The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (24 page)

___________   

Georgetown, D.C.
February 9, 1833:
   There was nothing of urgency in the overnight reports a yawning Lieutenant Wilder shifted through shortly after 8 a.m. The latest from the Minnesota portion of the Michigan Territory indicated that the Sioux had vanished; apparently back to the distant Black Hills to go into winter quarters. There was no word yet from General Taylor in New Orleans on whether Sam Houston had been sighted. There was word, however, that some Comanche had been encountered in early December by the Dragoons along the Red River near the Arkansas border with Mexican Texas. That news snapped the Lieutenant, who had of course been awake most of the night, out of his Candice-induced lethargy.  That was his old outfit. He hoped Captain Patterson and the boys had emerged unscathed. They were a good outfit that he remembered fondly…now that he was a thousand miles away!
     General Scott’s usual Saturday routine included dropping by the War Department about 11 a.m. after meeting politicians and/or senior government officials for an  information-sharing early breakfast. By then the Lieutenant had normally gathered any late-breaking Residency information to augment whatever had arrived at the Department overnight. Knowing that his aide had intended to come in early before heading to The Residency for some sort of meeting, the General decided to make an early appearance himself. Breakfast could wait…old Justice Marshall’s cook had outdone herself last night.
     A skeleton crew manned the War Department on Saturdays. Scott saw no need for his men to kill time at their desks if nothing of importance was popping. Cass, the civilian boss, had not taken the administrative reins and was never seen himself, at any rate, on weekends. Thomas was virtually alone except for the clerks who were sorting yesterday’s late arriving mail.
     So the Lieutenant was surprised by the sudden call to attention. Scott strode in, opening his military cloak as he walked and indicating with a nod of his huge head for Thomas to gather up his papers for an impromptu briefing. The Lieutenant was just heading into Scott’s office when the General suddenly reappeared; no one had thought to make his coffee at this early hour. Grumbling, Scott settled for the remnants of the morning’s first pot of tea.
     “Well Lieutenant, you look fresh enough this morning. Early night?”
     The gleam in the General’s eyes told Tom all he needed to know: Scott was obviously aware of Candice’s occupancy of her townhouse…and his own overnight stay
. How the
devil does he do it? I didn’t even tell Harps where I was going last night…
     “Well Sir, the G-G wants a final review of the state dinner menu and invitation list this morning before they go off to the printer, so I thought I’d better get here first. That meeting’s set for 11 a.m. and there’s no telling how long it will take, especially since I understand the Calhouns are back in town.”
Maybe that’ll shift the Old Man’s attention away from last night…
       Scott’s bushy---‘
shrub-like’ might be a better description,
thought Tom---eyebrows rose at the mention of the South’s leading fire-eater. But the diversionary tactic still didn’t work.
      “Calhoun, eh? Well, that should liven up your meeting across the street! Good thing you got a good night’s rest…

     “So, what do we have this morning?  And you can omit anything from Portsmouth, unless those idiots have started firing at one another. I’m in too good a mood to let the childishness up there ruin my weekend.”
      (In an economy move the previous year, the Royal Navy and Coastal Guard stations in the New Hampshire port had merged, with the old CG station sold to private fishing interests. The turf battles, which actually included---to Scott’s disgust---reveille times and tunes, had been endless. Additionally, the on-going off-duty tensions had increased; two weeks prior, a squad of USBA Marines had invaded a favorite tavern of their Royal counterparts. At last report, more than a dozen combatants were still hospitalized.)
    The Lieutenant gave a short rundown of the overnight mail, emphasizing the lack of information from Louisiana and the news from Arkansas. (There was nothing new from Portsmouth.) With an exasperated shake of his head at the news that still another Indian tribe apparently was looking for trouble, the General was blunt: “Looks like those Dragoons could be in for some action this Spring. The Comanche have not come across the Red River before but our new settlements up there might look like juicy targets. Can Captain Patterson handle things?”
       Tom was nonplused at the General’s question. But his boss apparently expected an answer.
       “Come on Lieutenant, you served in that outfit,” Scott said with a trace of annoyance. “Is Patterson capable of handling an incursion by these Comanche?”
       “Yes Sir. Steve Patterson can handle things. And E Troop’s a good unit. I don’t know much about the Comanche, but E Troop’ll hold them across the River.”
      “Good. Now, about Calhoun…” The conversation turned to the guest list and the need to make sure the new Senator from South Carolina was on it. Tom wasn’t sure why, but Scott wanted Wellington to find out for himself as soon as possible what a zealot the Carolinian was. That made it mandatory that the Calhouns be present Wednesday afternoon. Yet the G-G must think the invitation his own idea.
        “You do understand that, Lieutenant? The G-G’s first inclination will be to ban the Calhouns. However long it takes, you and Donelson can not leave that meeting without Jackson’s direction to invite them. I don’t care if you’re there till after nightfall… So, if you have other plans for the weekend, be quickly persuasive. Understood? Now, be on your way.”
       Thomas stood and saluted, then turned and walked across the room. As he reached for the doorknob, Scott stopped him.
      “And Lieutenant! Enjoy your weekend.” Tom could have sworn the General had winked…

