Germanicus
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Author's Note:
The year is 1788. After an unbelievable win over the military superpower of Great Britain, the colonists of America succeeded in gaining their independence. Jubilees of triumph echoed in all parts of the continent from the disgruntled, but now free, citizens of a bold new nation. Democracy was going to receive its’ first shot at becoming a reality in the modern era.
This Democracy, however, was delicate; fragile by nature and easily shattered if handled too harshly.
The newly independent American States, called the United States, began with a simple document, the Articles of Confederation. The Articles, though intended to serve as a long standing form for the new government, were conceived with one political agenda at the forefront; the curbing of central power, and perfect protection of the sovereignty of the states which comprised the new union. While a good intention at heart, given the colonists fear of what many of them perceived as the tyranny of a strong elite caste out to oppress the will of the people, (the specter of Britain, made more ominous with the arrival of their ships to the continent and the tumultuous blaze of the revolution against them.) the Articles were extremely flawed in that the government they had created, while limited, was simply too weak. Without the ability to collect taxes, regulate interstate trade, or raise even a miniscule standing army, the government was little more than an honorific given to a worthless body lying underneath thirteen autonomous states.
These flaws were largely ignored during the war; after all, what good did worrying about a domestic document do when the British were still knocking at the door? For two years after its’ ratification, it served as a beacon of American legitimacy, a weapon to wield as a club against the British in the war for foreign recognition. With the end of the war in 1783, however, the essential government provided by the Articles was placed under scrutiny. Several prominent figures, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and others, cried out desperately for the problematic Articles to be examined and revised. So came about the Annapolis Convention in 1786 and from that the Constitutional Convention in 1787. After months of exhausting debate and compromise, the document known as the Constitution was formed. The group known as the Federalists, exalting the need for a strong central government, hailed it as a success.
Not all agreed, however; several groups, who were collectively known as Anti-Federalists, opposed the ratification of the Constitution, on the basis that the hated hand of an oppressive government was right around the corner. One such group of Ant-Federalists, called the “Country Party” of Rhode Island, led by former American Militia-General William West, is gathering in protest of this new document. Nearly one thousand armed and furious men took to the streets of Providence, Rhode Island in an effort to make their voices heard. Their concerned words became amplified by torches and roars as protest became riot.
Fearing the burgeoning threat of the ‘populist rule of the mob’, Alexander Hamilton receives word from his confidants of the riots in Rhode Island. Spurred by one of his aids, he will make an incredible, terrible mistake.
Roger Barriston wiped the sweat from his brow as the cool night air of the New England summer blew lightly through the long auburn locks of his hair; he had no cause to be sweating on this particular night, he swore lightly but vehemently under his breath. He wore the normal garb of the times, Colonial jacket, embroidered with the new Continental design of red, white, and blue for good measure. (He hoped the flag that had been designed and had flown proudly through the Revolution still carried clout around these parts, at the very least.) The miniature sewn delicately upon his right sleeve wasn’t quite the real deal, but it should keep the rioters at bay, as the symbol, along with the fact that it was laced upon his old militia uniform, as they marked him as a war veteran. These people were fighting against the formation of a stronger executive, yes; but surely they wouldn’t go so far as to harm a soldier that fought for their freedom from the real enemy, the greatly hated British. Federalist or Anti-Federalist, there was rarely a man in the colonies who could stand the God damned Red Coats.
Barriston’s golden brown hair was fairly long, a mop hanging down in a messy clutter from his head down to the collar of his coat, completely concealing the back of his neck. His eyes were black as coal, darker than the light blue of the evening which surrounded him. His face was stern and rugged, though not too aged; he was said to still look fairly young at the age of thirty six. His shoulders were broad and he stood at just less than six feet tall, giving him a rather imposing stature and an aura of strength wherever he decided to carry himself with his long, confident stride. The former Continental Lieutenant had a way of being convincing. If that wasn’t always with suave words and a savvy mind, well then, that was just the way life worked sometimes. The Creator wasn’t always fair, he just…well, he just was, Barriston concluded with a good amount of self-conviction at his own depth and profound nature.
