The Burr Conspiracies Read online

  The Burr Conspiracies

  Taylor, Paul

  (2012)

  * * *

  The Burr Conspiracies

  By Paul Taylor

  Copyright (c) 2012 by Paul Taylor.

  Part 1: Benjamin Franklin and the Foxfire Submarine

  (The Hellfire Conspiracy)

  Part 2: Benjamin Franklin and the Consanguineous Crown Royals

  (The Habsburg Conspiracy)

  Part 3: Benjamin Franklin and the Pufferfish Zonbis

  (The British Conspiracy)

  Part 4: Benjamin Franklin and the Electrostatic Pirates

  (The Terror Conspiracy)

  Part 5: Benjamin Franklin and the Battle of Solomon’s Temple

  (The Napoleonic Conspiracy)

  Postscript

  Christie’s Auction Notice

  New York, Rockefeller Plaza

  Lot 1725-4

  This document for auction was found in a charred iron trunk in an obscure corner of the library at the University of Pennsylvania. The document smells of rotten eggs, and its edges are singed brown, but it remains otherwise legible.

  The trunk is engraved with the words “B. Franklin, Multiverse Postmaster, 300 Market Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, United States of America, Planet Earth, Universe No. 1.” The document, written in the hand of Dr. Benjamin Franklin, includes descriptions of bizarre events not reflected in the historical record. As such, it is generally considered one of Franklin’s famous hoaxes, making it particularly attractive to collectors.

  The text of the document is reprinted below.

  Dear Fellow Sentient:

  If my calculations are correct, your reading the enclosed document confirms it has fallen into the hands of a self-conscious being capable of understanding language, in this case English, and that the document has arrived in a universe not too far, or too different, from mine. If in addition your present country should be the United States of America, prospects are good you will be familiar with at least some of the historical figures and events herein described.

  As both a political and natural scientist, I have come to understand that government works best when it is based on an understanding of people as they are, not as they should be. Just as the natural scientist must take nature as he finds it, so must the political scientist take man as he finds him, if his theory is to work. I once wrote in an almanac that leaders who are not so humble as to take people as they find them must turn to supernatural forces to administer their political programs. Should you read on, it will become clear that would prove to be my most prescient aphorism.

  I have titled this document “The Burr Conspiracies.” It chronicles the intrigue associated with the struggle between two competing political visions in the early history of our new American republic. It is submitted in the hopes that sharing the lessons learned in my own part of the multiverse might prove helpful to those in adjacent parts who share similar histories.

  I make two apologies to the reader in advance. First, the following narrative no doubt contains few of the emotional highs or lows that might be expected by more sentimental readers, as my own character is prone to contentment. Second, what follows may read at times like a technical manual, as is my want as a man of science.

  Consequently, the reader may prefer to digest this tale in smaller bites, so as not to overwhelm the faculties in a single sitting.

  Part 1: Benjamin Franklin and the Foxfire Submarine

  (The Hellfire Conspiracy)

  I am Benjamin Franklin, scientist and American Founding Father. You may be acquainted with my name, and with those of others in the following chronicle. But as you are reading this in another part of the multiverse, the events surrounding these otherwise familiar historical figures are bound to appear strange at times. At other times, the events may appear familiar to you, but only through myth or legend. For me, however, the events herein described are true history.

  That history begins during the presidency of Thomas Jefferson. The federal government consisted of just several hundred people, and barely three thousand militiamen were left to defend a vast frontier. The country itself rested on a vast continent, the greatest part of which remained largely in its state of nature. It was a time following my country’s Declaration of Independence that had abrogated our treaties with the British and denied us the protection of its powerful navy. Without that protection, Americans trading with Europe were left exposed to attack by the Barbary pirates, vicious Mediterranean marauders who captured Christian seamen for sale into slavery in the Islamic markets of the Middle East.

  The pirates were led by the Pasha of Tripoli, who demanded a quarter million dollars to merely suspend his atrocities. President Jefferson believed acceding to such demands would merely breed more. He refused the Pasha’s offer and ordered the navy deployed to protect American commerce. Barbary vessels were boarded, and their crews promptly captured, tried, and executed by military commissions.

  But Jefferson’s own Vice President, Aaron Burr, led the opposition to Jefferson’s policy. Burr had made a run for the presidency against his own running mate, but lost narrowly after Alexander Hamilton, now Secretary of the Treasury, threw his support to Jefferson. Burr then assumed the Vice Presidency, a much lesser office, but used his constitutional authority as President of the Senate to cast a tie-breaking vote to pass legislation granting pirates the right to argue their innocence before independent federal courts.

  Jefferson vetoed the legislation, but then invited his Vice President, and the rest of his cabinet, to a White House dinner in the hopes of unifying his administration.

  Jefferson sat us pell-mell style, instead of according to rank, as was the President’s preference for receiving guests. Burr was visibly upset by the arrangement, which placed him next to Hamilton, who was now his arch political rival. Both were ardent proponents of iron-clad principles, but those principles were shaped in much different forges.

