
Last edited:
Lycaon pictus
Donor
Let's get this one the 2014 Turtledove!
Thanks for the nominations. I've been busy studying to become an insurance agent (I passed the state test yesterday
) so this next post will be kind of short.In 1821 the Radicals faced the voters with their work barely half done. The Hôtel de la République, the schools, the Fort Keane Road — all were projects that had been begun but at best only partly completed. Their one great success was bringing gas lighting to the streets of New Orleans, and that was more the work of the city government than the national government. Nonetheless, their majority was increased by nine votes. Armand Beauvais was chosen to be the new president, and was sworn in under the roof of the yet-unfinished Hôtel.
Although the vote might have been taken as a mandate for continuity, Beauvais was prepared to effect change in order to further expedite the Radical agenda. His first proposal was to create the Ministry of Domestic Affairs, modeled after the American office created by J.Q. Adams. (Hitherto, internal improvements had been under the management of the Treasury.) Conservatives opposed this measure — according to Jean Noel Destréhan, “such projects should be under the control of the men who must pay for them” — but were outvoted. Once the Assembly had passed the measure, Beauvais chose the former Louisiana Supreme Court judge Pierre Derbigny as Minister of Domestic Affairs.
Another decision was far more surprising — to appoint George Canning (who was still a British citizen) as treasury minister. Beauvais pointed out correctly that Canning was certainly as talented as anyone that could be found in the small republic. Jacques Villeré, currently leading the opposition, concurred with this assessment but warned that Beauvais was setting a very dangerous precedent…
Michel Beauregard, A History of the Republic of Louisiana
In the Heart of a Brunswicker (1)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
Tenth place? Time to up my game. Here we go…
August 24, 1821
7 p.m.
Claremont House
The hand Charlotte Augusta was clinging to was hot — hotter than human flesh should ever be. It had grown thinner over the last month. But the pulse was still there, under the skin, weak but not yet gone. Not yet, but soon.
Caroline turned and looked up at her with rheumy eyes.
“Still… here?”
“I won’t leave you, mother.” Amelia squirmed in her lap. Next to her sat The Leo, one hand on the Cub’s shoulder.
“None of us will,” added Lady Hamilton. She gestured to Stockmar, sitting at her elbow in a quiet rage at his own helplessness. Blockage. Blood poisoning. Nothing to be done.[1]
“Waiting for me to… offer you… words of wisdom?” she said, and smiled. “I think you’re… already as wise as I am.”
“We’re here for your sake, mother,” Charlotte said, tears in her eyes. This was not the first death she’d seen. Her own miscarriages had been terrible, not only for the loss of hope but for the fear that her own body was failing the kingdom. The death of her grandmother. The long, long death of her grandfather, whom she had mourned a little each day with each loss of faculty he showed. Her aunt Amelia, for whom her daughter was named. But this was her mother. How could she lose her now after seeing so little of her as a child?
“If I had to settle… for only one child… I am glad it was you…” Her voice faded. Then she winced again. “Doctor…”
Without another word, Stockmar handed Caroline a small bottle of laudanum. The queen could no longer eat any form of solid food, but she could still manage liquids. She brought the bottle to her lips and emptied it in one draught.
After that, she had little to say — only murmured words in German.
Hours passed. Young Leo curled up in a chair and fell asleep. Amelia fell asleep in Charlotte’s lap. Charlotte never let go of her mother’s hand.
Some time after midnight, she noticed that Caroline had stopped breathing. As one, she and Lady Hamilton looked to Stockmar and nodded. He drew the blanket over the face of the Queen.
* * *
August 25
10:30 a.m.
Charlotte had not slept. Her stomach felt like something in it had spoiled, and the rest of her body seemed to have gone numb as if to prepare itself for the coming grief. All this morning, she had endured condolences from friends, allies, well-wishers… and now that God-bothering vulture Howley was in the parlour.[2]
“Your Highness, allow me to express my deepest sorrow at your loss, and the loss of the kingdom,” he said, managing to sound almost sincere.
“Thank you,” she said woodenly.
“Circumstances did place her and myself at… cross purposes,” he said. “I hope there is no ill will?”
“No, I quite understand. My father is the head of the church, after all.” And one day I will be. And if you have any wisdom, you and yours will show me the same utter cringing servility you have shown him.
