Wednesday Briefs: Waiting for Theodosia

Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

This week, I'm stepping away from my usual flash. But don't worry, In Pieces will return promptly next week, never fear! Today, however, is a special day, so I wanted to commemorate it in a special way. Today is the birthday of my favorite founding Father - Aaron Burr. Born Feb 6, 1756, he is 263 today. Happy Birthday to Aaron. I hope you enjoy this little tale. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!

Waiting for Theodosia

Spring in New York City was iffy at best. Surprisingly lamblike at times, more often it revealed the face of the lion in its chilly ferocity. Tonight was a night of infinite leonine grace. Aaron Burr pulled his cloak tighter about himself, fending off a stiff breeze. The cold in and of itself was not worrisome to him. He’d endured far worse as a soldier during the ill-fated march to Quebec. His concern was entirely for his daughter, Theodosia. She would be arriving soon, and he did not wish her to catch cold.

The docks of New York were quiet at night, silent ships riding gentle lapping waves. A stark contrast to a time when British ships held sway. So many ships they’d resembled a veritable forest.  Thirty-two thousand troops under the joint command of the Howe brothers. But that was long ago now.

He’d expected to sight Theodosia’s ship earlier in the day, but so far there had been no sign of the Patriot. Delays at sea were not uncommon, so Burr was not overly concerned. She would be with him soon, and that was all that mattered.

“Burr!”

Lost in thought, Burr had failed to hear anyone approach. He made a graceful pirouette to face the speaker. Being recognized was a common occurrence for Burr, especially here in New York where he had spent so much of his political career. And of course his stint as vice-president of the United States carried its own infamy.

This was one face he hadn’t expected to see, however.

“Hamilton!” Burr exclaimed. The two men shook hands.

“Damn cold out here,” Hamilton complained. “Just when you think winter is over and done with, it comes creeping back like a thief in the night.”

Burr repressed a smile at Hamilton’s outrage. He knew the other man was more bluster than anger, although he could be hotheaded and one would do well to be wary of him at those times.

“I’m surprised to see you down here at this hour,” Hamilton continued. “Taking the air? Sea air, that is?” He smirked, as if he’d said something very humorous.

“I’m awaiting my daughter,” Burr replied, not bothering to address the witticism. “The Patriot is expected today, but she must be running a little late.”

“Ah, Theodosia,” Hamilton said. “So much like her dear mother, isn’t she? And yet very much her father’s child.”

“I like to think so,” Burr murmured. Theodosia, named for his late wife, was indeed the apple of his eye, his reason for living. He had missed her sorely since her marriage and removal to the wilds of South Carolina. The only blessing which had been bestowed was his one and only grandchild, Aaron Burr Alston, whom he nicknamed Gampy. The child had taken to calling Burr Gampy as well, which was sometimes confusing to everyone but the two of them. “As much as her son is like his mother.”

“Indeed,” Hamilton said. A brief silence ensued. Burr eyed Hamilton curiously. No wonder the man complained of the cold. He was dressed as though he’d just come from the theater, bright colors and jewels, but not so much as a warm coat. What had he been thinking? Come to think of it, where had he been? With his latest mistress, perhaps? Maybe his sister-in-law, Angelica Church?

“What brings you here at this time of night, Alexander?” he asked.

Hamilton seemed momentarily taken aback, as if he’d not expected to be questioned in return. He fidgeted slightly. Burr, feeling sorry for the man, deftly changed the subject.

“How are you succeeding with your notion of starting a bank?” he asked solicitously.

Hamilton relaxed slightly, as if on more solid ground. In the wan moonlight which struggled to pierce the clouds which shrouded it, he still seemed more than a little furtive. What did this portend?

“I have gained my support,” he said cagily. “All is well.”

That was interesting news. Burr made a mental note to see what he could find out about the matter. If it was true, it might pave the way for others to do the same. After all, what sense was there in committing all of one’s eggs into one basket?

“You haven’t seen my son, Phillip, have you, Burr?” Hamilton’s next question seemed odd, being asked without any sort of context. Burr was momentarily confused.

“Seen your son?” he echoed. “No, that I have not.”

A frown marred Hamilton’s otherwise smooth forehead, his eyes uneasy. A heartbeat passed between them before Hamilton’s expression became peaceful once more. “Ah, young men. I’m sure he’s out and about, doing the sorts of things we did at his age.”

“Still do.” Now it was Burr’s turn to smirk. “Do you remember the time we were both seeing the same young lady, but neither was aware of the fact?”

“How could I forget? She played us both like a rare violin, did she not? Whatever became of her?”

“Last I heard, she married well and moved west. Maybe as far as Ohio.”

“That far?” Hamilton whistled softly.

Or was that the whinny of a horse?  The sharp clop-clop of hooves. A wandering traveler, perhaps? Or someone else waiting for the Patriot?