Besides, I’m not exactly here to do the work of the Creator, are I?
The thought wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was true regardless of the level of comfort it might, or, rather, fail to provide. He shook his head and abandoned the idea of thought, as he was prone to do in times requiring precise and intelligent planning. He was just a hand on the trigger. The flintlock pistol in his jacket pocket was already primed and loaded, the firm wooden firearm giving him a tad more bravery than he had a moment before. He was just a hand on the trigger, sure; but he was also so much more than that, wasn’t he? He was here to secure the future of a fledgling nation. Maybe someday, proud fathers would rock their wide eyed children on their knees and tell them the patriotic tale of how Roger Barriston saved the Union when it was almost smothered in the cradle. What a tale that would be!
“Just do it!” Alexander Hamilton wasn’t often a man prone to emotion, but given the extraneous situation at hand, no one quite felt like their normal self at the moment. Roger blinked several times as he could seldom believe his own ears.
“Really?”
Hamilton, snowy powdered wig settled uncomfortably upon his head, scowled ferociously at his political runner. “You suggested it, didn’t you, you bumbling oaf?! And I just told you to do it, didn’t I?”
Barriston nodded vigorously, secretly brimming with pride that the great Alexander Hamilton had agreed with a nobody like him on these riots. Hamilton groaned in disgust and slapped a hand on a brown wooden table next to where he was sitting. “Then get out there and kill that sack of manure West!”
Roger rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, snapping back to the present. The young night, a ink blot of light blue lay serenely patched with a twinkly quilt of stars, the luminescent orb of the moon pointing its’ lunar eye directly upon the town of Providence. The elegant brick buildings of the largest sector of the city adorned with blazing torches casting their flickering light upon the gray, cobblestone roads. The Federalist sympathizer couldn’t help but be impressed; sure, Providence was no New York or Philadelphia, but it was still one of the largest cities on the continent, and Barriston himself had lived in the sticks for over twenty years of his life on a tiny New York farm. He was fortunate the war had called him away, or else he would probably still be rotting his life away there at this very moment.
The din of angst-filled cries echoed down the stony paths, roars of a new revolution and maintaining the integrity of the elder revolution piercing the air. The metallic clang of bells, hanging majestically in golden radiance from the church belfry, rang their songs of defiance through the night. Barriston’s cool sweat began once more on his broad forehead. He swept it off with a heavy palm, but it did not cease, and he did not attempt to fight his natural, instinct driven terror for long. Panic when you had been sent to commit murder was a common occurrence, after all.
Roger arrived at the town square, bustling with all sorts of unruly country folk. (It caused a memory of his own, horribly uncivilized home to surface up, sending a shiver down his spine.) The smell of cheap whiskey, the reeking stench of the devil’s elixir, wafted pungently from the crowd, who were jeering and waving weapons and torches, punctuating the shrieks by abrupt blasts of gunfire echoing from pistols, hunting rifles, whatever the mob had been able to get their hands on. Barriston gulped as he saw the burning effigies of several prominent Federalists hanging by ropes from rather tall trees. (Excessively tall trees, Roger noted rather nervously.) Standing on a dais in the middle of the square, a rather imposing fellow in exquisite military garb, coated in medals, stood and boomed his voice over the rambunctious rioters. His head was near balding, and he appeared middle in age, though older than Barriston, but he stood in an image of extreme power and his voice reflected it as it carried far beyond the square despite other noise.
“..and we won’t stand for this atrocity! We didn’t give old King George the Last the boot just to replace with King George the Next! We won’t let an assembly of power hungry New Englanders and Hamilton’s blasted ilk in New York dictate the fate of this nation, this free nation, OUR FREE NATION!”