“I hope you are not angry. I know God’s will is hard to understand—”
“Not at all,” she interrupted. “We all must die one day. God appointed this day for her. There is no more to be said.” She looked at him squarely.
“And yes, I do wish very much that we had had more time together,” she continued, “but it was not God who kept me from her for all those years. It was not God who drove her out of the country. And it was not God who did everything that could possibly be done to blacken her reputation and make her days on this earth unhappy. So… you needn’t fear that I am angry at God. And now, my dear Bishop, there is a funeral to plan.”
“You know His Majesty will never allow any of the royal peculiars[3] to be used for this.”
“The churchyard of St. George’s in Esher[4] will serve well enough as a resting place for the present,” she said. “However, it seems to me that London should have the opportunity to say goodbye…”
The body of the Queen had been brought to Kensington the previous night. In possibly the most roundabout funeral procession in British history, it would now be taken through Kensington to Hyde Park, then over Vauxhall Bridge and southwest back to Esher. It would be guarded by the 3rd Foot Guards, in which the Queen’s former ward William Austin had recently been granted a commission.
Despite the light rain[5], the people began to gather in Hyde Park and the surrounding streets well before 6 a.m. on the final day of August. Not all of them were here as “Queenites”; many simply wanted a chance to see a rare historical event. But the Queenites were a solid majority of the crowd — and they had gathered not only in sorrow, but in anger.
Once again, King George IV was to blame. Ignoring the heartfelt advice of his brothers and political allies, he had begun preparing for a celebration as soon as he heard his wife’s condition was getting worse. To a good many Londoners, this lent credence to the theory that he had in some way compassed the queen’s death. Their leaders, Brougham, Burdett, Wilson and Wood, gave no public support to this theory, but put little effort into quashing them. On first seeing the size and hearing the voices of the crowd in Hyde Park, Bishop Howley is said to have asked the princess “Do you still think you can control them?” To which she replied, “I think I can lead them.” And indeed, it was probably the presence of her and Leopold that prevented either a riot or an attack on the crowd…
Charlotte’s eulogy for her mother was much shorter than Brougham’s extended speech, and far more to the point. “She taught me by her example to speak plain truths plainly,” she said. “To never ask for more than my due, nor to ever settle for less. To remember those who serve me, and keep faith with them always. To speak for all classes, but especially for those who need friends and advocates in high places…”
--Arthur Roundtree, Good Queen Lottie
[1] There’ve been a number of theories about Queen Caroline’s death. For the purposes of this TL, she died of an intestinal blockage caused partly by cancer and partly by that magnesia-and-laudanum paste, which she was having to eat more and more of to keep up with the pain.
[2] William Howley, Bishop of London. Highly conservative. He supported the Pains and Penalties Act, which is why Her Highness is less than pleased to have him grace her doorstep at this particular moment.
[3] Churches under the British monarch’s direct control. Westminster Abbey and St. George’s Chapel in Windsor, where members of the royal family would normally be buried, are two of them.
[4] A church near Claremont House.
[5] IOTL, it rained a lot harder during Caroline’s funeral procession and it still drew a huge crowd. It also turned violent, although nowhere near as bad as Peterloo.
[6] This is a cheeky answer Caroline gave to a teacher as a child back in Brunswick.
August 24, 1821
7 p.m.
Claremont House
The hand Charlotte Augusta was clinging to was hot — hotter than human flesh should ever be. It had grown thinner over the last month. But the pulse was still there, under the skin, weak but not yet gone. Not yet, but soon.
Caroline turned and looked up at her with rheumy eyes.
“Still… here?”
“I won’t leave you, mother.” Amelia squirmed in her lap. Next to her sat The Leo, one hand on the Cub’s shoulder.
“None of us will,” added Lady Hamilton. She gestured to Stockmar, sitting at her elbow in a quiet rage at his own helplessness. Blockage. Blood poisoning. Nothing to be done.[1]
“Waiting for me to… offer you… words of wisdom?” she said, and smiled. “I think you’re… already as wise as I am.”
“We’re here for your sake, mother,” Charlotte said, tears in her eyes. This was not the first death she’d seen. Her own miscarriages had been terrible, not only for the loss of hope but for the fear that her own body was failing the kingdom. The death of her grandmother. The long, long death of her grandfather, whom she had mourned a little each day with each loss of faculty he showed. Her aunt Amelia, for whom her daughter was named. But this was her mother. How could she lose her now after seeing so little of her as a child?