Burr turned back toward the sea. Where was that ship? A feeling of unease rose in his chest, a feeling of panic mingled with sorrow that he could not explain. A deep sense of dread.

Anxious for no reason he could name, he turned toward Hamilton. But no one was there.  Realization flowed through Burr like a chill.

How could he be? Burr had shot him in a duel, back in ‘04. His son dead two years before that, defending his father’s honor. Poor little Gampy dead of malaria at the age of nine. And his darling daughter Theodosia lost at sea. No matter how often he roamed the docks in search of her.

Gone, all gone.

Feeling incredibly alone, Aaron Burr fell to his knees and began to sob.

Happy Birthday, Aaron!

                                                                                                                               

Now go visit the other Briefers and see what's up!

Cia Nordwell

J Alan Veerkamp

J Ray Lamb

Carol Pedroso

Wednesday Briefs: Butterflies in His Stomach

Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

Today I'm doing something a little different, taking a week off from my usual flash. My muse demanded something different, so what could I do but obey? This story has been in the back of my mind for some time now. It's about Aaron Burr, whom I adore, and it takes place the night of July 10, 1804 - in other words, the night before his duel with Alexander Hamilton at Weehawken. I wanted to peek into his mind and heart and see how he felt on the eve of such a momentous occasion. I hope you like it! Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale!  Enjoy!

Butterflies in His Stomach

“You’ve given him every opportunity to make amends, Aaron.”

“I know, Will, I know.” 

“He is the one who is determined to go through with this. It’s not as though he hasn’t retracted such statements before.”

“But this time, he refuses. And this time he has gone too far.” Aaron Burr rose from his desk and in a few graceful strides approached the mahogany sideboard where he kept his liquor. Reaching for a cut glass decanter, he poured the amber liquid into two glasses. Taking one for himself, he handed the second to his young friend and fellow lawyer, William P. Van Ness. At twenty-six, Van Ness was some twenty-odd years Burr’s junior, but the two had a close bond, despite the age difference.

Burr took a seat beside Van Ness on the Aubusson settee which had only recently arrived from France. Done in the once popular Louis XV style, it had been smuggled to England during the early chaotic days of the French Revolution. From there it had been acquired on Burr’s behalf by an acquaintance acting on his behalf, and had been shipped from there to his beautiful home of Richmond Hill. Having lost his wife Theodosia to cancer some ten years before, and his only daughter, also Theodosia to marriage in 1801, Burr lived alone, except for his servants.

Burr took a long drink. To an outside observer, he might seem cool and collected, especially in light of what the next day would bring, but inside he was seething with emotions which he refused to display, even before such a close friend. The die had been cast, irreparably so, and tomorrow he and Hamilton would meet at dawn, across the river in Weehawken, a notorious dueling place. Although dueling was quite illegal, the authorities tended to turn a blind eye to such things, especially as most of them resulted in little more than opportunities for the parties involved to vent themselves before returning, somewhat ameliorated, to the bosom of their respective families. Burr, who was not very familiar with such affairs, had only been involved in one other, unlike Hamilton. He was not sure what the morrow would bring.

“All he had to do was retract what was referenced in that damnable letter,” Van Ness continued. “Explain himself, and explain what was said. But he refused, so this is on his head.”

“Indeed,” Burr replied. A silence fell between them. When the ornate clock in the hallway struck ten, Van Ness reluctantly took his leave. He’d suggested he should stay until morning, but Burr declined the generous offer, citing the dawn meeting and the need for both to rest. Once his friend had left, however, sleep eluded him.

Pouring another drink, he took a seat at his desk and pulled out his watch. Inside was the sole picture he retained of his late wife, who had not wished to sit for her portrait, especially once her illness took over, and Burr had not insisted. “Perhaps I shall join you tomorrow,” he said softly. “Oh Theodosia, I wish you were with me now. You always saw things as they were, unclouded with emotion or pretense. Maybe you could explain Alexander’s actions, for I surely cannot.”

Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He had once considered Hamilton a friend. Just when that had changed, Burr wasn’t sure, but over time their relationship had eroded. There were those who said Hamilton was jealous of Burr’s pedigree, of his family tree, his early entrance into the College of New Jersey. Hamilton was a self-made man. Overcoming being born in bastardy in the West Indies, he’d come to America at the young age of nineteen. Rejected by Burr’s alma mater, he’d gone on to attend King’s College. Both men had fought in the Revolution. Hamilton had gone on to become George Washington’s Secretary of the Treasury, his chief adviser. He’d married a wealthy young woman, become a successful lawyer, and had his own beautiful home.

So why was he so intent on ruining Aaron Burr?

Removing a piece of his personalized stationary from a drawer, Burr began to pen a letter to his daughter.

My dear Theodosia,

I seek for words with which to address this moment but I am uncustomarily at a loss. Normally I am more eloquent than this, but there is so much to say, and perhaps not much time to say it in.”

