The Hand We're Dealt - Chapter 7

It wasn't my fault.

I just... want that on record before I go any further.

What happened over the past six months was most assuredly not my fault.

“That Jackson's coming down on the Seminoles hard, I hear! He'll have them whipped and the Spanish out of Florida in no time flat!”

I twitched slightly as I stomped through the thick snow, hearing another pair of students enthusiastically championing the cause of a war that... perhaps I shared a tiny bit of responsibility for starting.

“And I heard Burr just marched into St. Augustine after forcing the garrison's surrender there!”

I breathed deeply through my nose and sighed out slowly.

Thomas Jefferson was, by and large, regarded as a temperate statesman, master orator, one of the primary authors of the Declaration of Independence, and a host of other accolades. As one of the Founding Fathers of our nation, a veteran of the Revolutionary War, a seasoned diplomat who had helped negotiate first the Articles of Confederation and then the Constitution and Bill of Rights, the man had a certain rosy aura around his memory and achievements that made people overlook the little indiscretions history had recorded. Like, for instance, the fact that he'd knocked up his wife's half-sister while in Paris when she was still a young teenager, if not an outright child.

Oh, and also he owned her, because his wife's father had raped one of his slaves, too.

Or the Burr trial, for a more relevant issue, which also showed that, when he took something personally, he could really fly off the fucking handle.

...albeit in a controlled, methodical, and focused way.

“I still can't believe Wilkinson was a spy! That bastard better burn in hell!”

I sighed, casting my eyes to the slate-gray sky as a plume of white fog manifested around the warm air I'd just exhaled.

“Hah! Not likely since he ran off with his tail between his legs. That man's scum for making a fool of us all!”

Would it snow again this week? I thought it likely. Perhaps I should look up a bit of fortune-telling magic when I could find the time? Knowing the weather might come in handy.

“Betrayers and traitors occupy the lowest circle if you believe Dante. He'll freeze, not burn.”

I twitched again, fighting the urge to speak up and correct that misconception, but ultimately deciding to let it lie. The questions about how I knew what happened to souls actually sent to 'hell' would be awkward to answer, anyway. I kept walking instead.

These teenage edgelords need an internet to argue with on, so I can tell them they're wrong anonymously and without repercussion or consequence.

Anyway... once Chief Justice George Marshall of the Supreme Court had gotten my rather detailed documentation and evidence... shit had really hit the fan. A warrant had been issued for the newly-revealed Spanish Spy James Wilkinson and he'd been stripped of his position as military governor of the Louisiana Territory. Unfortunately, one of his contacts had apparently gotten word to him and he'd gone on the lamb.

And escaped on a small, fast ship down to Florida.

Where he'd gotten on a Spanish military vessel, the Maria Cavallera, and made a runner for Spain-proper.

Which probably could have been salvaged with some skilled diplomacy once tempers had cooled. Well, except for the fact that a pair of American naval vessels, the Chesapeake and Philadelphia, had been dispatched to secure Wilkinson with what were charitably called 'open-ended' orders.

The Spanish warship had refused to hand him over, of course.

At some point the discussion had gotten a little 'energetic' and one of the American ships had been sunk, the other stopping to rescue sailors instead of pursuing the lightly-injured Maria Cavallera had gotten underway for Spain.

To make a long and complicated story very, very simple...

They touched the fucking boats.

“The only problem I have is whether or not Florida and Cuba become riddled with slavery plantations once we take them from Spain,” a speculative voice stated.

“Florida, yes. Cuba, it depends on which general they send and who's in charge of the occupation and initial military governance.”

There was a beat of silence before I realized that several older students were now staring directly at me.

It took another heartbeat of thought before I also realized that the reply had come from my own mouth in my own voice.

Fuuuu-

“Oh? It appears van Beek's errand boy has an opinion!” One of the young men chuckled, sweeping a hand through oily red hair.

I grimaced, ducking my head. “Apologies. I spoke out of turn. Please forgive the mistake and allow me to return to my errands.”