“If I had to settle… for only one child… I am glad it was you…” Her voice faded. Then she winced again. “Doctor…”
Without another word, Stockmar handed Caroline a small bottle of laudanum. The queen could no longer eat any form of solid food, but she could still manage liquids. She brought the bottle to her lips and emptied it in one draught.
After that, she had little to say — only murmured words in German.
Hours passed. Young Leo curled up in a chair and fell asleep. Amelia fell asleep in Charlotte’s lap. Charlotte never let go of her mother’s hand.
Some time after midnight, she noticed that Caroline had stopped breathing. As one, she and Lady Hamilton looked to Stockmar and nodded. He drew the blanket over the face of the Queen.
* * *
August 25
10:30 a.m.
Charlotte had not slept. Her stomach felt like something in it had spoiled, and the rest of her body seemed to have gone numb as if to prepare itself for the coming grief. All this morning, she had endured condolences from friends, allies, well-wishers… and now that God-bothering vulture Howley was in the parlour.[2]
“Your Highness, allow me to express my deepest sorrow at your loss, and the loss of the kingdom,” he said, managing to sound almost sincere.
“Thank you,” she said woodenly.
“Circumstances did place her and myself at… cross purposes,” he said. “I hope there is no ill will?”
“No, I quite understand. My father is the head of the church, after all.” And one day I will be. And if you have any wisdom, you and yours will show me the same utter cringing servility you have shown him.
“I hope you are not angry. I know God’s will is hard to understand—”
“Not at all,” she interrupted. “We all must die one day. God appointed this day for her. There is no more to be said.” She looked at him squarely.
“And yes, I do wish very much that we had had more time together,” she continued, “but it was not God who kept me from her for all those years. It was not God who drove her out of the country. And it was not God who did everything that could possibly be done to blacken her reputation and make her days on this earth unhappy. So… you needn’t fear that I am angry at God. And now, my dear Bishop, there is a funeral to plan.”
“You know His Majesty will never allow any of the royal peculiars[3] to be used for this.”
“The churchyard of St. George’s in Esher[4] will serve well enough as a resting place for the present,” she said. “However, it seems to me that London should have the opportunity to say goodbye…”
The body of the Queen had been brought to Kensington the previous night. In possibly the most roundabout funeral procession in British history, it would now be taken through Kensington to Hyde Park, then over Vauxhall Bridge and southwest back to Esher. It would be guarded by the 3rd Foot Guards, in which the Queen’s former ward William Austin had recently been granted a commission.
Despite the light rain[5], the people began to gather in Hyde Park and the surrounding streets well before 6 a.m. on the final day of August. Not all of them were here as “Queenites”; many simply wanted a chance to see a rare historical event. But the Queenites were a solid majority of the crowd — and they had gathered not only in sorrow, but in anger.
Once again, King George IV was to blame. Ignoring the heartfelt advice of his brothers and political allies, he had begun preparing for a celebration as soon as he heard his wife’s condition was getting worse. To a good many Londoners, this lent credence to the theory that he had in some way compassed the queen’s death. Their leaders, Brougham, Burdett, Wilson and Wood, gave no public support to this theory, but put little effort into quashing them. On first seeing the size and hearing the voices of the crowd in Hyde Park, Bishop Howley is said to have asked the princess “Do you still think you can control them?” To which she replied, “I think I can lead them.” And indeed, it was probably the presence of her and Leopold that prevented either a riot or an attack on the crowd…
Charlotte’s eulogy for her mother was much shorter than Brougham’s extended speech, and far more to the point. “She taught me by her example to speak plain truths plainly,” she said. “To never ask for more than my due, nor to ever settle for less. To remember those who serve me, and keep faith with them always. To speak for all classes, but especially for those who need friends and advocates in high places…”
--Arthur Roundtree, Good Queen Lottie
Where does the lion live?
In the heart of a Brunswicker![6]
In the heart of a Brunswicker![6]
-Epitaph of Queen Caroline (1768-1821)
[1] There’ve been a number of theories about Queen Caroline’s death. For the purposes of this TL, she died of an intestinal blockage caused partly by cancer and partly by that magnesia-and-laudanum paste, which she was having to eat more and more of to keep up with the pain.
