The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (32 page)

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Drumthwacket
Princeton, New Jersey
February 23, 1833:
    The talks with Gov. Samuel Southard and the New Jersey political leadership had been as depressingly dull as those with Pennsylvania’s Governor Wolf. Wellington’s depression had been compounded by the like attitude of Philadelphia’s elite.
    To a man, the policy and influence-makers of the two states had declared continuance of the Dominion’s current economic boom their major concern. Here in the MidAtlantic States, there was none of the righteous indignation over abolition that marked the views of both New Englanders like Webster and Adams and the Southern fire-eaters. Governor Southard, who, it turned out, was resigning his office in a few days after having been elected to the USBA Senate, had made the MidAtlantic States’ position perfectly clear:   
       “Live and let live,” Southard told Wellington during tonight’s reception in his honor here at the Governor’s mansion in this college town. “If the Southern economy requires slave labor to produce the crops, especially cotton, which we require in the North---and thus provide the capitol to purchase the manufactured goods we in turn produce---then the USBA will have to live with this damnable situation for the moment. Until such time as progress offers a more ah, ‘modern,’ labor system down there.”
      It was the Bank issue that had the leaders here worried, the Duke had been repeatedly told in terms he could at last grasp. A single, well-capitalized Dominion bank provided the credit necessary for business expansion. The MidAtlantic businessmen were worried that Jackson’s cherished idea of hundreds of small---undoubtedly under-financed---banks might overextend credit and lead to an economic crash. And if they were worried, their bought-and-paid-for statesmen were thus equally concerned!
      “Jackson won the support of the North primarily because of his tough stand on nullification,” Governor Southard had pointed out, “not over this damn Bank issue. Obviously we’d have chaos if any state legislature could arbitrarily decide to ignore laws passed by the Congress and signed by the Dominion executive. That’s why we voted for him.
      “I understand Jackson has challenged Congress to come up with a plan by next week…or be forced to live with his strategy. That kind of aggressiveness may be good politics; but it is bad economic policy. And the chance to prosper under good economic conditions is all we ask of the Dominion government.”
   “Abolition is the last thing on these dollar-worshipping Yankees’ minds,” Wellington had sighed as he and Bratton had climbed the stairs to their respective bedrooms. “They obviously won’t fight to enforce it. The question is: will they fight to save the Dominion if the Southerners use the emancipation bill as a pretext to secede?
      “Or will they watch the Dominion break into regional pieces while they go about making money…and as the British Army alone imposes and enforces emancipation?”

___________

French Consulate
Georgetown, D.C.
February 26, 1833:
    On consideration, Nicholas, after talking with Count Karl, had decided his plan to meet the Southern fire-eaters for a private dinner at the Consulate would be ill-advised…as well as virtually impossible to arrange. Renkowiitz had no access to Calhoun and the others and, even if he had, the idea of discussing emancipation was premature, to say the least.
    Instead, Nicholas, in his ‘Karlhamanov’ guise, had been added to the guest list for the big French Consulate supper this evening. While all the consulates were throwing parties during this Congressional special session, the French affair, due in large part to the glamorous touch of the acknowledged arbiter of the capitol’s taste, Madame Jean-Claude, was the highlight. All the Congress’ leaders, including Calhoun, were on the RSVP list.
     Renkowiitz and his daughter, of course, had been invited; it took little arranging for the Consul-General to persuade his friend, Jacques Jean-Claude, to add the ‘visiting professor from St. Petersburg.’
     So the trio was now in a carriage enroute to the French Consulate on G Street.

