Back again, with the conclusion of the burning of Washington!
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Do enjoy!
I disclaim, and own nothing.
The streets of Washington were clogged with people, a constantly shifting, pushing mass of confusion and panic. Civilians flowed through the streets, and as many in number stood in doors and windows, barricading themselves in their houses.
But there was no resistance for the British troops as they marched through the streets, their red uniforms already stained from months at battle in the nearby Chesapeake Bay. Save for a few shots fired by ordinary citizens from their homes upon the army's arrival, Washington lay bare and unprotected. Anxious glances and a building sense of dread were the only elements of any reception for the British.
Alfred noticed none of this, focused solely on the frighteningly close black plume of smoke and the growing pain in his chest. He also didn't notice that, despite moving against the general flow of the crowd away from the fire, the masses parted when he passed, and countless concerned looks were directed at him from all sides as he staggered forward.
_V~-~-~V_
Matthew paced back and forth across the wooden floor of the bookshop, wringing his hands behind his back and wishing Kumotaro was there so he could have something to hold on to. Remembering for the millionth time that the American government (however lenient it may have been towards him), did not want a polar bear in Washington, he again began to worry about his pet's welfare.
A cry from outside snapped his mind back to the present. Alfred.
The man was an enigma. A cheerful, outgoing, perfectly American enigma who resisted any and all of Matthew's attempts at questioning him with a scarily practiced ease. Or, an obnoxious corner of his brain reminded him, maybe he really doesn't have anything to hide, and you're just being paranoid.
More importantly to the current situation, Alfred thought Matthew had betrayed him, had faked his friendship for the past few months to get an insider's look at Washington, informing the British all the while. He sighed. He was many things, but a liar was not among them. Most of the time, that obnoxious corner piped, but Matthew quickly squashed that thought.
He stopped wringing his hands in favor of biting his lip. He wondered if Alfred would believe him if he said that he'd had nothing to do with the attack, that it was British soldiers from the Caribbean who had sailed all the way up to coast. Knowing Alfred, he would insist that he couldn't prove that he wasn't a part of their plan anyway, because Canada was British-owned.
That was another thing that bothered Matthew. Sure, the British ruled Canada well, but they still were increasingly considered a foreign power. He was Canadian first and foremost, a citizen of the Crown second (actually, he considered himself more French than British, but legal technicalities prevented that from being a reality).
But back to Alfred, he thought, mentally chastising himself for getting lost in thought again. He was out there, probably headed for the White House, but the crowds had made it impossible for Matthew to follow. And if Alfred was who Matthew suspected he was, then he was undergoing the most painful thing he could think of: having one's heart literally burned out.
He could only hope, for Alfred's sake, that his suspicions were wrong.
_V~-~-~V_
His lungs clogged with smoke that he hadn't quite reached yet, Alfred turned down Pennsylvania Avenue, running as fast as his fatigued legs would carry him. Ignoring both the heavy feeling that threatened to consume him and the scorching pain in his chest, he pushed on, knowing all the while that he was only hoping to save what couldn't be saved.
He was unprepared for the sight at the end of the street. At first, all he could see was the black smoke, pouring into the sky from a single concentrated point, turning the sky dark as it blotted out the sun.
But the golden-red glow emanating from the flames was certainly as bright as any sunlight as they leapt upwards, coiling out of windows and winding around the glorious façade of Alfred's favorite building in Washington. A random thought raced through his brain, taking the time to remind him that the White House was built of sandstone, the thickest available, and it surely wouldn't be that easy to burn, but the blaze before him said otherwise.
He thanked the stars that President Madison was out of town, fleeing at the first hinting of a British invasion. But the servants were all still there, as was Madison's wife. And from the frantic shouts reaching Alfred's ears, they weren't all safe.
He arrived at the scene, watching as servants ran out of the burning house with their arms full of whatever valuables they could carry: vases, china and silks all found their way into a pair of waiting wagons. The horses nervously tossed their heads at they were forced to wait, while their ever instinct clearly screamed to get away from the fire. As Alfred stood, breath coming in quick, painful gasps, he wondered why he still felt that inexplicable need to do something.