“Oh, don't be like that,” a blonde boy cajoled in the almost-friendly way so many thugs and bullies used. “Come now, explain your position and share the wisdom of your years with us.”

I felt more than saw another of their number slid behind me as I was apologizing, boxing me in further and sighed internally. Me and my big mouth had no one else to blame for this but myself.

At least they're doing me the service of blocking that foul north wind.

I debated options silently for a moment... before deciding to just run with it. I was young enough and they were old enough that getting physical would cross a line even in this society, especially given who my master was.

“It depends on who liberates Cuba, but Florida will almost certainly be a slave state,” I stated finally. “There's no geographical barriers between Georgia and Florida, which means both American settlers and plantation owners will be largely free to move into the area even before it's properly put under an American military governor, let alone becomes a state.”

The older boys' gazes turned speculative, even if oily-hair was wearing a bit of a sour look as he replied. “And you think congress will simply allow this? Gentlemen, hear me, have we fallen so low that we're taking counsel from a child seriously?”

I refrained from biting back at him that he'd been the one who wanted me to speak.

“The pragmatic answer tends towards allowing it, is all I'm saying,” I replied, shaking my head. “A concerted effort by congress could stop the rise of plantations in the area, but... to what end? The invention of the cotton gin, a decade hence, has once more made the plantations profitable, and slavery with it. The budding textile industry in the northern states now owes its prosperity to the expansion of slavery. As much as those wishing manumission may protest, the businessmen in their constituencies will doubtless have opinions they wish to be heard.”

Oily-hair went a bit red in the face by the time I'd stopped, but that just seemed to be the cue for another of them to clear their throat.

This was another black-haired boy, though he had a noticeable British accent when he spoke, meaning that either he or his father were likely recent immigrants. “I notice you speak of money first and foremost, but you omit morality and ethics. Are not these United States meant to be governed self-consciously? More specifically, with an eye towards that conscience? Or do you mean to say that you believe slavery to be in the best interests of this young nation?”

“No, I believe slavery to be a blight upon both the land itself and society at large. It is fundamentally, inexcusably, and unmistakably evil,” I stated bluntly, making all the young men draw back slightly at the strength of my condemnation. “But it is the luxury of the young, the poor, and the faithful to worry over matters of morality and conscience. It is the necessity of the rich and powerful to worry over their position and finances.”

“Lindsay, I dare say you've picked us out a little prodigy,” Blondie stated, looking towards oily-hair, who was apparently named 'Lindsay.' Because parents could be cruel no matter the era.

Lindsay snorted and rolled his eyes. “He's in no way mine, Wesley. The Old Dutch has claim on him, and he's welcome to it.”

Wesley chuckled and ruffled my hair, which made me twitch. “Oh don't be sore. We still haven't heard what he meant by Cuba. Let's at least have that before we head off to lunch. Besides, I'm curious.”

The third member of their group leaned around from behind me, raising an eyebrow as I took in his pock-marked face. “Well, let's have it then? There are already slave plantations on Cuba, what makes you think it might not just keep with what works?”

“It depends on who they send to liberate it and who the first military governor is, presuming their success.” I thought for a moment and sighed. “Burr, for instance, has made no secret of his dislike of slavery-”

Sort of, at least. Aaron Burr had inherited slaves, owned slaves throughout his life, and even purchased a few at market. That said, he also introduced bills to free all enslaved peoples at least twice, used his law practice to represent two freedmen of color who sued for a share of their former owner's estate (successfully, even), and generally supported abolition. Much like Thomas Jefferson, you could easily accuse the man of rank hypocrisy if you were feeling uncharitable or simply say that he was a complex individual in a complex time if you wanted to downplay less noteworthy achievements on his part.

The man's son had put it as well as could probably be thought of him when he'd said that his father viewed slavery as a temporary form of indentured servitude rather than a heritable position within a racial caste structure.

Regardless, though, my read of the man said that it was unlikely he would willingly play a significant role in broadening the practice of the peculiar institution. He likely just needed a politically expedient excuse to make a moral decision on the subject.