[2] William Howley, Bishop of London. Highly conservative. He supported the Pains and Penalties Act, which is why Her Highness is less than pleased to have him grace her doorstep at this particular moment.
[3] Churches under the British monarch’s direct control. Westminster Abbey and St. George’s Chapel in Windsor, where members of the royal family would normally be buried, are two of them.
[4] A church near Claremont House.
[5] IOTL, it rained a lot harder during Caroline’s funeral procession and it still drew a huge crowd. It also turned violent, although nowhere near as bad as Peterloo.
[6] This is a cheeky answer Caroline gave to a teacher as a child back in Brunswick.
Lycaon pictus
Donor
Just a reminder that you can vote for The Dead Skunk here. (I know it's up against Malê Rising and Es Geloybte Aretz, but hey, I'll take third place if I can get it.)
You can also vote for continuing characters Queen Caroline and Princess Charlotte Augusta here, and a certain quote which proves that a statement need not be true to be a Wham Line here.
You can also vote for continuing characters Queen Caroline and Princess Charlotte Augusta here, and a certain quote which proves that a statement need not be true to be a Wham Line here.
Dear God, does the king have the political instincts of a lemming?
Anyways,, great update and good luck with the Turtledove's!
Anyways,, great update and good luck with the Turtledove's!
In OTL Caroline is buried in Brunswick Cathedral. It was her wish to be buried there.
Can I just say that I love this timeline? I've been reading it for a while now, and the writing is truly awesome. I am astounded that is has not yet received more votes towards getting a Turtledove. I certainly voted for it, and I hope that more people will yet do so. (That's a hint, folks. Vote early and vote often! Go!)
Anyway, since it was a while back (2011) that you were writing Wellington's campaigns in America and France, and I only read this TL much later, I never asked about this, but now seems a good time:
When reading those parts, I sometimes wondered wether I was reading about the exploits of His Grace the Duke of Wellington, or His Grace the Duke of Ankh. Is this a total coincidence, or did you actively find inspiration there, when it came to characterising Wellington?
Either way, your characters in particular are excellently written.
Anyway, since it was a while back (2011) that you were writing Wellington's campaigns in America and France, and I only read this TL much later, I never asked about this, but now seems a good time:
When reading those parts, I sometimes wondered wether I was reading about the exploits of His Grace the Duke of Wellington, or His Grace the Duke of Ankh.
Is this a total coincidence, or did you actively find inspiration there, when it came to characterising Wellington?Either way, your characters in particular are excellently written.
Lycaon pictus
Donor
True, but IOTL she had no immediate family in the UK unless we're counting George which we definitely aren't. Also, she was badly humiliated in public when she was denied entrance to the coronation.
Can I just say that I love this timeline? I've been reading it for a while now, and the writing is truly awesome. I am astounded that is has not yet received more votes towards getting a Turtledove. I certainly voted for it, and I hope that more people will yet do so. (That's a hint, folks. Vote early and vote often! Go!)
Anyway, since it was a while back (2011) that you were writing Wellington's campaigns in America and France, and I only read this TL much later, I never asked about this, but now seems a good time:
When reading those parts, I sometimes wondered wether I was reading about the exploits of His Grace the Duke of Wellington, or His Grace the Duke of Ankh.
Either way, your characters in particular are excellently written.
Thank you! I started this as much as an exercise in writing as in historical speculation.
I hadn't even thought of Wellington as being like Vimes, mostly because they're so different in their backgrounds and their outlook on privilege and monarchy. But they both have that smart, practical approach to fighting that makes them so badass.
That's ture, but I think there is a good reason for her wanting to be buried outside the United Kingdom. She does not trust her husband.
Her husband is the King and also the head of the Church of England, So I'm sure that he will do something that is not good.
Stolengood
Banned
He'll be dead soon, anyway; I'm sure Caroline would be thinking of that, as well...
Lycaon pictus
Donor
There's a reason they picked the fairly small churchyard of St. George's at Esher — it's where Charlotte and Leopold worship.
In the Heart of a Brunswicker (2)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
And now the action shifts to the Caribbean. This is not too different from what happened IOTL.
