by L. Todd Wood
Burr was excited. His plan, which until recently had been just that─a plan, was now a distinct possibility.
After Hamilton’s death, he was indicted for murder in New York and New Jersey. Although he was eventually acquitted, his career as a politician was over. Yet he still craved two things, money and power.
The only place he surmised he could acquire both was out west. When he actually thought up this grand design was unknown even to him; it had been percolating in his mind for as long as he could remember. He was a very ambitious man. He had been vice president of the United States for goodness sake. Close but yet so far.
Burr had been spurned many times before. He harbored grievances. It started with General Washington, who refused to acknowledge his bravery in the Revolutionary War. Then other dreams had been taken from him.
So his thoughts had turned west.
The Spanish lands in North America were very poorly managed; everyone knew that. What he desired was no less than conquering these lands during the upcoming war between the United States and Spain. Then he would install himself as king.
He had leased forty-thousand acres from the Spanish government in the Bastrop lands of Texas along the Ouachita River in what is now Louisiana. There he had a force of eighty men encamped, the start of an army.
I will rule benevolently, he thought.
To this end he had been contacting prominent people who he thought could help with his quest. Harman Blennerhassett was one of those individuals. Burr had appealed to his vanity and his greed. It had worked.
He was a wealthy immigrant from Ireland who controlled a large island in the Ohio River. His home was the most magnificent structure Burr had ever set foot inside. The seven-thousand-square-foot mansion contained oil paintings from Europe, silver door hardware, exquisite oriental rugs, and alabaster chandeliers with silver chains. His estate consisted of the entire landmass of the large island surrounded by the river.
Burr surmised his host wanted more money and a little glory. He was right. Tonight’s dinner had sealed the bond between them and access to the resources Blennerhassett could offer.
Of course, Burr had brought his daughter Theodosia to Ohio with him. She was an asset when it came to impressing moneyed interests.
He had raised her as a prodigy with strict mental discipline. Fluent in Latin, Greek, and several other languages, she could intelligently converse with anyone. She was also skilled in the arts of dancing and music. Burr had seen to her education personally since his wife had died years ago. He loved “Theo” desperately.
She was also married to Governor Alston of South Carolina. After the birth of their son in 1802, her health became frail. Burr hoped this trip would help restore her strength. After dinner this evening, she had retired early, which allowed him to speak freely to Blennerhassett.
His host’s money would help, of course, in the early days of his scheme; Burr had no resources of his own to tap. The island grounds would also be a convenient training ground for the invasion force Burr was planning. In the long run, he would need serious money, money to fund an empire.
Burr smiled. Thanks to Alexander Hamilton, I will have this. A noise startled him and he was brought back to reality. Someone was walking through the covered walkway from the main house to the study. He heard the door open and saw his host walk in with a smile on his face.
“You have quite excited my wife, Colonel. It is a feat even I have not been able to accomplish in quite some time. My congratulations!”
“It is good to have such believers in my capabilities, Harman. Let me congratulate you again on these splendid surroundings.”
“And your daughter, Sir, she is an exquisite creature!”
“Thank you, my new friend,” Burr replied.
Blennerhassett was uncorking a very nice bottle of Bordeaux his servant had retrieved from the cellar beneath the study.
“I drink to the surroundings to come! I must endeavor to learn Spanish,” he quipped.
“Indeed,” replied Burr as he raised his glass.
June 10, 2017
Bahamas
Evening
Connor parked the rental car late in the evening and walked the short distance to the British Colonial Hilton in Nassau, where he typically stayed. Nassau was very hot this summer night, and he worked up a sweat as he reached the hotel. The traffic was still heavy on Bay Street as the tourist revelers hit the bars and mingled with the locals. The scene reminded him of wolves attacking the shepherd’s sheep. Many a pocket was picked as dusk descended on the pirate town.
The Hilton was built on the site of an original British fort torn down at the end of the nineteenth century. A hotel designed by Henry Flagler, who built the Breakers in Palm Beach, had replaced another military structure that burned in the 1920s. The Bahamian government then rebuilt the site, and it was taken over by Hilton in the 1990s. Hilton had preserved the colonial essence that history called for. It was a great base of operations for Connor, as it sat in the middle of his clients in Nassau, and he enjoyed working from the hotel.
The monstrous hulks of three cruise ships parked on the sea side of the building dominated the harbor and lit up the evening sky. The government had just dredged the channel to accommodate this new line of massive vessels. Their stacked decks illuminated the entire Bay Street area like a glowing sun. Even with a bad economy, the pleasure cruise business was humming.
Connor had long grown used to the ships in the background, and the sight no longer startled him. He was tired from the day’s trip as he arrived at the hotel, but his mind was racing.
The doorman opened the glass door, and the welcome blast of the air conditioning hit him full force in the face. The great mural of the town’s past dominated the far wall above the massive stairway to the second floor.
The history of the Bahamas and the Caribbean always fascinated Connor. Although the Bahamas was not technically the Caribbean, he lumped them together all the same.
