Then he rubs his encarmined nose with a ruminative forefinger.
“Well,” he observes, “it will be a great venture! In New Orleans I’ll make you acquainted with Daniel Clark, an Englishman, who has the riches and almost the wisdom of Solomon. He’ll embrace the enterprise; once he does he’ll back it with his dollars. Clark himself is strong in ships; with his merchant fleet and his warehouses, he should keep us in provisions in Vera Cruz.”
“That is well bethought,” cries Aaron, eyes a-sparkle.
“Clark’s relations with the bishop are likewise close,” adds Wilkinson.
Taking a pull at the whisky, he runs off in a fresh direction.
“Give me your scheme in detail. We are not, I trust, to waste time with a claptrap democracy, nor engage in the popular tomfoolery of a republic?”
“The government, imperial in form, shall be styled the ‘Empire of Mexico.’ I shall be crowned Emperor Aaron I, and the crown made hereditary in the male line; which last will create my grandson, Aaron Burr Alston, heir presumptive.”
“And I?” interjects Wilkinson, his features doubly aglow with alcohol and interest. “What are to be my rank and powers?”
“You will be generalissimo of the army.”
“Second only to you?”