Of all the remaining parts of the Spanish colonial empire, none had suffered greater neglect and misgovernment over the past twenty years than the Captaincy General of Santo Domingo. Desperately poor, the colony relied on subsidies that had seldom come during the tumultuous years of the French occupation of Spain and the Peninsular War, and were too small when they did come. Even the cash crops of coffee and cocoa had diminished as the colony reverted to subsistence farming. Although one could survive as such a farmer, as a cattle rancher or as an artisan serving them, anyone in search of real opportunity had to go looking for it in Cuba.
And there was little hope from the new government in Madrid. The Constitution itself granted the right to vote only to “son ciudadanos aquellos españoles que por ambas líneas traen su origen de los dominios españoles de ambos hemisferios y están avecindados en cualquier pueblo de los mismos dominios” — a description which fit very few of the 80,000 or so people left in the colony…
Conspiracies to establish the independence of Santo Domingo, or to transfer the colony to France or Haiti, were very nearly a routine part of life during the “España Boba” period. Manuel del Monte, Don Fermín, the four French sergeants, the so-called “Italian Conspiracy” (one of its members happened to be Italian), the 1812 revolt in the northwest — all had tried and failed to alter the condition of the colony.
So it came as some surprise in September of 1821 when José Núñez de Cáceres led a small army into the Plaza Mayor, raised the Haitian flag over the city and proclaimed the “Independent Republic of Spanish Haiti.” His allies, confusingly, marched into the central squares other Dominican towns vowing that the colony would soon be a province of Gran Colombia. This was news to everyone in Gran Colombia.
The only man in the area who wasn’t caught flat-footed was Jean-Pierre Boyer. Boyer, who had recently reunified Haiti, saw this as an opportunity to secure his eastern border against the threat of reconquest. Even as Núñez de Cáceres was on the march, Boyer was readying his own armies and his supporters within Santo Domingo. The “Independent Republic of Spanish Haiti” lasted precisely one month before the Haitian flag was raised over the city again — this time by a Haitian army.
Meanwhile, word had returned to Madrid. The Cortes Generales, reminded of a sudden that Santo Domingo was technically part of their empire, quickly voted to send a naval expedition to take it back.
Spain and Haiti would soon be at war.
--Dennis Lincoln, A History of the Caribbean (Vol. 2)
Of all the remaining parts of the Spanish colonial empire, none had suffered greater neglect and misgovernment over the past twenty years than the Captaincy General of Santo Domingo. Desperately poor, the colony relied on subsidies that had seldom come during the tumultuous years of the French occupation of Spain and the Peninsular War, and were too small when they did come. Even the cash crops of coffee and cocoa had diminished as the colony reverted to subsistence farming. Although one could survive as such a farmer, as a cattle rancher or as an artisan serving them, anyone in search of real opportunity had to go looking for it in Cuba.
And there was little hope from the new government in Madrid. The Constitution itself granted the right to vote only to “son ciudadanos aquellos españoles que por ambas líneas traen su origen de los dominios españoles de ambos hemisferios y están avecindados en cualquier pueblo de los mismos dominios” — a description which fit very few of the 80,000 or so people left in the colony…
Conspiracies to establish the independence of Santo Domingo, or to transfer the colony to France or Haiti, were very nearly a routine part of life during the “España Boba” period. Manuel del Monte, Don Fermín, the four French sergeants, the so-called “Italian Conspiracy” (one of its members happened to be Italian), the 1812 revolt in the northwest — all had tried and failed to alter the condition of the colony.
So it came as some surprise in September of 1821 when José Núñez de Cáceres led a small army into the Plaza Mayor, raised the Haitian flag over the city and proclaimed the “Independent Republic of Spanish Haiti.” His allies, confusingly, marched into the central squares other Dominican towns vowing that the colony would soon be a province of Gran Colombia. This was news to everyone in Gran Colombia.
The only man in the area who wasn’t caught flat-footed was Jean-Pierre Boyer. Boyer, who had recently reunified Haiti, saw this as an opportunity to secure his eastern border against the threat of reconquest. Even as Núñez de Cáceres was on the march, Boyer was readying his own armies and his supporters within Santo Domingo. The “Independent Republic of Spanish Haiti” lasted precisely one month before the Haitian flag was raised over the city again — this time by a Haitian army.
Meanwhile, word had returned to Madrid. The Cortes Generales, reminded of a sudden that Santo Domingo was technically part of their empire, quickly voted to send a naval expedition to take it back.
Spain and Haiti would soon be at war.
--Dennis Lincoln, A History of the Caribbean (Vol. 2)