The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (38 page)

     The tumultuous cheers that had greeted Wellington’s march down the aisle had barely subsided when Speaker Stevenson of Virginia brought on a second standing ovation with his flowery introduction of the Duke. By the time an equally flowery return round of acknowledgements of Congressional and Court leaders by Wellington was concluded the time had been approximately 1:40 p.m.

      Now, even those so inclined to cheer were in too deep a shock to do so.

___________

The Residency

2:30 p.m.

     Burr had anticipated the diatribe against London that Jackson launched immediately upon pouring them both Tennessee mash, neat. He waited patiently for the Jacksonian eruption to run its course before getting down to the serious business at hand.

      The Colonel was relieved that Andrew angrily conceded that London probably had the legal authority to order emancipation, under existing terms of both the Colonial Compact and the USBA Constitution, “damn those idiots from Franklin to Madison who threw away our rights.”

       Burr, however, was aghast when Jackson began to apply a disguised version of the nullification principle. “Constitutions, compacts are living things, Colonel Burr. They must have room to breathe, to grow. They must adapt to the times, the conditions prevalent in the countries or dominions to which they are applied. Otherwise, they will die and cease to be any more than antiquated scraps of paper.”

      The G-G peered over his glass as he waited to see how the other trained lawyer would react.

       “Bullshit, Andrew…Mr. Governor-General…

       “In your own Tennessee parlance, that dog won’t hunt…and we both know it.”

        The blood raced to the G-G’s face and Burr settled back to enjoy another eruption. But Jackson, staring directly into his old friend’s face, suddenly burst out in a bitter laugh.

        “Of course
we
do, Colonel. But what about the rest of the South? What about Andrew Jackson, private citizen, who worked his way up from a dirt-floored cabin on a played-out North Carolina hillside to own The Hermitage? How is he, how are they, supposed to react to the high-and-mighty 3000-miles away Parliament and fat, dumpy little King, who if not for the luck of birth might be eating pork and cabbage in a German tavern, deciding to strip us of our hard-earned property?

        “And, Colonel, spare me the righteous compensation argument. I’ve been through that with His Grace, the Duke.” Jackson spit out the title with a sneer. “We’re talking pennies on the dollar…”

         “And all this time, Andrew, I thought it was we Yankees who worshipped the ‘Almighty dollar...’” Burr sipped his whisky and grinned impishly at the fired-up G-G.

          Jackson’s fist came crashing down on his desk, spilling his own glass and shaking every other item on it.

     “Careful, Andrew. That desktop looks firm…and your hands may be a bit more brittle than you care to admit.”

      A smile broke reluctantly out on the G-G’s face. “Damn you, Aaron. You always knew where and when to insert the knife. My Rachel always said: ‘Don’t ever get into a debate with Colonel Burr, General. He’s the one man you can’t intimidate…’”

      Burr reached across the desk to the still rattling whisky bottle and poured them each another glass. “Well Andrew, isn’t it time we talked turkey?”

___________

The Deerhead Inn

3:10 p.m.

     Dave Harper snapped awake from a short nap brought on by fully 90 minutes of as intense physical exertion as he could recall. He could hear the low, even breathing of his partner as he reached to run his hand across her smooth, olive-skinned back.

     The wife of the French Counsel-General opened her eyes and stretched leisurely as she gazed at her new lover. “What time is it? I see the sunlight, so it can’t be too late.”

     Harps pulled his watch from the pocket of the jacket unceremoniously discarded earlier on the floor. “A little after three. They’ll be finishing up at the Capitol soon. When do you have to get back?”