The deafening howl of the mob stabbed knives into Roger’s ears. Wincing, but moving on, he began pushing lightly through the crowd, muttering apologies as he moved. In his haste, he accidently pushed one man a bit too hard, and the man, quite intoxicated, growled in agitation at him, waving a small, rusted pistol in Roger’s face. Barriston wound back his arm and clocked the man with his right fist, the crude gentleman falling to the ground in a daze. Lost among the chaotic swirl of activity, the act went unnoticed and unpunished, which worked wonderfully as far as he was concerned. Finally picking his spot, a surprisingly open portion of the crowd near the edge of the church, directly to the left of William West’s podium on which he preached his gospel. Roger drew in a deep, tense breath; his hand locked in a death grip around his pistol as he slowly drew it from within his coat. His beady black eyes focused squarely on the man on the podium, such a large and easy target to hit from his range of about twenty yards. The pistol extended, a tree hiding amongst the woods, the click of the trigger as it was yanked towards the barrel completely inconspicuous.
The flash of a barrel as the tiny, silver angel of death crashed into Willam West’s neck. The heralds of victory and glory in freedom cut into bloody ribbons of shocked gurgling and flowing blood from the dying throat of a war hero. The sudden, despairing realization of the crowd as they realized their leader had become a martyr.
The monster that was the mobbed reared its’ ugly head and howled in pain. Roger fell back towards the alley throwing the pistol as far as he could away from himself and disappearing into the night…only to bump into another figure. Balding hair sported on this man as well, with the exception that he was far more portly than West had been, and light lines of age etched upon his face along with the shock of what he had just seen. Roger, face turning ghostly pale, gave up his planned subtle exit in favor of dashing madly for the edge of town in which he had left his horse.
The worst realization being that Abraham Whipple, former commander of the Continental Navy, knew this man in the scene of the riots he had come to observe quietly. He had met him when dining with several important politicians after he had been decorated for distinguished service during the war.
This man had been a direct associate of Alexander Hamilton.
His mouth struggled to work as he worked out the murder of an old compatriot.
“M-my god…”
His train of thought was interrupted by several of the more sober protestors, who rushed up to him after catching sight of the encounter between a famous veteran and the mysterious stranger. “Mr. Whipple, sir! What’s wrong? Who was that man?”
Whipple gazed at several of the colonials blankly for a moment, as if puzzled at their questions; what to do? What to say? This action could perpetuate something far beyond the hunt for one mere man. Did he, a mere mortal, not even an officer any longer, dare to condemn not only a murderer, but an entire faction rising up in their young nation?
The principle, driving force to action is decisiveness. It was what had led Whipple to be one of the most distinguished and feared officers in the Continental Navy. He wouldn’t let this impossible situation be any more strenuous than the last hundred times he had been forced to make choices with such broad repercussions. He nodded, simply, and pointed a chubby finger down the alleyway behind him, his voice firm and flooded with dignity, as befitting a man of rank used to command.
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Some Historical Notes:
Characters which will probably have central roles at the beginning of the story:
This is an original idea I have recently thought out. This prologue is kind of like a trial run; I wanna see how it acts out. This is a historical fiction, the premise of which will be introduced at the beginning portion of this chapter. Any comments, critiques, (valid) complains, please let me know. Should you choose to read, thank you and I hope you enjoy.
The North American Continent.
The year is 1788. After an unbelievable win over the military superpower of Great Britain, the colonists of America succeeded in gaining their independence. Jubilees of triumph echoed in all parts of the continent from the disgruntled, but now free, citizens of a bold new nation. Democracy was going to receive its’ first shot at becoming a reality in the modern era.
This Democracy, however, was delicate; fragile by nature and easily shattered if handled too harshly.
The newly independent American States, called the United States, began with a simple document, the Articles of Confederation. The Articles, though intended to serve as a long standing form for the new government, were conceived with one political agenda at the forefront; the curbing of central power, and perfect protection of the sovereignty of the states which comprised the new union. While a good intention at heart, given the colonists fear of what many of them perceived as the tyranny of a strong elite caste out to oppress the will of the people, (the specter of Britain, made more ominous with the arrival of their ships to the continent and the tumultuous blaze of the revolution against them.) the Articles were extremely flawed in that the government they had created, while limited, was simply too weak. Without the ability to collect taxes, regulate interstate trade, or raise even a miniscule standing army, the government was little more than an honorific given to a worthless body lying underneath thirteen autonomous states.