Burr paused, frowning at the paper. Normally, he could talk to his daughter about anything and everything. They had a very open and frank relationship, the father-daughter bond between them very strong. But tonight he was all too aware that perhaps these would be the last words he’d ever get to write to her, and the very thought brought butterflies to his stomach.

And what about Matty? Although he’d never openly acknowledged him as his son, Burr’s affection for Martin Van Buren ran deep. The decision to remain in the background of his son’s life had been done solely out of consideration for Matty’s political future. Burr was convinced that the son would succeed where the father had failed, by becoming the President of the United States.

He set the quill to paper once more.

Please, my dearest girl, do not lose touch with your brother, and be the able advisor to him that you have ever been to me. Don’t forget, also, to let Gampy know how much his grandfather loved him.

Setting the quill aside once more, he frowned, then crumpled up the unfinished missive. Rising swiftly, he strode across the room to the fireplace and tossed it into the flames before returning to the sofa and lying down to keep a wakeful vigil.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but he would remain optimistic for as long as he could. As the clock tolled midnight, he settled down to wait for Fate to arrive.

Now go see what the other Briefers are up to!

Cia Nordwell

J Alan Veerkamp

Johayan

Michael Mandrake

Happy Birthday Aaron Burr!

Recently, while celebrating my daughter Sarah's graduation from college, we were drinking in a local pub, and the discussion briefly turned to the musical Hamilton, which both Sarah and I are very obsessed with, although for different reasons. My son said to me, "You probably never even heard of Aaron Burr before Hamilton." I had to laugh at that.

That is far from the truth. Actually, I've been a Burrite since even before Lyn-Manuel Miranda was born, some forty-odd years now. I read a novel called Blennerhassett when I was a teenager, and that did it. But my interest was reawakened when, through Sarah, I discovered the musical, which I had previously dismissed as "just hip-hop". Well, that teaches me not to be so quick to judge. Give something a try before you decide whether you like it or not, and don't hate a genre, hate or dislike a song on its own merits.

At any rate. I have begun doing a lot more reading about Burr, Hamilton, and the whole Revolutionary War period. And today is a very special day indeed. Aaron Burr, Jr. was born on February 6, 1756.

Aaron's grandfather on his mother's side was Jonathan Edwards, the fire-and-brimstone preacher most famous for his sermon "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God", in which he visualizes God dangling people like spiders from his fingers over the fires of hell and damnation. Aaron's father was Aaron Burr, Sr. He was a minister and was also the head of New Jersey College (which became known as Princeton).

In the musical Hamilton, a great deal is made of Hamilton being an orphan, he says he "grew up on the wild" - his father split when he was ten, and his mother died when he was twelve (they were both sick at the time). He moved in with a cousin, and that cousin committed suicide. Pretty tragic, I admit.

But by the time he was two, Aaron had lost both parents and both grandparents, so never really knew them. He was raised by his mother's brother, his uncle Timothy Edwards, who besides Aaron and his sister took care of his own siblings when they were orphaned and another sibling's children. It must have been hard to get individual attention with such a brood to look after!

Aaron was brilliant and precious from a young age. He attended Princeton early and graduated when he was only sixteen. He joined the army and was a decorated soldier. He was part of the arduous trek to take Quebec, and acquitted himself bravely in the battle in which General Montgomery was killed. As LM puts it - "I was a captain under General Montgomery until he caught a bullet in the neck in Quebec".

While a soldier, he met Theodosia Prevost, whose husband was a British officer engaged in fighting against the rebels. They began a relationship, and after her husband was killed, they married, and he became father to her three children. They had one child of their own, a daughter also named Theodosia. Burr's was died of cancer in 1794, and he became a single parent. He raised his daughter to be strong, and he made sure she received the finest education available, which was unusual for women in those days. She was renowned for her beauty and her accomplishments, and played hostess for her father. When he sent her a message that she was to entertain the Mohawk chief, Joseph Brant, she never hesitated, organized a dinner for his reception, and by all accounts it was a great success.

Well, I didn't intend to write Aaron's bio here, just wanted to present facets of his amazing personality for the benefit of those who only see him in terms of the duel. There was much more to the man than that.

There are a number of great books about him, including Fallen Founder by Nancy Isenberg, and Burr, a novel by Gore Vidal, both of which I really enjoyed.

Someday I hope to see Hamilton, both the original cast when they release the DVD, and live, whenever I can get tickets, probably years from now. But until then, I have books about him as well as his journal and memoirs.


Happy Birthday, Aaron, with all my love!

Wednesday Briefs: A Woman Scorned

Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.

This week, I took a detour from my usual flash because while listening to Burn this morning (and yes, I am Hamilton obsessed lol), I was inspired to write a little sketch from Eliza's point of view. I call it A Woman Scorned. Don't forget to see what the other Briefers are up to. Their links follow my tale!  Enjoy!

