ceiswyn

In my defence, I've basically been ill since mid-November.

What was probably a variant of Covid turned into a long post-viral bleurgh, then as it started to lift PMT hit, and then obviously I came down with a mild cold because why not.

I've barely started the Christmas shopping, but I have booked myself a holiday to the East Coast of the US next autumn.  Now I just need to find some travel insurance that will cover me in the event of the country I intend to visit descending into a fascist dictatorship.

(I may also have booked to see a Broadway musical while I'm in NY and all.  There are no prizes for guessing which one.)

The man was deeply flawed in so many ways. But he was only twenty when he wrote The Farmer Refuted and, well…

“But while I pass this judgment, it is not my intention to detract from your real merit. Candour obliges me to acknowledge, that you possess every accomplishment of a polemical writer, which may serve to dazzle and mislead superficial and vulgar minds; a peremptory dictatorial air, a pert vivacity of expression, an inordinate passion for conceit, and a noble disdain of being fettered by the laws of truth.”

Clearly we have a natural for internet comment sections here :)

“The sacred rights of mankind are not to be rummaged for, among old parchments, or musty records. They are written, as with a sun beam, in the whole volume of human nature, by the hand of the divinity itself; and can never be erased or obscured by mortal power.”

Oh. Oh my.

“If the sword of oppression be permitted to lop off one limb without opposition, reiterated strokes will soon dismember the whole body.”

Just take me now, Ham.

Any day on which I can explain a complex technical concept to one of my colleagues is a good day.

Ky, after four months of hormonal madness: Why do I even own this belt? I can barely even get the end through the buckle!
Ky, after two months of relative hormonal stability: Second hole seems good...

There is a book, published almost thirty years after his death, called The Amorous Intrigues and Adventures of Aaron Burr. I have listened to a podcast about it. There were readings. It is, if anything, even worse than it sounds. There are women fainting from the awesomeness of the sex! A bull stampeding into a church! Burr being discovered by a lady’s husband and pretending to be a dog in the dark!

Yes, obviously I’m going to acquire it at some point, what do you think I am, sane?

And it would fit seamlessly into AO3. Human nature is gloriously unchanging that way.

It's interesting to note that Burr never engaged with any more 'affairs of honour' after his duel with Hamilton; no matter who insulted him, or even injured him. Chancellor Kent supposedly shook his cane at Burr while calling him a 'scoundrel' - one of the classic fighting words, along with 'liar', 'coward' and 'puppy' - and Burr just tipped his hat, responded that "The opinions of the learned Chancellor are always entitled to the highest consideration", and walked away.

In 1819, apparently the 63-year-old Aaron Burr received an unusual letter:

“Sir, Please to meet me with the weapon you chuse on the 15 of may where you murdered my father at 1 o'clock with your second. 8 May 1819. J.A. Hamilton.”

Burr initially wrote a very simple reply, along the lines of: “Boy, I never injured you: nor wished to injure your father. A. Burr”

…which would have been quite the rebuke, in Burr’s inimitably gentlemanly way, since James Hamilton was at that point 31 years old, and practicing law in New York. But Burr thought better of it, and instead decided just to ignore the affair entirely.

The letter was a forgery, but Burr’s response (and non-response) is very much at odds with reports of Burr's words on other occasions, such as from Bentham, which say that Burr went to Weehawken intending to kill Hamilton.

I rather suspect that the reason for the conflicting accounts of whether Burr intended to kill Hamilton is that Burr was conflicted about it himself, both before and after. But he certainly avoided ever getting into the same situation again.

...or, y'know, just really satisfied with the last chapter I wrote. One of those.

The scene I was looking forwards to has turned out to be just as much fun as I expected it to be, and as a bonus I got to include hints of Hamilton's underlying cynicism, reminders that Ham and Burr were both socially adept and manipulative just in different ways, and the extent to which Enlightenment ideals and philosophers were embedded in discourse among men of their social stratum.