These flaws were largely ignored during the war; after all, what good did worrying about a domestic document do when the British were still knocking at the door? For two years after its’ ratification, it served as a beacon of American legitimacy, a weapon to wield as a club against the British in the war for foreign recognition. With the end of the war in 1783, however, the essential government provided by the Articles was placed under scrutiny. Several prominent figures, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and others, cried out desperately for the problematic Articles to be examined and revised. So came about the Annapolis Convention in 1786 and from that the Constitutional Convention in 1787. After months of exhausting debate and compromise, the document known as the Constitution was formed. The group known as the Federalists, exalting the need for a strong central government, hailed it as a success.
Not all agreed, however; several groups, who were collectively known as Anti-Federalists, opposed the ratification of the Constitution, on the basis that the hated hand of an oppressive government was right around the corner. One such group of Ant-Federalists, called the “Country Party” of Rhode Island, led by former American Militia-General William West, is gathering in protest of this new document. Nearly one thousand armed and furious men took to the streets of Providence, Rhode Island in an effort to make their voices heard. Their concerned words became amplified by torches and roars as protest became riot.
Fearing the burgeoning threat of the ‘populist rule of the mob’, Alexander Hamilton receives word from his confidants of the riots in Rhode Island. Spurred by one of his aids, he will make an incredible, terrible mistake.
A continent shakes. History will never be the same.
Providence, Rhode Island.
Providence, Rhode Island.
Roger Barriston wiped the sweat from his brow as the cool night air of the New England summer blew lightly through the long auburn locks of his hair; he had no cause to be sweating on this particular night, he swore lightly but vehemently under his breath. He wore the normal garb of the times, Colonial jacket, embroidered with the new Continental design of red, white, and blue for good measure. (He hoped the flag that had been designed and had flown proudly through the Revolution still carried clout around these parts, at the very least.) The miniature sewn delicately upon his right sleeve wasn’t quite the real deal, but it should keep the rioters at bay, as the symbol, along with the fact that it was laced upon his old militia uniform, as they marked him as a war veteran. These people were fighting against the formation of a stronger executive, yes; but surely they wouldn’t go so far as to harm a soldier that fought for their freedom from the real enemy, the greatly hated British. Federalist or Anti-Federalist, there was rarely a man in the colonies who could stand the God damned Red Coats.
Barriston’s golden brown hair was fairly long, a mop hanging down in a messy clutter from his head down to the collar of his coat, completely concealing the back of his neck. His eyes were black as coal, darker than the light blue of the evening which surrounded him. His face was stern and rugged, though not too aged; he was said to still look fairly young at the age of thirty six. His shoulders were broad and he stood at just less than six feet tall, giving him a rather imposing stature and an aura of strength wherever he decided to carry himself with his long, confident stride. The former Continental Lieutenant had a way of being convincing. If that wasn’t always with suave words and a savvy mind, well then, that was just the way life worked sometimes. The Creator wasn’t always fair, he just…well, he just was, Barriston concluded with a good amount of self-conviction at his own depth and profound nature.
Besides, I’m not exactly here to do the work of the Creator, are I?
The thought wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was true regardless of the level of comfort it might, or, rather, fail to provide. He shook his head and abandoned the idea of thought, as he was prone to do in times requiring precise and intelligent planning. He was just a hand on the trigger. The flintlock pistol in his jacket pocket was already primed and loaded, the firm wooden firearm giving him a tad more bravery than he had a moment before. He was just a hand on the trigger, sure; but he was also so much more than that, wasn’t he? He was here to secure the future of a fledgling nation. Maybe someday, proud fathers would rock their wide eyed children on their knees and tell them the patriotic tale of how Roger Barriston saved the Union when it was almost smothered in the cradle. What a tale that would be!
“Just do it!” Alexander Hamilton wasn’t often a man prone to emotion, but given the extraneous situation at hand, no one quite felt like their normal self at the moment. Roger blinked several times as he could seldom believe his own ears.