That's when he saw the President's wife and three others throw something into a cart, and leap in after it. Running towards them, he took in the sight of their ashen faces, all smeared with dust but each bearing the pride and happiness of a much lighter day.
"Ma'am?" Alfred asked tentatively, hoping Dolley Madison would recognize him.
Turning, she studied him for a moment, before evidently placing him as one of the former workers at the White House. "Ah! Mr. Jones, was it?"
"Yes, ma'am." The other three, all men, looked relieved that the First Lady knew him. Alfred dimly recalled two of them. One was a doorkeeper, a Frenchman if Alfred had judged his accent correctly. The other took a bit longer to remember, but he finally recalled that he was a gardener, also European, one who always had taken an interest in the White House's roses. The third was a teenager, dark-skinned, whom Alfred had never seen before.
"Did you manage to save any of your possessions from the British, ma'am?" Alfred asked, searching for a reason behind their seemingly misplaced pride. He seemed to hit the right subject as all three of the men seemed to swell, while Mrs. Madison's eyes danced brighter.
"Indeed we did," she replied. "Nothing of mine, but something much more important." She patted the rolled cloth next to her with a fond expression on her face, one that clouded when she glanced back at the flames consuming her home.
"We need to escape. The British did say that they would refrain from burning any more than the government buildings, and did seem to have no desire to hurt civilians, but if they find that which we've taken, there is a possibility that they will chase us down." The men around her nodded in agreement.
"And you'd best get back to the President, Mrs. Madison," Alfred said, nodding with them. "Do you need a driver?"
Dolley Madison's eyebrows rose. True enough, they didn't seem to have anyone who could handle horse, judging by Alfred's quick assessment of the men. Perhaps she planned on driving herself?
"That would be wonderful, Alfred. We must be off as quick as possible, after all."
Apparently not. Without any further discussion, Alfred leapt onto the wooden bench at the front of one of the carriages, grabbing the horse's reins in his hands in a well-practiced motion. He'd been taught to drive a cart and handle just about any horse during his years of farm work, and his hands still bore the calluses as evidence. With a quick snap and a click of his tongue, the horse broke into a trot, clearly as eager as he and the other occupants of the cart were to get away from the fire.
Another servant, among the last remaining, took control of the second cart, and wheeled about so that he was in front of Alfred as the pair made their way down Pennsylvania Avenue.
As they got farther away from the flames, Alfred's throat began to clear, and he could smell something besides smoke. Glancing up, he caught sight of the heavy gray storm clouds bearing in on the city, rising like mountains over the distant horizon, bringing with them the crisp, clean smell of rain.
As if sensing his thoughts, the dark-skinned servant (probably a slave, Alfred mentally corrected) spoke up. "It looks like a storm is brewing, Madam."
"Indeed it does. Perhaps it will discourage the British enough that they will cease burning our buildings," Dolley Madison replied, though she didn't sound hopeful.
Suddenly, another spike of pain drove itself through Alfred's heart. He gasped, resisting the urge to double over and curl up right there, instead gripping the reins with white-knuckled hands. His vision swam, the horse duplicating before his eyes, then re-merging into one animal as he continued along the city streets.
"More smoke!" exclaimed one of the men in the cart. Alfred wrenched his gaze from the road to the sky above and sure enough, another dark blot was joining the first.
"It's the Senate," Alfred managed to say, his voice choking, not fully understanding how he knew. But Washington was so familiar to him, and innate knowledge of the city's layout seemed present at the forefront of his minds. His mind flew to the other building nearby, the one that held the House of Representatives, just as another fist of pain clenched his heart and another dark smudge appeared in the sky.
He thought of Jefferson, and of the Library of Congress he had adored during his days as President, which was surely going up in flames with the destruction of the Senate and the House. All those books, painstakingly collected by the American political greats and many others, would never to be read again.
A hand lighted on his shoulder, jerking Alfred back to the task at hand. "Are you all right, Mr. Jones?"