I could issue far worse indictments of politicians throughout history.

“-but the most significant factor will be whether or not whoever leads the charge into Cuba is willing to offer freedom to those held in bondage by the Spanish should they rise up and fight for the American side.”

Wesley turned to Lindsay with a thoughtful frown. “Not to take the child's side or anything, but raising up an army of slaves with promise of freedom would make it somewhat difficult to put them back in shackles at the end of hostilities.”

The pock-marked young man sniffed and shrugged. “Well, we've heard the mutterings of a random university urchin. Now how about we find food?”

Wesley sighed as Linsay agreed with him, subtly reaching into his pocket and slipping me a copper coin with a wink before walking off with his friends.

I shrugged and pocketed the tip.

Far from the worst outcome.

“Well, color me impressed.”

I didn't bother looking up as I trudged away. “Hector.”

“Henry.” It was somewhat irksome that the older boy decided to use the exact same tone I had to reply to me; a mark of childishness that would be more fitting for me to employ than him. “Seriously, though, very impressive. I thought I'd have to bail you out there when Lindsay started getting steamed. That boy is not known for a cool temper.”

I snorted. “I could see that, and... thank you for the thought. If it had come to that, I would have owed you one.”

“Oh, is that Old Dutch's cold-hearted errand boy admitting to gratitude? Quick, lend me a bible! I need to check the signs of the end times!” Hector laughed.

I rolled my eyes, an unwilling smirk playing at my lips. “Hah. Hah.”

Hector hummed, sweeping stray black hair over an ear and away from his face. “So, that's what you think will happen? Florida and Cuba, I mean.”

“Anything could happen,” I shrugged. “Spain may have lost a significant amount of vessels in the battle at Trafalgar, but they still have something of a navy and army in the Americas. If, it must be said, an outdated one compared to our own nation's.”

“So we'll win, but not without cost,” Hector summarized.

“The complicating factor,” I grunted, ignoring the oversimplification of my words, “is the tension with Napoleon. Given that he is poised to weigh in on the succession dispute between Ferdinand and his father Charles-”

Which I had the vaguest notions wasn't quite supposed to be happening yet... perhaps the Wilkinson Affair had sped things up?

“-there is every chance that, unless Napoleon intercedes to pressure whoever his pick for the crown turns out to be to return Wilkinson to the states, we could very well be at war with the French Empire by early next year.”

“I'm sure the redcoats swoon at the very thought,” Hector stated distastefully, the slightest of a sneer in his voice.

“War makes strange bedfellows,” I replied glibly, having no idea if the phrase had been coined yet.

Hector snorted, nodding at me as we walked. “I like that. To think we might end up in bed with the Brits after not even twenty years fighting against the fellows that helped us win our very independence. Things are quite strange indeed, my young friend.”

“As strange as it would be, even a small number of British ships of the line would be a powerful ally if it really does come to invading Cuba. And, of course, the British will likely take a few islands here and there from Spain and France in the process with American support...” I speculated, a mental map in my head marking off the various small islands held under sway by the European colonial powers.

I swear to god, if Britain takes Puerto Rico this is going to be the weirdest fucking timeline...

“So what's van Beek got you up to these days? We haven't talked since I got back from visiting family in New Haven,” Hector began, looking me over to see if anything had changed about me.

“We've seen each other several times in the past two weeks,” I waved him off as I shuffled my coat about me against a particularly chill gust of wind. As much as the heating spell I was using helped, I wasn't to the stage of being a foolproof caster just yet.

“But not spoken, not for any length,” Hector emphasized with a significant look. “So, spill. What's Old Dutch got you slaving away over?”

“Mostly cleaning,” I replied tiredly, sighing out another cloud of warm vapor as I did so. “It's really all quite boring, Hector. I don't know what you expect to discover through needling me.”

He spread his arms and opened his hands to disown responsibility of the guilt from my accusation. “Hey now, it's not me who has to answer for things. It's the rumor mill, churning away to make the daily bread of all the school's gossips. You're the only one who knows what Dutch gets up to.”