  Burr’s great intellect was visible in his penetrating eyes, but often one sensed they were directed inward, falling into sunken sockets like two black pebbles. He was the son of the president of Princeton and the grandson of a renowned Calvinist minister. He was raised an intellectual whose confidence in absolute moral truth drove him to advocate the perfection of man’s nature by an enlightened elite. He claimed the well-being of others was his chief motivation, but the contours of his heart seemed always obscured by the self-confident jut of his chest and aristocratic dress.

  Hamilton’s gaze was as easy as Burr’s was hard, and his tanned complexion rested comfortably between a frock of reddish hair and a sturdy, dimpled chin. Hamilton was born in the Caribbean, the bastard son of a spurned woman, where he earned his way out of poverty through diligent service at an import-export firm. His work brought him to America, where his organizational talents were discovered by our first President, George Washington, under whose tutelage Hamilton grew into a practical politician who accepted man’s selfish nature while advocating prudent means to control it.

  Jefferson, whose notorious lack of formality often obscured his genius, sat at the head of the table in his most disarming sleeping wear. After obligatory pleasantries, Jefferson turned to Burr.

  “Our young country has presided over a peaceful transition of power,” he said, “demonstrating a rare unity in a world torn by faction. We would risk democracy itself were we to fall so quickly into party strife.”

  Burr grabbed the macaroni dish and scooped the entire contents onto his plate.

  “You have attacked Tripoli without a declaration of war by Congress,” he said. “And by submitting the captured Barbary sailors to summary military process, you have cast aside the universal human rights of man!”

  Jeffers
on’s Secretary of State, the diminutive James Madison, cleared his throat noisily, then spoke in his usual milquetoast voice.

  “The legal process the pirates receive from us far exceeds what is afforded them by other countries,” he said.

  “But not so much as to hopelessly belabor the war effort,” I added in my capacity as Secretary of War.

  “You speak of pirates,” said Burr, “but the salons of Paris speak of Rousseau’s noble savage and the essential goodness of all men who need only the guiding hand of their intellectual superiors.”

  “The same salons produced Robespierre and his Reign of Terror!” scoffed Hamilton. “But as we have seen, politicians cannot engineer society without turning men into monsters. Besides, bureaucratic elites need not force people to consider the well-being of others when the lure of profit encourages the free production of goods other people desire. The President must defend our free market system from pirate aggression!”

  Burr’s eyes slowly descended on Hamilton from atop his tall starched collar.

  “That,” said Burr, pushing away from the table, “will be for an independent judiciary to decide!”

  Burr excused himself, and left the room as though he were the last word incarnate.

  Jefferson turned to his remaining cabinet.

  “Burr and his allies are intending to challenge your policy in the Supreme Court!” said Hamilton.

  Jefferson projected calm under his nightgown.

  “Chief Justice Marshall is an upstanding citizen,” he reassured. “I am confident he will adhere to principles of humility and moderation and defer the handling of the pirates to the elected branches of government as the Constitution requires.”

  “I have known Marshall since we were Freemasons together,” I said. “But Marshall has since consorted with a splinter group called the Hellfire Club, a collection of rogues who promote self-indulgence and excess.”

  “The Hellfire Club thrives on fomenting chaos!” said Hamilton. “They hide their licentiousness under regal trappings and powdered wigs!”

  “Quite right,” I said. “And Chief Justice Marshall now serves in a lifetime position. He can indulge his personal preferences from the bench without fear of removal.”

  Jefferson sat silently for a moment before adjourning the dinner. He summoned the wait staff to clear the table and seemed to watch gravely as they gathered up the dinner settings that had been so carefully laid.

  Months later, Chief Justice Marshall handed down his decision. He held that the Supreme Court, not the American people, are the ultimate arbiters of the Constitution. Exercising that new power, he declared universal rights protect foreign pirates sworn to kill innocent Americans. A handful of lifetime-tenured judges had thereby imposed what the people’s elected representatives would not enact.

  Burr celebrated the decision with Marshall and others at the City Tavern, a popular Hellfire Club meeting spot where they regaled high society women with stories of their own enlightenment.

  The Pasha celebrated his own victory across the Atlantic. Now armed with American law, and with the support of Hellfire Club lawyers in American courts, the Barbary pirates issued legal summons to their American captors whenever their cannons failed them. Naval commanders were called from their ships abroad to sit in federal courtrooms at home. Our sailors suffered more casualties and more seamen were enslaved. And more Hellfire Club lawyers, but few others, were employed at home, as overseas commerce dried up.

  The nation had sunk into a stupor.

  And then, months later, the first cannonballs fell on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  I was playing my glass harmonica when its ethereal melodies were shattered by the sound of hot iron shells peppering the streets outside my window. They filled the cracks between the cobblestones with incendiary oil, sending pedestrians and horses scampering in panic.

  I ran from my apartment and brandished my executive credentials to commandeer a carriage, which I rode to the edge of the Potomac River. I pulled out my spyglass and directed it toward what looked like a cityscape on the other side. But it was not the Washington City skyline. It was an approaching armada.

  The lead ship was so tall I could barely distinguish its flag, which looked like a pinprick on the head of a dragon so vast was the craft before us. I adjusted a screw on my bifocals and the flag’s pattern came into focus. It bore the mark of a large red scimitar.