A Woman Scorned

“Eliza, please! It was a mere slip of the tongue, nothing more.”

Eliza Hamilton gave her husband an icy stare. The man was brilliant, there was no doubt about that, but sometimes he had no common sense. The trouble with Alexander was he talked too much, and didn’t allow himself time to think through what he was going to say.

“The tongue gives voice to what is in the mind,” she retorted, and had the satisfaction of watching him wince at her words. Good, let him suffer. Why should she suffer alone? She knew he had not come through this thing unscathed, but at the moment she held no sympathy for him.

The only good thing that had come out of the whole affair, as far as Eliza was concerned, other than the opportunity to spend time with her sister Angelica, was that Alexander had pretty well shot his presidential ambitions in the foot. Perhaps now he’d stay at home more, and be the father and husband she’d always hoped he’d be.

Although there were times, such as now, when she wasn’t sure how much she wanted to have him there.

Eliza shivered. The infernal heat of New York City in the summer had given way to autumn’s briskness. Although she wore a shawl, the fragile lace did little to impart warmth.

“Perhaps we should return home,” her husband suggested in his most solicitous manner. The man could be charming when he had a mind to be. His words almost brought a smile to her weary soul but then she remembered she was not the only one Alexander Hamilton had charmed and her resolve stiffened. “Or take a carriage. I fear the chill of the evening air when you are so recently recovered from your confinement.”

“No, we must be seen,” she said, perhaps a bit more sharply than she intended.  Their last child had been born in August; she would not allow Alexander to use his birth as an excuse to avoid the public. “We will make an appearance this evening. And we shall walk, as we always have.” And that ended that discussion.

As far as Eliza was concerned, the matter was a private one between her and her husband. Never mind that he wrote the whole thing down and published it for the world’s perusal.  Never mind he’d revealed himself to be an adulterer in order to save his precious legacy and in so doing destroyed their lives. What would she tell the children when they were old enough to understand? The pamphlet was out there, and it was available, and she feared what would happen should they discover the truth about their father.

Philip was old enough to understand now. And while he was disturbed by his father’s actions, he steadfastly supported him because he loved him, and would not listen to anyone denigrate Alexander in his presence.

Eliza hoped that championing Alexander in the face of his guilt would not come back to haunt Philip in his later life. Men were often known by the choices that they made. Wasn’t Alexander living proof of that?

But she couldn’t worry about any of that now. Now they must present a united front, for their marriage must appear sold to the world’s scrutiny—none were entitled to know the truth. Only Angelica, her dearest sister and best friend and faithful companion knew the effort required to maintain the façade of the loyal spouse. Much as she knew Angelica adored Alexander, Eliza knew her sister was there for her and always would be. Angelica was the only reason Eliza was going to be able to get through this—her sister gave her strength, even in the face of adversity.

“Good evening Alexander, Miss Eliza.”

Eliza felt Alexander stiffen beside her at the first sounds of that familiar voice. She did not share her husband’s dislike of Aaron Burr, an animosity she suspected was prompted by more than a little jealousy as from any other motivation.

They stopped, face to face. Alexander tightened his grip on Eliza’s arm. She withdrew from him to free her hand.

“Good evening, Mr. Burr,” she greeted him, offering him her hand. One thing she appreciated about Aaron Burr was that he was never less than a complete gentleman. She remembered his late wife, Theodosia, and how devoted the couple had been to one another. 

Burr took her hand and bowed over it, his fathomless eyes seeming to probe her very being. She suspected he knew more than he would ever reveal about Alexander’s perfidy. But unlike her husband, he would never be so crass as to expose such information to the world. She saw kindness there, and sympathy.

“Will you be joining us this evening?” She assumed he’d received an invitation to the soiree. After all, they often ran in the same circles. To paraphrase the Bard, politics did make strange bedfellows.

Burr glanced between them. Eliza had the feeling he was assessing them before making a response. She found herself hoping he would answer in the affirmative.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, and his smile was most radiant. “I’m taking the air first, but I shall see you shortly.” He nodded to each of them in turn, continuing on his way. He was probably still in earshot when Alexander spoke up.

“Why must you encourage him?” he asked in a petulant tone as they resumed their stroll. “You hold no animosity toward him, although he also had a relationship with Mar—“He caught himself just in time. “With Mrs. Reynolds,” he hastily amended.

“As her lawyer,” she reminded him coldly. Why could he not keep the strumpet’s name from his conversation?

“I only meant—” he began, but she shushed him quickly.

“We are here, let’s have a pleasant evening.”

Before he could voice his nightly request, she cut him off. “You will sleep in your office until I say otherwise.”

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Now check out the other Briefers!

Cia Nordwell

Jon Keys

Nephy Hart

Louise Lyons