And then the follow-up scene was a bit dull and unsatisfactory, until I added a final couple of paragraphs of Burr after Hamilton's departure, which somehow did A MILLION THINGS at once:

---
When the door closed behind him, the room seemed suddenly still and empty. Burr sighed and walked across to lay himself down on the couch, rubbing his temples again. He could not imagine he was going to get any sleep tonight.

Alors. He remembered he had recently been delivered the latest work by an authoress who was said to display a “depravity of morals” and lack any “female delicacy”; usually signs that she invested her female characters with more decision and ambiguity than readers liked to credit in their sex. He had feared it might be some time before he had an opportunity to read it.

After a short search, he found the book shoved in among a set of French plays. Now, where the devil might Peggy have put his cigar-case?

If Bayard was surprised to find his client asleep with a book open on his breast when he arrived, well after daylight; or to receive terse instructions regarding a counter to Dunbaugh's testimony, having previously been told it was irrelevant; he very wisely said nothing.
---

- Burr's moving straight from breaking down with grief to reading a romantic novel is absolutely typical Burr, and highlights how much he refused to connect with his negative emotions.
- A reminder of how feminist Burr was, and simultaneously how much of a libertine. Historically he did deliberately seek out books by female writers, and he was woke enough (at least when it came to feminism) to conduct that sort of analysis of his peers' reactions. I even figured out which specific book he'd be reading, because Wikipedia is very useful for that kind of detail!
- The book shoved in amongst a set of French plays: this is kind of peak Burr. He was highly educated with an analytical mind and love of serious literature; he was also often careless and untidy.
- Burr falling asleep on the sofa after being certain he wouldn't sleep is also absolutely typical. When it comes to 'know thyself', he didn't.
- And Bayard's changed instructions are, obviously to the reader, due to Hamilton's influence in the previous scene. This has turned into quite a Burrite fic (I find him much easier to write) and I really needed to emphasise that Hamilton is having a significant effect on events.

I'm so happy with this entire thing I can't even tell you. And I managed to sneak in a female character at the chapter start, which believe me is NOT EASY when writing a serious counterfactual about nineteenth century politics...

18 miles of hill walk with a dubious achilles tendon was definitely a... choice. Yes. That was what it was.

The sunlight was glorious, the hills were painful, my nose is now rosy, and my ankles no longer bend.

So clearly today is the perfect day to wear my new 4" heels around the office.

So it makes me proud that it seems to have achieved exactly what I wanted it to :)

(Context: Peter is Burr's enslaved valet. Burr has escaped from the dodgy military abduction ordered by Jefferson, and is lying low with an ally/acquaintance while he plans his next move)

---
Peter was surprised to find his master already awake and writing when he entered his room. Master Burr had been out very late again last night; he knew because none of the others who used that route up the side of the house would have cursed in French at missing the handhold to heave up onto the porch roof. Apparently Mr Clay’s remonstrances after master Burr had waked the household on finding the door locked at 3 am had had some effect, if not the one desired.

“Master Burr?”

Burr held up a finger as both an acknowledgement and an admonishment to patience, as he painstakingly copied down numbers from one paper to another, then tore one and scattered the fragments liberally in the kindling under the tea-kettle. Peter laid out everything he needed as his master got up from the desk and changed into his breeches.

It was just like visiting friends in another town. Half a year of danger and privation, the march east watching master Burr banter with his armed guard, the uncertain rendezvous at an abandoned house with a lame boatman wearing an utterly abominable hat, the careful ride north from friend to friend, often under the cloak of night; and now suddenly it was as if they had spent all that time attending parties in New York. Peter the messenger and spy was forgotten, and Peter the valet was expected to provide silent and unexceptionable service once more. It was frustrating and confining, like an ill-fitting set of clothes; and yet when he thought about returning to the war he felt overwhelmed by dread. Not that it mattered how he felt.

He was just finishing the dressing of master Burr’s hair when their host walked in.

Mr Clay was a lean man, with gaunt, protruding cheekbones and a determined chin. This morning he was tight-lipped with anger.