"I'm fine, ma'am," Alfred replied, snapping the reins again as if to prove his point. Intent on leaving the city, he almost didn't recognize the feeling of guilt when it arrived.
Matthew.
Alfred swore quietly, remembering the quiet young Canadian for the first time since running away from the bookshop in his fit of anger. He almost regretted doing that now, when Matthew had never been anything but nice to him, almost regretted accusing him of all the things he had. Almost, but not quite.
But he could still feel guilty about leaving a man who had been his friend for a few months now in a burning city under siege. And as the Library of Congress had so reminded him, buildings full of paper and books went up like kindling.
Turning around in his seat, Alfred asked, "Would you mind if I stopped somewhere quickly? I have a friend who needs to get out of the city too." Noting the doubtful looks of the men, he added, "It's only a block or so out of the way."
The men in the back turned to Mrs. Madison, who nodded her approval. Alfred whispered his thanks, nodding toward the First Lady, then abruptly steered the horse to the left, sending the cart onto a side street, the quickest way to the bookshop.
Another pang of pain later, and Alfred was aware that the Treasury was burning, without even needing to look up at the smoke surely continuing to cloud the sky. It seemed as though the British soldiers were intent on burning anything important that they could, but they surprised Alfred with their restraint all the same as they refrained from simply razing the entire city to the ground, civilians and all. It would certainly have been easier, but with the lack of American military presence in the city itself, they didn't have much to worry about anyway.
Pulling up outside the familiar doorstep, Alfred did his best to keep his head up through the overwhelming pain in his chest. Stumbling (and very nearly falling) out of the cart, he threw open the bookshop's wooden door, hoping that Matthew was still there.
_V~-~-~V_
Matthew was pacing the front room like he wanted to wear tracks in the floorboards, but he looked up immediately at the sound of the door opening. His almost-violet eyes went wide at the sight of Alfred, barely standing with the assistance of the doorframe.
"Alfred!"
Matthew found that that was the extent of his coherence. Rushing forward, he grabbed the American by the shoulders, lending what support he could as Alfred collapsed into his arms, while a mixture of sympathy and sickening realization collected in the pit of his stomach. "How have you kept going this whole time? Are you crazy?"
Glancing over his friend's shoulder, Matthew caught sight of the cart, its horse still skittish, and the four riders seated in the back. One, a woman, gestured for him to come forward. Matthew did so, steering Alfred back onto the driver's bench.
"Is there something wrong with Mr. Jones?" she asked, worry evident in her tone.
Matthew bit his lip, wondering how to explain what had no right to be explained to common citizens. Besides, he wasn't quite sure yet that Alfred's pain was from what he thought. "He's probably inhaled a bit too much smoke, especially since he ran all the way to the White House," was his eventual response, one that seemed to satisfy Alfred's companions.
"Can you drive us out of the city?" the woman asked. "Mr. Jones appears to be in no fit state to do so."
"Certainly, madam," Matthew replied. Alfred moaned a bit and tried to sit up, but Matthew pushed him forcefully back onto the bench. "You heard her," he said, "I'll be the one driving from here on."
The American made a faint noise of protest, but stopped moving, his sky blue eyes closing. Matthew sighed, muttering angrily in French about idiots who didn't know when to quit. But still, he couldn't help being pleased that Alfred had returned for him. There might be hope to salvage their friendship yet.
_V~-~-~V_
Alfred woke with a woozy feeling he distinctly remembered from the Revolution, a feeling of battles fought and overcome, but with pain still coursing through his weary limbs.
Propping himself up on his elbows, he felt the pull of stiff bandages beneath his shirt. Which, now that he looked at it, certainly wasn't the one he'd had on at the fire—
The fire.
Memories rushing to the forefront of his mind, Alfred instantly panicked. Had they all made it safely out, with their cargo? Evidently Matthew had, but what about the First Lady and the White House servants?
He took in his surroundings, wondering where he was. It was a small bedroom, the bed he lay on taking up most of the space. In the corner, he caught sight of the roll of canvas that Mrs. Madison had been so intent on saving, and allowed himself a brief sigh of relief.