Most Americans had no idea of the battles that had been fought here for control of the world by the colonial powers right off their doorstep. Slavery, sugar, silver, and gold were all reasons the Spanish, French, Dutch, and English came to blows over several centuries in the West Indies and Caribbean Sea. Although Nassau was never invaded, there were many forts built to protect the port from foreign powers or, more often than not, pirates.
With the immense gold and silver harvests the Spanish mined from the Spanish Main came intense interest from competing powers and other groups intent on relieving them of their precious metal burden as it was transported back to the European continent. The Caribbean islands and the Bahamas, with its vast network of isolated cays, was well suited for pirates and privateers who were determined to pillage Spanish assets as they sailed north to Madrid.
When they were not attacking foreign ships, pirates would set up encampments on the cays and gorge themselves on their newly acquired plunder. These dry spells could last for months, until another hapless victim sailed by. They loved to roast the meat of local wild pigs in thin strips to survive. This food was called “bouchon” after the French word for roasted meat. This was the origin of today’s bacon. Also, since they subsisted on this ration, the pirates earned the name “buccaneers.”
Locations in Jamaica and Cuba specifically became famous for their pirate cities where the thieves could congregate between exploits and spend their ill-begotten wealth. Port Royal and Tortuga were notorious examples. Nassau was also one of those places. It was one of the last pirate refuges before the European navies were able to all but snuff out the pirate vocation in the early eighteenth century.
Men such as Edward Teach, or Blackbeard, and Captain Henry Morgan became famous during this golden age of piracy. Teach was killed by English troops, while Morgan famously died in his bed of old age and a very rich man. He considered himself a privateer, but his actions drifted into the re
alm of piracy over time.
As the Spanish empire waned and their mining operations slowed, the region became famous for another commodity─sugar. The agreeable climate along with a plethora of imported African slaves made the Caribbean the perfect area to grow the cane to sweeten the cups of the numerous coffee houses across Europe. The indigenous Indian population had been decimated by disease upon arrival of the white man and could no longer be counted on in sufficient numbers by the slave masters.
The difference between a pirate and a privateer was slight. Pirating was illegal worldwide and a scourge on trade across the globe. However, a privateer was basically a pirate sanctioned by a government. If, say, England was at war with France, the two governments would sanction and fund captains to capture and pillage ships of the opposing power. The end result was the same. People were killed or imprisoned and ships and cargo plundered.
Connor walked across the expansive, marbled lobby and strolled into the bar facing the harbor. He had showered and changed at Alex’s place after the miserable fishing expedition. He now just wanted a drink and a quiet place to think. A dark, empty corner worked just fine.
Alex had informed him of some exciting developments, and now they had to plan the next steps, which would not be easy, considering the typical government interference with situations like this one. The one thing he was quite sure of was that he didn’t place any faith in the Bahamian government’s fairness or process of confidentiality.
He pulled a notebook from his briefcase and began to make plans for the next few days. He tried to keep his mind busy, but again, as always, the sorrow began to creep in. It was always in late night bars that it tended to happen, when the day was winding down. That’s when he thought of her and how much he missed her. They had sat in this very bar together. He shockingly realized that probably on this very sofa he had held her. She had traveled with him frequently in the past as he visited clients. The Bahamas had been a favored destination for both of them. He tried to force the thought away and concentrate on his work.
She had died on 9/11. He still had the message on his phone. He played it from time to time.
Connor ran an emerging market trading desk for a large investment bank and was based out of New York City. Although he oversaw many traders and salesmen, his main job was building solid relationships with clients, so he traveled a great deal. Many of these clients were based in the Caribbean, where he had focused his career for the last twenty years. On September 11, 2001, he was in Jamaica. He had returned to his hotel later that evening after a fishing trip with a group of bankers, oblivious to the carnage being perpetrated on New York. He had immediately tried to call her, but there was no answer. Then he saw a message on his mobile phone.
“Connor, something’s happening! There is smoke all over the place. I’m scared but I love you so much!”
He never saw her or spoke to his wife again. Much later, he spoke to the police about what had happened to her. It seems most of the people on that floor were unable to get down the stairs blocked by wreckage. She probably jumped, as the fire was intense. He shivered again. The emotional pain was still raw.
He realized again that a tear was rolling down his face. “It’s been a long time,” he said aloud. “You need to move on with your life. She’s gone,” he added.
Signaling to the waiter, he downed his drink and ordered another. It’s going to be another long night. There were several women across the bar who kept stealing glances his way, but he wasn’t interested, had not been in a long time. Work was his only pleasure these days, but it was starting to get old.
The second drink helped, and he realized he could not get much done late in the evening. He would need his strength for the following day’s activities, so he folded his notebook and picked up the letter from his great aunt he had received from an attorney in Nassau a month ago. He vaguely remembered her face, as he had not seen her for probably forty years. She died when he was a child. Even then he mainly remembered her special cakes with the icing on them that he loved so much, and the large kitchen with such wonderfully strange utensils in that old, Victorian house. He was quite shocked when the attorney for the trust had called.