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

On the Road to Georgetown
February 10-12, 1833:
    The Russian ‘scholar’ was dressed and tying his clothes-roll behind his horse’s saddle when Harry Bratton walked out of the Inn in the predawn darkness. The Captain had passed a restless night; something about Karlhamanov bothered him, though he could not quite put a finger on it.
     Nevertheless, the duo was soon on the road, with the Russian inquiring only how far Bratton expected them to make this day.
      “As long as we connect with the Delaware Bay ferry at the precise time, we should manage to make northern Maryland by dusk, Andre. But if we have to wait for a ferry, we’ll be forced to lodge tonight in southern Delaware. That will turn this ride into a full four-day jaunt.”
      Though the sky, once the feeble sun came up, stayed a dull gray, the weather held off and the riders made the South Jersey coast of the Bay before noon, leaving them time to feed and water their mounts before boarding the cross-Bay ferry for the short trip into Delaware. The ride through southern Jersey had given each man time to size the other up. Bratton, impressed with the Russian’s horsemanship, wondered how a self-styled ‘intellectual’ had learned to ride so well. Ignatieff, for his part, had determined to play his role and not pepper the Englishman with questions that a Russian ‘dissident’ would never have known to ask.
      “So what are your plans once you’ve checked in with your Consulate, Andre? I’d suggest you go South first, as winter is almost over in the Carolinas and Georgia.” They were waiting for the ferry to dock on the Bay’s southern Jersey shore.
     “Yes Captain, a good point. I’ll mention it at the Consulate. However, my direction will be dictated by whatever plans the Consulate officials draw up. You see, even when we travel outside Mother Russia, it is the government which determines when and where…”
That should sound passive enough to discredit me as any kind of man of action.
       Bratton’s look of pitied disgust seemed confirmation. But then, the Count was unaware that his dagger had slid up his boot-top. The handle had become clearly visible when Harry had glanced down while feeding his Royal Marine horse its mid-day oats.
      
A man who carries a dagger in his boot---and God knows what other weapons concealed elsewhere---isn’t about to let some Consulate paper-pushers determine his itinerary. I bloody well better keep a good eye on this one, especially after we get to
Georgetown
…
       The two dined that evening near the Delaware-Maryland border at an inn with the remarkable name of ‘Cormack’s Roadhouse.’  Despite the Irish-sounding name---Bratton was beginning to wonder if the bloody Micks had an exclusive franchise for running Mid-Atlantic inns---it was owned by, of all things, a Greek. “Cormack’s has been here since the turn of the century,” Bill Albanis explained in answer to Harry’s question. “The original owner was an Irishman named Cormack Flood. I was his manager and bought the place about 15 years ago.”
        Despite his obvious distaste for the clientele, Andre was able to identify a porterhouse steak on the menu.  Bratton, whose stomach tended to act up during extended rides, settled for shepherd’s pie. Knowing that vodka was his Achilles Heel, the Count started with locally-brewed beer, then had Claret with the meal, while Bratton, who thought the American tradition of cold beer barbaric, had several Ports.