The burning sensation in his chest was also gone, replaced with a chill that made Alfred shiver. Peering at the window, he saw that the gray clouds outside had made good on their promise of rain.
Just then, the door opened, revealing the First Lady herself, a pile of towels in her arms. She looked uninjured, much to Alfred's further relief, and actually smiled at him.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones."
"Good morning, ma'am," he replied, his voice coming out hoarse. He swallowed, then mustered up about half of his usual grin. "Could I trouble you for some water?"
She just gestured to his bedside, where a glass was already waiting. Nodding gratefully, Alfred downed the entire thing in a few gulps.
"You were burnt in the fire," Mrs. Madison said, putting the towels down and gesturing towards his bandaged chest. "Mr. Williams was kind enough to take over your driving and see us out of the city."
"Matthew?" So he had found him, after all. Alfred didn't really remember that part.
"Yes, your Canadian friend. He returned to his home yesterday, though he said he will return as soon as he can, and wants to see you when he does."
Alfred nodded, storing that information for later and asking the question he'd been thinking of since he'd arrived at the White House. "What was it that you needed to save?"
The now-familiar look of pride returned to Mrs. Madison's face. Striding over to the corner, she returned to Alfred's bedside carrying the roll. Almost reverently, she laid it across the bed and unfurled it just enough to let Alfred see the face of his most respected leader, painted to the life on the canvas.
"George Washington's portrait…" Alfred breathed, reaching out a hand to touch the corner. Looking up at the First Lady, he asked, "How?"
"Mr. McGraw, Mr. Sioussat, and Paul helped me cut it from its frame shortly before the British arrived. I wish I could have saved all of it, but time was of the essence."
Alfred nodded again, at a loss for words. This was among the only portraits Washington had ever allowed to be painted from life, and certainly the only one actually in Washington DC, the city that bore his name. Alfred found himself floundering in an unexpected sea of gratitude towards Dolley Madison, one that surged up with no warning, as he realized for the first time the reason behind her pride on that night.
Meeting Dolley's eyes, he tried to pour the depth of his thanks into his gaze and words. "Thank you, Mrs. Madison. On the behalf of every American, thank you."
She looked surprised, but touched all the same. She smiled warmly. "You're very welcome, Mr. Jones."
She turned towards the window, gazing out. "Quite the rainstorm we're having, isn't it?"
_V~-~-~V_
"Excuse me, sir…?"
Seated behind his desk, Matthew's boss barely glanced up. A British man, he cared little for the whims of a foreign country, even if he was mostly in charge of running it. He would deny that, saying he was merely a servant of the Queen, but orders from England were few and far between, so the reins that held him were fairly slack.
"Yes, Mr. Williams?" His voice sounded tired, and mildly irritated that Matthew would interrupt him.
Matthew didn't respond immediately, instead glancing over the papers on his boss's desk. The British government was receiving a lot of criticism for the burning ("needless vandalism of public buildings," they said) from American media, though the British insisted that it had been justified thanks to the attacks on Canada. Matthew privately agreed, the burning of Parliament buildings in York by American soldiers still fresh in his mind.
But the British sentiment was also partially against the burnings, and that would be what was worrying his boss. The newspapers claimed that British people just didn't do things like burn other peoples' capitals, and that the destruction of Washington "brought a heavy censure on British character." Matthew had almost laughed at that. Trust the British to hold their morals over the thought of conquest now. Rather hypocritical, in his opinion, not that the British ever asked for his thoughts on the matter.
Matthew's boss cleared his throat, evidently wondering when Matthew was going to finally respond. Flushing slightly and wishing he hadn't zoned out so badly, Matthew said, "I met an interesting person in America." His boss made a noncommittal noise in reply. Matthew continued, "His name was Alfred Jones."
His boss looked up, fixing Matthew with one of his no-nonsense, get-to-the-point-or-get-out-of-my-office glares. "I—I think he may be the… representative of America. Like me."
"Are you not the representative for North America?" his boss asked. "I was under the impression that you spoke for both Canada and America."
