January 18th, 1892
"What do you think, Fred?" Nelson Miles looked to Grant. Miles was in full military uniform; he wore it to every damn cabinet meeting. Miles removed his reading glasses and raised his eyebrows.
"Well, uh, I think Nelson is right. Any insurgents in Haiti ought to be put down with haste," the president slumped back in his seat. He was tired. These meetings had become tiresome; he wished that he could be the general occupying Haiti, but no, he was stuck with leading the Union. The worst goddamn job in the fucking Union.
"Very well! Shall I have the preliminary restrictions removed?" Miles again looked at Grant with a semi-stern look.
"Yes, Nelson, you should. Mr. Lodge, how's the end of the occupation in the rust belt going along?" Henry Cabot Lodge piped up and smiled at Grant.
"Well, Mr. President, it's going smoothly; the first and second corps are leaving as we speak. To my understanding, there has been no violence. The Illinois and Ohio guards did report some vandalism earlier in the morning, but nothing to worry about." Grant smiled. Some good news.
"Excellent Henry, thank you."
"Mr. President, if I may inquire, How has convincing the party bosses of the merits of the Booker Bill gone?" Grant slumped back down again.
"Well Henry,-" Grant was stopped. At the end of the table, an old man sat up and began to speak with a gravelly voice.
"I'm giving it my all, Mr. Lodge. The RNC is hesitant to make the bill so front and center on the campaign trail.” Rutherford B. Hayes looked a hundred, and despite all of Grant's contempt, that old man ran the party. Grant gritted his teeth. He looked at the men in his cabinet and then took a deep breath.
"Gentlemen, I've been meaning to tell you..." Hayes again piped up in the middle of Grant's sentence.
"You aren't running. Aren't you a boy?" Grant turned to look at Hayes. Hayes smiled so wide that he started to cough.
"How did you?"
"Thank christ."
"Excuse me!" Grant raised his voice and looked at Hayes.
"Show some respect, Mr. Hayes," Miles said from the other side of the room.
"Mr. President, I think you should reconsider."
"I don't," again, Hayes was deadly serious, cutting Miles off. Again, Grant turned. Again, Hayes let out a cough.
"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!?" Grant screamed that time. It had gotten to him. Quickly, he realized his mistake. Hayes smiled and laughed.
"I am your boss, Pipsqueak! Who do I think I am? Who do you think you are, boy!?" Grant went quiet, as did the rest of the room.
"I'll tell you! You are jackshit! Your only worth comes from your name; you are a brute, a fool, and a failure! A failure upwards perhaps, but one nonetheless," Hayes stood up.
"DO NOT THINK THAT YOUR FANCY HOUSE MAKES YOU SKILLED! IT MAKES YOU PRIVLE, AH!" Hayes began to cough violently. He grabbed the table, then he grabbed his chest.
"CHRIST!" Hayes hit the ground, coughing. Miles rushed over and propped him up.
"Fuck, someone get a doctor!"
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January 6th, 1893
The soft sounds of the spoon clinking against the coffee cup emanated throughout the tent. Lieutenant John J. Pershing had woken up just ten minutes ago. It was now his 22nd day in this junglescape. He could hear the calling of exotic birds outside. Pershing hadn't wanted to map out and pre-settle land in West Africa. He had wanted to stay at West Point and continue his instruction. He felt like command was sending him away to the edge of the world for nothing.
At least morale was high enough. It's rare that the men are still chipper this far in; only five have been lost. Mostly malaria. One to some sort of bug bite.
"Lieutenant! Lieutenant!" A young scout rushed into his tent, covered in dirt. He haphazardly saluted Pershing.
"Christ, can it wait?" Pershing placed his mug down.
"No, sir, I'm afraid not! In the distance, a large army is coming!" Pershing's eyes widened.
"What?! A tribe?"
"No sir! I couldn't get a good look, but they looked white; there must be a few hundred rustling around out there. I couldn't get a good look with all the foliage." The scout was panting heavily.
"Breathe. It's alright." Pershing stood and placed his hand on his shoulder.
"How long do we have?" The scout looked up.
"A few hours at the latest."
"Did they seem hostile?"
"I couldn't tell."
"Thank you, private; get some rest." Pershing saluted the scout and then exited his tent.