“Really?”
Hamilton, snowy powdered wig settled uncomfortably upon his head, scowled ferociously at his political runner. “You suggested it, didn’t you, you bumbling oaf?! And I just told you to do it, didn’t I?”
Barriston nodded vigorously, secretly brimming with pride that the great Alexander Hamilton had agreed with a nobody like him on these riots. Hamilton groaned in disgust and slapped a hand on a brown wooden table next to where he was sitting. “Then get out there and kill that sack of manure West!”
Roger rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, snapping back to the present. The young night, a ink blot of light blue lay serenely patched with a twinkly quilt of stars, the luminescent orb of the moon pointing its’ lunar eye directly upon the town of Providence. The elegant brick buildings of the largest sector of the city adorned with blazing torches casting their flickering light upon the gray, cobblestone roads. The Federalist sympathizer couldn’t help but be impressed; sure, Providence was no New York or Philadelphia, but it was still one of the largest cities on the continent, and Barriston himself had lived in the sticks for over twenty years of his life on a tiny New York farm. He was fortunate the war had called him away, or else he would probably still be rotting his life away there at this very moment.
The din of angst-filled cries echoed down the stony paths, roars of a new revolution and maintaining the integrity of the elder revolution piercing the air. The metallic clang of bells, hanging majestically in golden radiance from the church belfry, rang their songs of defiance through the night. Barriston’s cool sweat began once more on his broad forehead. He swept it off with a heavy palm, but it did not cease, and he did not attempt to fight his natural, instinct driven terror for long. Panic when you had been sent to commit murder was a common occurrence, after all.
Roger arrived at the town square, bustling with all sorts of unruly country folk. (It caused a memory of his own, horribly uncivilized home to surface up, sending a shiver down his spine.) The smell of cheap whiskey, the reeking stench of the devil’s elixir, wafted pungently from the crowd, who were jeering and waving weapons and torches, punctuating the shrieks by abrupt blasts of gunfire echoing from pistols, hunting rifles, whatever the mob had been able to get their hands on. Barriston gulped as he saw the burning effigies of several prominent Federalists hanging by ropes from rather tall trees. (Excessively tall trees, Roger noted rather nervously.) Standing on a dais in the middle of the square, a rather imposing fellow in exquisite military garb, coated in medals, stood and boomed his voice over the rambunctious rioters. His head was near balding, and he appeared middle in age, though older than Barriston, but he stood in an image of extreme power and his voice reflected it as it carried far beyond the square despite other noise.
“..and we won’t stand for this atrocity! We didn’t give old King George the Last the boot just to replace with King George the Next! We won’t let an assembly of power hungry New Englanders and Hamilton’s blasted ilk in New York dictate the fate of this nation, this free nation, OUR FREE NATION!”
The deafening howl of the mob stabbed knives into Roger’s ears. Wincing, but moving on, he began pushing lightly through the crowd, muttering apologies as he moved. In his haste, he accidently pushed one man a bit too hard, and the man, quite intoxicated, growled in agitation at him, waving a small, rusted pistol in Roger’s face. Barriston wound back his arm and clocked the man with his right fist, the crude gentleman falling to the ground in a daze. Lost among the chaotic swirl of activity, the act went unnoticed and unpunished, which worked wonderfully as far as he was concerned. Finally picking his spot, a surprisingly open portion of the crowd near the edge of the church, directly to the left of William West’s podium on which he preached his gospel. Roger drew in a deep, tense breath; his hand locked in a death grip around his pistol as he slowly drew it from within his coat. His beady black eyes focused squarely on the man on the podium, such a large and easy target to hit from his range of about twenty yards. The pistol extended, a tree hiding amongst the woods, the click of the trigger as it was yanked towards the barrel completely inconspicuous.
The flash of a barrel as the tiny, silver angel of death crashed into Willam West’s neck. The heralds of victory and glory in freedom cut into bloody ribbons of shocked gurgling and flowing blood from the dying throat of a war hero. The sudden, despairing realization of the crowd as they realized their leader had become a martyr.