Matthew shook his head. "I really only answer to you, sir. If I really represented both, I'd have met the American President by now. And I just don't feel the same connection towards America that I do towards Canada." He didn't mention that, if the burning had taught him one thing, it was that his heart truly did lie in Ottawa.
"But you have been recognized," his boss said slowly, as if speaking to a child, "as the international representative of both British-owned Canada and the former British colony of America. Therefore, there is only you. A random American is of no consequence."
"But he felt different! He sort of felt like France, obviously not quite like France because he's American, but he had that same sort of pull—"
"If you are only here to speak of vague notions and 'pulls', do not waste my time," his boss said irritably. "Now, do you have proof that this American is one of your people? Surely he would have figured it out already if he was, unless he's as much of an utter imbecile as nearly every other American I've met."
That statement left Matthew floundering, unsure of how to quite respond. It's true, his brain told him. Alfred would have realized long ago that he wasn't aging, and surely he would have been picked up by another Nation. Nobody's ever gone unnoticed for this long before, and certainly not a large country like America…
Eventually, he had to admit that his suspicions could be wrong, that Alfred was just another ordinary person after all, even if he did seem unusually close. Perhaps that was just a result of their friendship.
But Matthew couldn't stop thinking about the angry red burn mark that had appeared on the left side of Alfred's chest, one that curdled his stomach to think about. If what Dolley Madison said was true, and Alfred had never actually entered the flames of the White House himself, how on earth had that scar appeared?
Nonetheless, Matthew took his leave from his boss's office, leaving the man smirking with the knowledge that he'd won the argument. But that left Matthew to ponder the question of exactly who Alfred F Jones was.
V/~-~-~\V
So first of all, the last chapter raised quite a few questions, particularly concerning Lewis's suicide, so like a good author, I did research! His family had a history of manic-depression (bipolar disorder), and apparently Lewis himself suffered with severe bouts of depression since a young age. He also was in debt, drank heavily, and possibly used opium towards the time of his death. He was accused of being dishonest over billing for the Louisiana Territory (which he governed), and attempted suicide on the boat ride south to St Louis. It was at the inn south of Nashville that he finally shot himself and succeeded. While most people in the country claimed it was murder, both Clark and Thomas Jefferson believed the suicide reports without question, as both knew of his history with depression.
I also got a question about his coat and gloves. No, they aren't the coat and gloves he sports in the canon, because those reportedly came about during WWII.
Moving on to the history behind this chapter:
The White House was burned first, followed by the Senate, House of Representatives, the Treasury, and the rest of Fort McNair (then known as the fort on Greenleaf's Point). The US Patent Office was spared. British Admiral Cockburn wanted to burn down the headquarters of the newspaper, the National Intelligencer, for writing negative reports about him, but was convinced not to by a group of women who lived in the houses next door. Instead, he tore down the building brick by brick and destroyed all the newspaper's C-type.
The White House and Capitol walls were made of thick sandstone, and thus their facades were saved, though their insides were burnt out.
A British publication, The Annual Register, actually did say the "heavy censure on British character" bit, but most British people did believe that the burning was justified because America was seen as the aggressor for starting the war in the first place.
First Lady Dolley Madison, along with a doorkeeper (Jean-Pierre Sioussat), a gardener (McGraw), and James Madison's personal servant (the 15-year-old slave Paul Jennings) saved the iconic portrait of President George Washington, today allegedly the only piece remaining in the White House today from the decorations on display before the burning. Jennings later purchased his freedom from Dolley Madison and wrote a book detailing the events of that night. President Obama held a ceremony in 2009 to honor Jennings and the slaves' contribution to saving the painting and other valuables, with Jennings's descendants present.
Hope that's enough history for you! I'll be publishing the next chapter hopefully by the end of the week, because I'm going to China on Sunday for two and a half weeks, and will thus be unable to write/publish anything. (I'm so excited to go, because I've only been out of the country once before on a brief road trip to Toronto, and have always wanted to go to Asia!)
Thank you for reading, and as always, please feel free to drop a comment or review if you have the time!