     Continuing to build his identity as an
intellectual
, Ignatieff praised the British system of parliamentary government, while allowing, gradually, his ‘opposition’ to the Czar’s autocratic reign to be noted. While sipping a final after-meal Claret, he finally ‘admitted’ that his ‘tour’ was not completely a voluntary one.
        Bratton said little, taking the measure of his new acquaintance, while wondering simultaneously how much to believe and whether their meeting at the Burlington inn had been merely coincidental. The thought of a third straight day of 6 a.m. departure followed by 10 or more hours in the saddle had both Bratton and Ignatieff looking forward to sleep. They turned in fairly early.
       The following day passed uneventfully, though Ignatieff began a gentle probing of Bratton’s career and position in Georgetown over supper at Brady’s Fox Hunt Inn. Harry, who remembered the Duke’s satisfaction with the house prime rib, finally gave in and ordered a big meal, knowing they were less than a half-day’s ride from the capitol. At his suggestion, Andre had the sizzling steak.
      The Captain deflected most of the Russian ‘intellectual’s’ seemingly innocuous questioning. He seized on Andre’s confusion over the Liaison Office and its role at Georgetown to deliver a lengthy briefing on the USBA’s political structure that lasted for most of the meal. The maneuver cut off the Russian’s probing of a more personal nature and served as a test of his level of interest in the Dominion’s political atmosphere. Andre’s questions, Harry observed, showed a remarkable interest in Dominion affairs for someone so recently arrived. 
      At the close of the evening, Harry was still undecided: Karlhamanov was either an intellectual with a scholar’s ability to grasp, digest, filter and store information; or he had been through a Czarist version of the training Bratton himself had absorbed in becoming a ‘diplomatic.’ And while he was now satisfied that their initial meeting had indeed been coincidental, he was beginning to suspect Andre was here on something more than a university ‘sabbatical.’
      They crossed the Silver Spring road late the next morning in a misting rain. Harry pulled up to enjoy the Russian’s initial reaction to the Dominion capital. There was nothing contrived about ‘Karlhamanov’s’ reaction: he was plainly, Europeanly, appalled. “My family, Captain, has a country estate in what was once Poland. The estate contains two or three separate villages that each resemble what I see in the distance.
      “What in God’s name have they been doing here all these years? At least New York is a real city, though too Dutch for my own taste, from what little I saw…”
       Bratton laughed. “You’ll find, Andre, that the Americans are rather, shall we say, ‘different’ from Europeans. They’re not even much like Britons. In fact, I once had an upper class American lady, the wife of a well-to-do plantation owner, tell me that the British and the British Americans are ‘two peoples separated by a common language.’”
     They rode on into Georgetown and Bratton showed Andre the way to the Russian Consulate. For their own reasons, each wanted to keep in touch, so they agreed   tentatively to meet Thursday evening at 6 p.m. at the Golden Eagle.
       As they departed, Karlhamanov still looked somewhat baffled.
Two peoples
separated by a common language?
He shook his head as he reined his horse in the direction of the Consulate.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Georgetown, D.C.
February 12, 1833:
     Captain Bratton reported immediately to the Duke upon arriving back at The Residency. Wellington himself had reached Georgetown late the previous afternoon, after spending an enlightening weekend with the Virginia leadership: Governor Floyd and the two Senators, Tyler and Rives.
    The entire party, in fact, left Richmond Sunday afternoon, as the Duke had invited the powerful trio to attend Wednesday’s state dinner. As Scott had predicted, the Governor came at the slavery issue from a different perspective from the others. While all three were staunch states rights men who bristled at the idea of Dominion interference with the peculiar institution---no one as yet dreamed that London might intervene---Floyd alone wanted a quick end to slavery.
     “It just makes no economic sense!” he had cried out Saturday evening during an elaborate dinner he had thrown in Wellington’s honor. “There is no incentive for those who know they are being fed, housed and clothed to work any harder than the bare minimum demanded by the overseer. But make the same individuals aware that their welfare depends entirely on the fruits of their labors and we would see a massive increase in productivity.”
      Tyler had smiled at the Governor’s tirade. “You’ll have to forgive John,” he had said to the Duke. “His interesting economic theories appear sound, appear progressive. Yet, simply allow the darkies to go their own way? The blacks need the discipline inherent in our system. If, in 50 years or so, the blacks of that age have demonstrated an ability to function under less direction, then perhaps it will be time for each state, individually, to reconsider the issue of their freedom. To free them now or in the near future---let them loose to work or not work at will---would cause both economic and social chaos in the South. No, Sir Arthur, the Governor is wrong. The South simply won’t have it!”
       Wellington was shaking his head as he described his conversations to Bratton. “And these are the more
progressive
Southerners, according to General Scott. God help us! What must Calhoun and the others be like?”
       The Duke had been fascinated to hear that Aaron Burr was alert and eager to play a role, however as yet undefined, in the upcoming months. With the weather improving by the week, Burr had told Bratton, he would take a boat to Georgetown and could arrive within 48 hours of notification. “I took the liberty of telling him we’d provide transportation via the Royal Navy, Sir. The idea of, as he put it, “hopping off the King’s sloop and onto Andy’s dock,” tickled him.”
        The Duke had roared, but quickly sobered when Harry related the reserved manner in which the old man had reacted to any mention of Van Buren. “He’ll not do anything that might hurt Van Buren’s chances of eventually occupying The Residency, that’s clear,” the Duke observed. “And why not? Every man wants his son to do better than he did. In this case, as a former Vice G-G, with a son who will be inaugurated in the same post next month, there’s simply one more step to go.
     “Some time in the next few days, I’m going to bring Burr’s name up to Van Buren. His reaction should be interesting…”
       Wellington looked at his pocket watch. “Well now Captain. You will accompany me to the Liaison Office. I’ve scheduled a meeting with Major Layne. I think its time we advised him of the real mission here. He’s no political scientist; won’t ever replace you in the, ahem, ‘American Office,’ but we can’t afford to keep him in the dark any longer. Besides, I can’t have you going off alone for days on private missions. He and his people will have to help bear the load.”