"Jack!" An officer looked up.
"You heard, sir?" Pershing nodded.
"Yes, tell the men to be at attention." Captain Jack Fowler saluted and started yelling at the men to get up and be at attention. Pershing's son heard distant yelling. Before he had time to properly react, three horsemen rode into the center of the camp, causing a commotion. The men wore khaki and yelled out.
"Where is your commanding officer?!" Pershing strolled up to the horsemen and yelled back.
"That would be me! Lt. John Pershing, United States African Expedition!"
"Ah! Hello Lieutenant! I am Major Thomas Downing of her majesty's Sierra Leone garrison. I regret to inform you that you have seemingly trespassed into British territory." Downing smiled at Pershing, who gave him a perplexed look. Pershing looked to Jack, who quickly shrugged.
"Major, correct me if I'm wrong, but the Niger River is behind us, right?"
"Yes, Lieutenant, it is indeed."
"Well, then I regret to inform you that you are trespassing on American territory. In just under a month, some settlers are set to arrive and"
"You are mistaken, Mr. Pershing!"
"I am definitely not Mr. Downing!" The two men awkwardly stared at one another for a few moments before Downing spoke again.
"Well, this is unfortunate. Lieutenant, by order of Governor Fleming, you must leave this territory and return to Liberia within 48 hours," Pershing smiled.
"I see, well, Major, by order of the President, I am not to leave this territory until settlers arrive in a few weeks." Downing's demeanor changed from chipper to serious.
"If you do not vacate this territory, I shall have you forcibly removed from it."
"What if I don't want to be forcibly removed?" Pershing smiled.
"That would be a predicament, wouldn't it?" Pershing followed up. Downing opened his mouth to respond, but was beat to the punch again by Pershing.
"You three enjoy whiskey?" The Brits stared at Pershing.
"Maybe we can, uh, sort this out over a bottle."
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May 8th, 1892
"Dear Governor Custer,
You are honorably invited to the 1892 Liberal National Convention, to be held on the 15th of July inside the beautiful Madison Square Garden in New York City.
Sincerely,
The Liberal National Committee"
Thomas Custer placed the letter down on his desk and stared at it. Less of a letter and more of a note card. They didn't even write a thoughtful message. Custer let out a small laugh all alone in his office. He would finish what George started. Ever since 1888, Libbie has turned her attention to Thomas. After all, his political career was going somewhere, and George had seemingly gotten tired of it all.
Thomas took the letter and placed it in his drawer. He then put his reading glasses back on and continued to half-read his morning briefing. All the words were tiring; he'd have some aide read them out to him in simpler terms later. All of this was a sideshow anyway. The real game was about to begin.
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May 22nd, 1892
"The House is adjourned!" Speaker Reed hit the gavel to the podium, and the House began to light up with conversion. For the eighth week in a row, the silver bill has stagnated. Repressive William Jennings Bryan sat in the back of the room in extreme disappointment. These people were refusing to lift a finger to do damn near anything. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bearded man approach him.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Bryan. The Liberals won't do a damn thing," James Weaver said in a consoling tone.
"Oh yes, I understand that, Mr. Weaver. They cannot see sense in a good bill if they have the eyes of a hawk," Weaver frowned.
"The unfortunate truth of politics, Mr. Bryan. Have no fear; we will get that damn bill of yours through, just maybe not in this Congress. Speaking of, I was wondering if you planned to come to the People's Convention next month in Topeka," Bryan smiled.
"Yes, sir, I plan to return west for the occasion." Weaver smiled brightly at that response.
"I'm glad to hear it! If you weren't 32, I'd personally nominate you for the Vice Presidency!"
"Thank you, sir; it's an honor coming from you."
"You do plan to speak at the convention? Yes?"
"Yes, Mr. Weaver, I do."
"Good, in that case, could I ask you a favor?"
"Of course!" Weaver went into a hushed tone and leaned in.
"How would you like to nominate me for the presidency next month in Topeka?" Bryan looked up at Weaver in shock.
"Why, it would be the honor of my life, sir."
"Good. I'll see you there, Will." Weaver gave him a pat on the back and left the floor. Bryan sat, frozen in time.
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NOMINATIONS TO BEGIN TOMMORROW!