     Jacqueline Jean-Claude smiled archly: “Not quite yet, Cheri. Jacques will stay for the reception, especially since he was able to use my ticket to seat his crony, Count Karl.” She moved into Harper’s arms. “A puzzling situation, that. Do you remember the stranger with the eye patch at my supper Wednesday night? Somehow, he appropriated the Count’s ticket…”

      Political intrigue was normally the farthest thing from Harps’ mind--especially when he held a beautiful, naked woman in his arms---but he had rendezvoused with Jacqueline soon after returning from the Liaison Office. To his amazement, practically the sole topic of his breakfast with Captain Bratton and, unexpectedly, Major Layne, had been the wiry, eye-patched Russian: what had Countess Caroline said about this ‘Andre Karlhamanov’?  He had been observed being introduced to the supposed ‘exile’ by the Countess at the French Consulate the other evening. And what, if anything, had Harper discussed with the man?

      Almost nothing, really: Karlhamanov had been visibly unimpressed when he learned David worked for Interior. But yes, he had a date to go riding with the Countess tomorrow and, yes, he would attempt to casually sound her out. Right now, all he knew was that Caroline seemed uncomfortable with the fellow…

        With an embarrassed look that had surprised both Layne and Harper, Bratton had then shifted the questioning: did David recognize the Russian from anywhere else? No, not that he could recall. (The carefree Harps, when getting the signal over repeated nights that Joanne was unavailable, had simply moved on (without inquiring as to the cause). There were simply too many fish in the sea---as today was proving--to worry about one who wished to swim away. Especially a piranha like Mrs. Casgrave!)

       Harps now shared a long kiss with Madame Jean-Claude and then grinned: “How could I forget him? You pointed him out as we were making our, err, ‘arrangement.’” The grin faded into a frown: “But I don’t understand. I thought Count Renkowiitz was in charge over there? How did M. Eye Patch end up with his ticket?”

         Jacqueline, however, had lost interest in the inner workings of the Russian Consulate. “Enough of that, Cheri. We have two more hours. Let’s make use of them…”

       
Well,
thought Harps,
even if the Countess clams up tomorrow, I’ve already got some juicy news for Captain Bratton. But that can wait…Vive La France!

___________

The Capitol

3:30 p.m.

     One newspaper account of the scene highlighted the “funereal atmosphere descending on the Chamber.” Another contrasted the ‘solemn faces” of Justice Marshall and his associate jurists with the “dark fury evident on the features of the new Senator from South Carolina.”

      All written accounts of the Duke’s historic speech, however, recorded the gradual transformation from celebration to shock in both the well of the House and in the galleries. Knowing what was coming and where to look, Burrell would remember amazement turning to glee on Webster’s face, as well as the blank expression Van Buren, sitting with the Cabinet members, maintained throughout.

       There were few avowed Abolitionists in Congress and even fewer among the spectators. Thus there were no outbreaks of sustained applause or celebration. The Southern delegation’s reaction was twofold: stunned disbelief or incoherent fury. Most civilians in the galleries were Southern: they shared their leaders’ reactions. The diplomatic corps sat in amazed fascination as the Empire’s most famous man announced a self-manufactured crisis; even ‘Andre Karlhamanov’ found it hard---though gratifying---to realize that Wellington’s blunt-though-understated words contained the seeds of a civil war. Among the military and government hierarchy, men looked at each other with thoughts of promotions, resignations, repudiations and fratricide in their eyes. Their wives looked at their husbands and each other with incredulity, with sadness, with horror.

       Major Layne had found the USBA Marine detachment commander, a hard-boiled captain named Goodwin, and had convinced him with some difficulty to bring his men into the building’s Rotunda. (The Royal Marines waited outside with The Residency’s carriage.) Goodwin, on verbal orders from General Scott (Bratton had located and approached Scott to share Layne’s growing concern), quietly provided security for the Duke as he left the rostrum, marched through the House well and up the same aisle he had come in. If any Southern hot heads entertained thoughts of assassination, they were either too paralyzed by shock or intimidated by the Marines to act on their inclinations.

       Which is not to say that the Duke’s journey back to the Rotunda was a victory march. The anger of the Southerners was blatantly evident; the astonishment of moderates like Kentucky’s Henry Clay and Thomas Ewing of Ohio was obvious and the feelings of most New Englanders were subdued. Like Clay, Webster shook Wellington’s hand as the former P.M. moved back up the stairs; unlike Clay’s perfunctory grasp, there was a silent but solid commitment of solidarity in the Massachusetts senator’s grip.