  “The Pasha of Tripoli!” said a familiar voice, over the clip-clop of hoofs. It was Hamilton, arriving on horseback.

  As the shadow of the Pasha’s fleet crept toward shore, I noticed another shadow edge closer to our rear. I cast my spyglass skyward and saw Jefferson, donning a laceless leather coat and goggles, grasping the wheel of a magnificent airship.

  A rope ladder swung above us.

  “Your airship handles wonderfully, Dr. Franklin!” yelled Jefferson from the bridge. “Come aboard!”

  I grabbed Hamilton by the lapel and we both clamored up. Jefferson hoisted us into the airship’s gondola.

  “Amazing!” cried Hamilton over the thunderous whoosh of giant balsa wood propellers.

  I tried to hide my satisfaction. I had drawn plans for the design of many warships during my years in Pennsylvania. But as the state was governed by pacifist Quakers, none were ever built. Still, I kept them in case Pennsylvania were ever attacked, so I might serve as a one-man army if called.

  “After the Supreme Court neutered our own military,” said Jefferson, “I was approached by a secretive group of your Freemason friends, the Temple Trust of Scotland. They had your old designs and offered to fund their construction!”

  Hamilton watched in awe as two huge tarpaulin bags crumpled and expanded like the heaving lungs of a whale. There were dials and levers, ropes and pulleys. Jefferson drove a cylinder into the hull, and two columns of kerosene-fed flame shot from each end of the ship to feed the belly of a giant elliptical balloon.

  We lurched upwards and veered over the Pasha’s ship. I saw sprinkles of cannonballs splash harmlessly below.

  “Sea cannons cannot angle high enough to reach us,” I said. “They won’t have expected an attack from the sky!”

  As we approached the monstrous vessel, we could see through its many portholes row upon row of human pistons. They were the pumping forearms of hundreds of American slaves.

  “I’ll attack the ships from the air,” said Jefferson. “Dr. Franklin, you take them from below!”

  Jefferson pointed to a small dome that jutted from the center of the gondola’s floor. I recognized it immediately as another of my own designs. It was the viewing bubble of an iron-sided submarine.

  I waved Hamilton to the sub and lifted its cockpit shield, exposing a canoe-shaped interior lined with brass tacks and leather. I took the fore seat and motioned for Hamilton to take the aft. I lowered the dome and signaled for Jefferson to take us down.

  The airship dove seaward then climbed skyward again, releasing the sub at its nadir. We splashed down with a jolt. Then the sub began to sink. As we fell further from the surface, a bluish green glow enveloped us.

  Hamilton’s face grew pale.

  “We couldn’t use candles as they would deplete our oxygen,” I said, “so I’m using foxfire to light the interior.” I pointed to the moist fungi growing along the wooden frame that formed the skeleton of the sub. “It contains an oxidizing agent that creates a natural bioluminescense!”

  I pointed to a wheel next to Hamilton’s elbow.

  “Enough of my lecturing,” I said. “Hamilton, crank the propeller!”

  Hamilton pumped the propeller wheel. The sub stopped its descent and began moving forward.

  I grabbed a lever by my seat and leaned into it. An attached spring compressed and an iron harpoon wrapped with copper wire dropped into a chamber below the sub. I pointed to the array of metal disks connected with brine-soaked cloth that lined the walls.

  “We’re using fuel cells to separate oxygen and hydrogen and produce electricity” I
said. “The electricity will charge the harpoon and direct the sub to the Pasha’s ship!”

  Looking through a sight painted on the inside of the dome, I aimed the barbed shaft at the hull above us. I released the lever. The spring decompressed with a shuddering thud and sent the harpoon hurling ahead, streaming copper wire behind. It found its mark.

  I turned another lever and charged the fuel cell, magnetizing the harpoon at the bottom of the Pasha’s ship. Our iron sub lurched toward the Pasha’s hull, drawn by an invisible force I had only recently come to understand.

  “Buckle yourself in, Mr. Hamilton!”

  With the pull of another lever, another spring cocked and a hatch opened aft. The interior shell of the sub, myself and Hamilton included, sprang away from the Pasha’s ship like peas squeezed from a pod.

  The shell glided through the water then gently broke the surface and steadied on the waves. I opened the top hatch.

  Just then, there was a dull rumble underwater. The hull of the Pasha’s ship heaved before exploding in a haze of splintered wood, leaving a charred hole that pulled the massive ship below the Potomac.

  “The front of the sub was lined with phosphorus,” I yelled to Hamilton. “It ignited the sub’s hydrogen stores when it struck the Pasha’s ship!”

  Above us, Jefferson continued his aerial assault on the remaining pirate vessels. We watched as he directed the jet flames of his airship away from its balloon, allowing the craft to descend. Then, with the flames jutting sideways, they set the sails of the pirate ships afire, sending chunks of flaming tarp on the scrambling crews below.

  “Look there!” Hamilton yelled. “The Pasha’s escaping on a sloop!”

  He was pointing to a feathery ship making quick time across the waves and heading straight past us.

  The Pasha was at the wheel. He wore a multi-colored sash over his wide frame, which was capped by an immense turban.