The monster that was the mobbed reared its’ ugly head and howled in pain. Roger fell back towards the alley throwing the pistol as far as he could away from himself and disappearing into the night…only to bump into another figure. Balding hair sported on this man as well, with the exception that he was far more portly than West had been, and light lines of age etched upon his face along with the shock of what he had just seen. Roger, face turning ghostly pale, gave up his planned subtle exit in favor of dashing madly for the edge of town in which he had left his horse.
The worst realization being that Abraham Whipple, former commander of the Continental Navy, knew this man in the scene of the riots he had come to observe quietly. He had met him when dining with several important politicians after he had been decorated for distinguished service during the war.
This man had been a direct associate of Alexander Hamilton.
His mouth struggled to work as he worked out the murder of an old compatriot.
“M-my god…”
His train of thought was interrupted by several of the more sober protestors, who rushed up to him after catching sight of the encounter between a famous veteran and the mysterious stranger. “Mr. Whipple, sir! What’s wrong? Who was that man?”
Whipple gazed at several of the colonials blankly for a moment, as if puzzled at their questions; what to do? What to say? This action could perpetuate something far beyond the hunt for one mere man. Did he, a mere mortal, not even an officer any longer, dare to condemn not only a murderer, but an entire faction rising up in their young nation?
The principle, driving force to action is decisiveness. It was what had led Whipple to be one of the most distinguished and feared officers in the Continental Navy. He wouldn’t let this impossible situation be any more strenuous than the last hundred times he had been forced to make choices with such broad repercussions. He nodded, simply, and pointed a chubby finger down the alleyway behind him, his voice firm and flooded with dignity, as befitting a man of rank used to command.
“That man is Roger Barriston, a close accomplice of one distinguished Alexander Hamilton of New York. He has murdered William West, in cold blood and with clear intent. Their petty faction, and all that it stands for, is not to be trusted.”
“We cannot trust the nine states who have voted to ratify that cursed document, and any others beyond now who choose to do so.”
“We cannot trust the nine states who have voted to ratify that cursed document, and any others beyond now who choose to do so.”
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Some Historical Notes:
Well, in case you read the whole thing, here are some minor details I should clarify as to what I did with the whole situation:
The protest of the Country Party led by William West actually did occur. Of course, nothing came of it, or it would probably be more commonly known.
Abraham Whipple was a Commander of the Continental Navy. However, after his army time, he retired, with the exception of two more commissions as captain of two different ships, the General Washington and the St. Clair.
Roger Barriston is a complete work of fiction; I felt I needed a character to mold the dynamics of, and I'm hoping to feature his name as the first of a few family dynasties which may take prominence later.
Alexander Hamilton may or may not have had knowledge of the riots in Providence...after they happened. Intelligence in this story has been stretched.
Obviously this isn't the most accurate story ever. That's why alternative history can be fun. Accuracy, while respected, is not the focus.
The protest of the Country Party led by William West actually did occur. Of course, nothing came of it, or it would probably be more commonly known.
Abraham Whipple was a Commander of the Continental Navy. However, after his army time, he retired, with the exception of two more commissions as captain of two different ships, the General Washington and the St. Clair.
Roger Barriston is a complete work of fiction; I felt I needed a character to mold the dynamics of, and I'm hoping to feature his name as the first of a few family dynasties which may take prominence later.
Alexander Hamilton may or may not have had knowledge of the riots in Providence...after they happened. Intelligence in this story has been stretched.
Obviously this isn't the most accurate story ever. That's why alternative history can be fun. Accuracy, while respected, is not the focus.
Characters which will probably have central roles at the beginning of the story:
George Washington.
Alexander Hamilton.
John Adams.
James Madison.
Abraham Whipple.
Robert Yates.
And of course Roger Barriston.
More will be decided later.
Alexander Hamilton.
John Adams.
James Madison.
Abraham Whipple.
Robert Yates.
And of course Roger Barriston.
More will be decided later.
I'm going through that same trial with one of my works right now=D