“Your Aunt Clara selected you as trustee for an offshore trust before she died. She didn’t want this letter delivered until you were forty-five, and it’s yours now. Please come to Nassau, and let me hand deliver it to you as she requested.”
“Dear Connor,” the letter read, “I want to tell you about your relationship to Aaron Burr.”
Chapter Three
May 15, 1698
St. Mary’s Island
Madagascar
Captain Kidd stood on the deck of the Adventure Galley. The hot, African sun warmed his leathered, tanned face, and he braced himself against the ship’s railing. He had been drinking rum and was angry.
The voyage had been a very unlucky one. There was no booty to speak of. Two years of chasing pirates around the world and really not much to show for it.
“I knew we sailed from England under an unlucky star,” Kidd muttered to himself.
His nemesis, the pirate Captain Robert Culliford, had eluded him for months around the Indian Ocean. Kidd harbored an old grudge against Culliford, who stolen his ship while he was ashore in Antigua years before. Now, in a twist of fate, Kidd had by chance found Culliford’s ship moored off St. Mary’s Island weeks earlier.
The Adventure Galley however, had recently captured a Moorish vessel, the Quedeh Merchant. It was commanded by the French, so it was technically legal. However, the owner was not French and was making big waves about the theft of his ship and cargo. He was a powerful Arab businessman. Kidd didn’t know it, but his luck was turning from bad to worse.
The Quedeh Merchant was a huge vessel and was loaded with expensive fabrics and other goods. The East India Tea Company was being pressured severely to return it. The booty was tainted. Kidd had no chance to know he was being branded a pirate not only in London but throughout the world. His benefactors had betrayed him to save their own skins and disowned knowledge of his mission.
Kidd in no way could return the ship and prize money now. It was too late. The crew would not allow it. They had waited too long.
Too long indeed.
Opposite him were one hundred of his men. He had just ordered them to attack Culliford now that Kidd’s other prize ships had made the harbor of St. Mary’s Island off the Madagascar coast and he had more men and firepower. Kidd hoped to claim a real pirate prize once and for all.
Culliford, however, had been holed up on St. Mary’s with him for months and was no fool. He had been working Kidd’s crew through surrogates when they went ashore to enjoy the pleasurable native company.
The island was a pirate paradise. Beautiful beaches flanked by palm trees and exotic wildlife made it an idyllic scene. In addition, the natives were very friendly. A man could take a temporary wife for as little as a silk shawl or a nail. The island was square in the middle of the East India shipping lanes and had a natural protected harbor, and they had plenty of rum.
Most of the crew refused Kidd’s order and decided to turn pirate and join Culliford. During his entire voyage, Kidd had used the force of his personality to keep the crew in line and to keep them honest. This time he could not do it. They had been two years without pay. They wanted off Kidd’s pirate hunting mission and onto Culliford’s hedonistic voyage wherever they may end up. Most pirates chose the short, exciting life of a buccaneer over the long toils of an honest day’s work.
“We would rather fire ten guns into you!” they shouted at Kidd.
His dream of returning to London in glory and treasure was dashed.
“We have had a parley, and we’ve decided to align ourselves with Captain Culliford. You, my dear Captain Kidd, are hereby ordered to leave the ship with your loyal crew and go ashore. You should consider yourself lucky to leave with your
life!” announced his old first mate.
The mutineers left his ship to join Culliford’s band of thieves and reveled in the rum and sex onshore. Many of them married several temporary wives and lost themselves on the beach in debauchery. Worst of all, they looted all of Kidd’s ships, taking weapons, rigging, food, water, and anything else of value. They loaded the loot onto the Mocha Frigate and sailed away with Captain Culliford.
Kidd was left with the Moorish prize ship, the four-hundred-ton Quedeh Merchant, and a twenty-man, loyal crew to sail back to London with the little treasure he had left. He poached whatever rigging and sails he could from the Adventure Galley and constructed more sails from sackcloth taken from the cargo. His sails became a multicolored rigging made of quilts. The Adventure Galley was ordered burned, as she had become riddled with worms.
If attacked, he had enough men to man only two or three of the thirty plus guns. He renamed his new ship the Adventure Prize.
June 11, 2017
The acrid, black smoke billowed through the office doorway like an angel of death, covering everything on the 101st floor in its path. In seconds he could not see his hand in front of him and fell to the floor to try to continue breathing. He could hear his colleagues shrieking and begging for help, but he could not offer any. The red hot air burned his lungs as they ingested the poisonous fumes. The outside windows shattered, sending thousands of deadly shards of glass raining down around him. I’m going to die, he thought. The building foundation began to shudder violently; he could feel the tower swaying. He drowned in horror as he felt the floor disappear below his feet. He screamed.
Connor awoke sweating and holding tightly to the sheet matted into a ball. He was drenched and had been screaming again. He could almost still hear it echoing off the walls. He looked around the room in the blackness.