“Professor van Beek,” I replied pointedly, and was promptly ignored, “is a private man and a devoted academic who was simply forced to admit that he might need a little help with daily tasks in his advancing age. Rather than hire a servant, he opted to adopt an orphan with the understanding that he had no other heirs to which he could leave his worldly possessions. I am extremely grateful for my current position in life and, even were I to know some alleged dark secret of the Professor's, I would no sooner divulge it than return to the orphanage I was taken from.”

I stopped, standing in the snow briefly and forcing Hector to pause and turn to regard me.

“Specifically because the former and latter would amount to the same thing,” I stated, a scowl on my face.

Hector huffed, exhaling his own cloud of fog and turned away from my gaze. “Right, sorry. I wasn't thinking.”

I opened my mouth to bite off a particularly curt reply, but paused. As... very Hector as Hector could be at times, he was at the very least something of an ally here at Dartmouth. No matter how well-spoken a seven (nearly eight!) year old child might be, they were still very much a child. I would be lying if I said that I did not appreciate some kind of companionship, even though it could be grating at times.

“No, you weren't,” I replied eventually, a bit of a smirk forming as the older boy's hackles rose defensively. “But as that is apparently your natural state of being, I am hard-pressed to hold a grudge over it.”

Hector blinked, the irritation fading away as he grinned. “A joke? Truly, I must retrieve my gospel to check it. Perhaps the revelation truly is upon us.”

I rolled my eyes. “Considering the number of times I have smelled drink on you during the sabbath, I would wonder at the dust coating your copy.”

“Ah, like you're one to talk,” Hector huffed a laugh. “I don't know what you read during church, but it's certainly not the good book. I'll admit that I'm not as familiar with it as I should be, but I don't think Mark's testament bears many mathematical proofs or geometric charts.”

I winced, giving myself away, but simultaneously glad he'd only seen those pages rather than the various other subjects I'd been reflecting upon during my time in the pews.

Wearing a victorious smile, Hector patted me on the back. “So, as Old Dutch's matters are off limits, can I ask why you wished me a Merry Christmas before I left? I didn't take you for a papist, Henry.”

I sighed and began to spin a bit of a white lie about a Catholic priest who'd been nice to the orphans in my former home town. Really, what had I been thinking? I'd gotten sloppy enough to wish someone a Merry Christmas despite the fact that I hadn't celebrated the holiday in seven years!

I must really be getting sloppy if I forgot that Americans didn't start celebrating Christmas until after the Civil War.

Still, it was a nice little conversation aside from all the awkwardness. Hector wasn't someone I could speak with about the beginning barriers I was learning now that the Professor seemed confident I wouldn't blow a limb off casting something more complicated than a cleaning spell. It was nice that he was at least pretending to trust me a bit, here and there, even if he seemed perpetually surprised by my competency and serious, studious nature. There had even been off-hand mention of possibly beginning my lessons on actual sorcery soon if I kept up the 'acceptable' work.

~~~

Little bit later than I thought this would be out, but it has some nice length to it and some good content. Little Henry rapidly comes to realize that he may have set off something of a bomb in the timeline as the repercussions mount and things go rapidly off-course.

We're in for some wild times.

Next chapter of THWD will get back to magic shenanigans.

In other news, Thanksgiving is almost upon us for my American brethren. This means visiting family, but also time off work. I really want to get out two more chapters before we hit December 1st, but it largely depends on how active the holiday gets, which is something I have no idea of at this time.

At the bare minimum, I'll get one more chapter out, likely the Marvel side of Industrious. If I get that second one, it'll probably be a final chapter of Winning Peace for the month.

So the holidays are now upon us, I wish everyone a happy upcoming Turkey Day, even if you aren't a red/white/blue-blooded American gun nut and hope you have safe travels if you're visiting anyone or anyone's visiting you. Things are getting cold and occasionally snowy out there, so take extra time and travel safe if you need to. Thank you again for all your support and I'll see you in a few days!