“Colonel Burr,” he said in a controlled drawl, his voice very dry. “I am sorry for the necessity, but I must ask you to control your boy.”

Peter’s fingers twitched and the hair ribbon slipped, letting a lock of hair fall free. He quickly started to mend his mistake, with shaking fingers. Mr Clay, he knew, did favour the whip.

“I am very sorry to hear that,” master Burr said politely. “What has young Peter done?”

“The housekeeper found him sneaking about the house last night.” Clay’s voice was an icy contrast to the heat of the morning. “He could give no good reason to be out of the garret, and he was insolent when ordered back there. This is a respectable household, Colonel Burr. I cannot have such goings-on. Why, my wife and little girl sleep only a floor above.”

Amidst Peter’s sudden panic, he found space to be affronted by the implication. Not to mention the illogic. He said nothing.

“Thankyou for bringing this to my notice,” master Burr said gravely. “It is a defect I had not expected to hear of, in a boy I had thought trustworthy beyond question.”

Peter was not sure whether that was a warning to him or to Clay. He winced either way.

“I shall see it does not occur again,” master Burr added, and Peter winced again. He stood quietly behind his master's chair, drawing out the loops of the ribbon with small motions, reluctant to make any move that might draw attention to himself.

“Thankyou, Colonel Burr, I appreciate it as a gentleman.” Clay continued to ignore that the person he was talking about was standing right there in front of him. For once, Peter found himself grateful that most southerners pretended not to see slaves. This morning seemed like a good time to be invisible.

“Is there any word yet from Washington city?” master Burr changed the subject briskly.

“Not that our Attorney-General has sent word of,” Clay said with a shake of his head. “Are you determined upon this course, Mr Burr?”

His hair now neatly brushed and tied, Burr stood, and Peter took the opportunity to quietly retreat a few steps. “It seems the most expedient, Mr Clay. I cannot return to the front with a danger of unlawful arrest hanging over me. I must meet the charges and refute them. I hope, with your aid.”

“Then I guess I remain at your service, sir.” Clay gave a respectful nod of his head before retiring.

Peter busied himself with tidying up the tools of master Burr’s toilette.

“Peter.”

He sighed, accepted the inevitable, and turned to his master; a little disconcerted, as ever, to find himself looking slightly downwards. “Yes, master?”

One black eyebrow arched at him. “You will furnish me with an explanation.” It was a statement of fact, not a request.

“I was not doing anything improper, master Burr, truly I was not!”

“I had thought your understanding in logic was sufficiently advanced by now to discriminate between what you were not doing, and what you were doing. And which of these things was asked for.” Burr’s words were precisely enunciated, and his face gave away nothing.

“I had simply thought,” Peter said apologetically, “that when Mr Clay was so unhappy that you waked the house on Tuesday, master, perhaps it would be better if I were available to open the door the first moment you knocked?”

Peter was not quite quick enough to read the tiny flicker around master Burr’s eyes before his forbidding expression returned. “And it did not occur to you that lurking in the corridors late at night might result in some solicitude to any person who heard you or encountered you.”

“Um…” There were so many thoughts crowding onto Peter’s tongue, from ‘I didn’t think that anyone else would be around at that hour’ to ‘the same way you thought about worrying the household by banging on the door when everyone was sound asleep?’, but with a heroic effort he managed to prevent himself actually saying any of them.

Master Burr turned away (still favouring one ankle a little when he moved, Peter noticed, which might explain how he had missed that handhold coming in last night). “If I require your services at any time, Peter,” he said over his shoulder, “I will ask for them. And I shall not be requiring them now for some hours. Go up to your quarters, and remain there until sent for.”

“Yes, master Burr.” Peter retreated, eyes smarting a little at the unfair harshness. It was not until he thought about that morning again, long after, that he realised that not only had he escaped the lash, but that he had very effectively been kept out of Mr Clay’s sight all day.
---

That moment when three of you are clustered at the open train doors making polite 'after you' gestures; and then suddenly the train starts beeping and you all have to just barge in any old way before it leaves without you.