     Caroline had been looking forward to the affair and wondering chiefly if her indefatigable American admirer would find a way to make an appearance. Now she was uncomfortable. This Count Nicholas already gave her the chills! And tonight he not only was flaunting an eye patch, but he was, she had been instructed, to be introduced as a visitor from home on a private tour of the Dominion.
Andre Karlhamanov, Russian
liberal university professor, serving out a gentile exile in the USBA
!
Something secret---and dangerous---is going on
. Just what, she as yet had no idea. But she intended to find out!
    The line of carriages extended out the front driveway of the Consulate. The building had formerly been what passed for a mansion here, said to have been constructed for speculation in the early days of the town’s reign as the Dominion’s capitol by a consortium that included both Washington and Jefferson. An early Treasury Secretary, supposedly a financial wizard to rival Hamilton, had sold it---reportedly for a huge profit---when the Bourbons had been permitted to open a consulate a decade ago.
     “Well, with any luck we’ll be at the front door in time for dessert,” Nicholas observed in disgust. “Am I to take it these provincial legislators have preference over representatives of the Great Powers at these affairs? Or is arrival dictated strictly on a democratic basis?”
     “First come, first in, my dear Count, err, ‘Andre,’” Count Renkowiitz said with a nervous laugh. “According to the unwritten social rules which govern this place, even the Governor-General must wait his turn. Not that he’ll make an appearance, I’m certain.”
     “And why is that, Count Karl? Doesn’t the ruler of this magnificent sub-Empire pay social calls?”
      It was Caroline who answered with a nervous laugh of her own: “General Jackson hates the French…Andre. It goes back to the border wars before the turn of the century.” She went on to explain the cause of the G-G’s hostility before concluding: “I’m afraid we won’t see the Duke, either. I’m told he’s not expected back from his tour of the MidAtlantic States till tomorrow.”
     “You’re told?” Nicholas/Andre looked at Caroline with renewed interest.
I had
forgotten that she may indeed be the brains of this Consulate, despite her youth.
“Told by whom?”
      “Ah, by the members of the younger ruling elite, ‘Andre.’” Count Renkowiitz was looking at his daughter fondly. “As I have mentioned, Caroline is becoming a leading member of that set.”
      Ignatieff nodded.
The girl’s contacts may be useful. Let her continue unabated…but watched. I’ll have a private word with this Drago…

___________

    The festivities were in full swing by the time Wellington and his aide emerged from their carriage and climbed the steps of the Consulate. They had ridden in from Delaware ahead of schedule late this afternoon and the Duke---who never passed up a party---had quickly decided to attend.
    Harry, however, had expected to deposit Wellington at The Residency. His plan had been to relax this evening. He had looked forward to some time with the Portuguese waitress at The Wagon Wheel---it had taken almost a week, but he had finally recovered from his bout with Candice---but he resignedly donned the formal Coldstream Guards uniform and accompanied Wellington to what he expected to be another dreary diplomatic evening.
     Due to the size of the crowd, it was some time before he encountered Andre Karlhamanov.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

French Consulate
Georgetown, D.C.
February 26, 1833:
   Jacqueline Jean-Claude loved to throw parties. And Georgetown society loved to attend them. The stunning wife of the French C-G, an olive-skinned, raven-haired beauty of interminable age, also delighted in opening her parties to the widest possible guest list.
    So it was that Andre Karlhamanov had been invited, once the Russian C-G had a word with her husband. So too, had the Latoure ladies, Angeline, the matriarch, and Lucille, the auburn-haired, vivacious older sister. After all, they were descendants of the first French family to settle and prosper here (and she did so enjoy visiting their plantation!).
     Lieutenant Wilder had been a grand help in several social situations over the past year---and had already secured for her extra seats for the Duke of Wellington’s Saturday speech to Congress---so he had been invited. And the cute young Interior Department officer, M. Harper, was someone she had had her eye on for some time
. How was it possible he was not already spoken for? He was just what she needed to pass the time in this vulgar little outpost…
     Speaking of vulgarity, that haughty frontiersman in The Residency had again declined the Consulate’s formal invitation. It had been Wilder who had brought word today that Jackson was “indisposed.” Jacques and the Lieutenant had both played their roles in the little comedy perfectly. There was, of course, no disgrace in the Governor-General’s absence; no one expected---or really wanted---him, anyway. And now that the Duke himself had unexpectedly made his appearance, the party was an unqualified success. Or would be, once she had a private word with young Harper…

___________

    While tensions sexual and otherwise played out, politics as usual regained supreme. Senator Calhoun had already congratulated Congressman Polk on their thus far successful strategy in limiting Bank debate by repeatedly interrupting to discuss supposed Mexican atrocities against British American settlers in east Texas. It was evident that Bank proponents had no cogent plan or coordinated effort to counter the G-G’s plan to encourage local bank growth. By blowing some rumored---manufactured---minor incidents west of the Red River into a crisis, the Southerners were hastening the clock on the Bank’s demise while giving supposed credence to their Texas demands.

     “The G-G,” Polk was telling Calhoun, “is pleased.
   “Just refrain from bringing up nullification or the tariff and the session will go far toward healing internal Southern wounds.”  Calhoun had smiled a dark smile that Polk chose to regard as one of agreement.
     Daniel Webster was a Dominionist. He detested slavery but held the growth of the USBA to be more important.  It was simply his bluntness that had led him to make the comments he had at the state dinner. Now he stood with Sir John Burrell discussing the results of the session. And again was being blunt:
     “Never let it be said, Sir John, that the South isn’t solid.” This, in response to the Briton’s comment that the Southerners had put aside their rancor over the tariff to defeat the larger common enemy, the Bank.
      “And the glue that holds them together is their damn ‘peculiar institution.’ The radicals, like Calhoun, are sensitive to any nuance that might affect their social order. The South Carolinians didn’t like the tariff, but that was a more a handy drum to beat on to get everyone else’s attention.
    “And they’re damn good at politics. They don’t want the Bank because they don’t think their agricultural economy needs it. The South does need room to expand, however, so they divert attention from the Bank to Texas.” He smiled a whimsical but crafty smile at the Liaison Office’s political chief: “Love to see your final report on this special session before you send it off to London, Sir John.”
       Burrell laughed politely. “Well, Daniel, I can tell you one person who won’t love my report once he sees it: Lord Palmerston. He will be rather disappointed Texas has been resurrected as an issue. He was quite clear on that last year.”
      Webster laughed aloud. “Yes, Sir John. So I have heard…”

___________

   To say Thomas was surprised to see Lucille and her mother was an understatement. He knew she had been in Georgetown for Maria Scott’s monthly luncheon last Thursday (the Old Man, damn it, had mentioned it before leaving the War Department that evening) but she hadn’t responded to the note he had spent hours sweating over. Perhaps she hadn’t received it before leaving Cranford Plantation. Or perhaps she had simply discarded it unread. At any rate, she was now standing across the room, in a group that included her mother and Van Buren.
     At least Candice isn’t here tonight, Tom thought with relief. The mistress of Twin Peaks had also attended the Scott luncheon and had remained at her townhouse for the weekend. So Tom had had little time to fret over the status of his Cranford note…he had literally staggered from her place Monday morning (
a hell of a way to start the work
week
, he had realized!). Candice, meanwhile, had been on her way to Annapolis to deal with some Mansfield family business. Though she expected to be back for Wellington’s speech. The Duke himself had invited her, she had trumpeted, describing the unexpected visit to Twin Peaks. An almost comatose Thomas had idly wondered if Captain Bratton had tied himself to the saddle for the next day’s ride to Harrisburg…
     Tom was wondering exactly how to approach Lucille and her mother when Dave Harper broke through the crowd. Tom grinned; he had become resigned to the fact that Harper had the unique ability to attach himself to any and every level of the capital’s social stratosphere. So he was surprised at Harps’ first words:
     “Fancy meeting you here, Lieutenant. Did you get your invitation from the same fairy godmother who sent me mine?”
       “What are you talking about David? Didn’t you use your normal pretext of the open Interior invitation to slither in?”
      Harps feigned insult: “I don’t ‘slither,’ Lieutenant. Sometimes I come through the door sideways, but never ‘slithering.’ The new Secretary has finally arrived. He’s here somewhere. I’m supposed to introduce him to the Congress. However, in this case, I also received a personal invitation yesterday. And you?”
    Thomas put on an impressed face: “A personal invite, huh? I received mine for helping the lovely Jacqueline with seating arrangements for Wellington’s speech.  Surprised the hell out of me, too.”
       David nodded his head. “I was shocked, to tell the truth. Interior doesn’t have much to do with the French Consulate, after all.”
       “No, only the Russian…”
       Harps was imperturbable: “Now Lieutenant, as I recall, it was your doing that set
that
in motion.”
       “No David, it was my doing that kept the Cossacks from setting
you
in motion…” The two friends laughed and Thomas nodded toward a group in the corner of the room that included Countess Caroline, her father, a stranger with an eye patch and Congressman McDuffie of South Carolina.
    “Well, Harps, looks like the love of your life is well protected tonight. You may have to simply admire her from afar…”
      “At least for awhile. Meanwhile, I think I will express my gratitude to our hostess for inviting me. Speaking of “life’s loves,” though, didn’t I see the, ahem, ‘formidable’ Lucille when I came in?”
    Tom nodded. “Yes, she was over with Van Buren and some other New Yorkers.  God knows who she’s flirting with now. That older lady with her is her mother.”
    “Are you two on speaking terms yet? And where, pray tell, is the one-and-only Widow Samples?”
     “In Annapolis, thank God. Especially since it’s crucial that I speak to Lucille and her mother tonight.”
     Harps looked aghast.
      “No David, it’s not personal. But extremely important. Believe me.”
     The friends parted as Tom saw General Scott signal to him.