      Wellington, of course, acted as if he was greeting the crowds in Trafalgar Square. He never winced, blanched or otherwise acted as if he had done more than deliver the King’s best wishes to his loyal British American subjects. “They don’t call him the ‘Iron Duke’ for nothing,” an impressed Bratton whispered to Sir John as they finally cleared the House chamber.

     “Today may not be the ‘Ides of March,’ but this walk will go down with Caesar’s final stroll through the Forum,” Burrell replied. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t end the same way.”

       The Duke waved to the crowd as if campaigning as they moved outside and prepared to reboard the carriage. He even chose to ignore the contingent of Royal Marines drawn up to reinforce Goodwin’s detachment. “Well, gentlemen, I’ve a dinner engagement at General Scott’s this evening. I believe a short recap and a nap are appropriate in the meantime. So let’s proceed back to The Residency, shall we?”

       The show of bravado lasted till the carriage was rolling back down Pennsylvania Avenue (under renewed cheers from a populace unaware of the sudden turn-of-events). Wellington sighed deeply and fell back in his seat. He looked at his two aides (Layne rode outside with the mixed Marines) and shook his head: “That, gentlemen, was worse than enduring Marshall Ney’s cavalry charge at Waterloo. The hostility by the end was thick enough to cut with a knife.

        Bratton was placating: “The problem, Your Grace, is the location. How the devil did the Northerners allow their capital to be located down here in the slaveocracy? The reaction, I’m quite sure, would have been much more positive if you had delivered your speech in Philadelphia or New York…”

        Wellington shook his head. “No Captain. The problem is just as you analyzed it in London: Like you, the people in that ugly, pretentious capitol building of theirs see emancipation as the powder keg which will blow this whole Dominion apart, no matter their feelings on the subject. From a distance, the USBA appears a vibrant, thriving monolith. In fact, it is as fragile as a plate of china.”

         He looked at each aide in turn. “Thank God whatever happens can be contained internally. We are very fortunate that there are no other Powers in a position to intervene. If there were, I’m not sure we could hold this together…or put it back together…              

      “Whichever becomes necessary.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Residency

Georgetown, D.C.

March 2, 1833, 4 p.m.:

      Lieutenant Wilder had spent a boring 2 ½ hours in his tiny office and wandering the halls. He dared not leave;
who knew when the meeting in Jackson’s office would break?

      Not surprisingly, he had found two communications in his office that needed immediate attention: General Scott’s order that he deliver Colonel Burr to his home at 7 p.m. necessitated alerting the enlisted man driving the carriage that both their days would be a bit longer. The other note informed him that Candice was in residence at her townhouse and would expect him after 5 p.m.; fortunately, one of her ‘people,’ Stephon, had waited for a reply.  Press-of-duty would delay him, Tom had written back. He’d be there sometime after 8…

       Now he could hear the Duke’s arrival back from Capitol Hill. Standing at attention in his cubbyhole’s doorway, he could see the hook-nosed old man tiredly cross the Main Portico and head up to his suite of rooms, followed by the tense-faced Bratton and Burrell. Striding to the main doors, he could see the Marines depart in separate formations.
Should he,
the thought came too late to act on
, have informed the G-G Wellington was back? Perhaps not: Jackson would have ordered him to stand watch if he wanted to be on the steps to greet the Duke. And Wellington himself  hadn’t looked right or left to see if the G-G was coming. Significant…and not good.

      Major Layne was now taking the steps two at a time, his long legs propelling him quickly into the building and across the hall to the stairs. “Well Lieutenant. Been here all afternoon? Missed the fireworks, you did, up the road…” Tom merely nodded.
And you
missed the fireworks
here, Major. Though you may still be in time for an encore
performance…

      With that, the door to Jackson’s office opened and the G-G, his left arm around the smaller man’s shoulders, emerged with Colonel Burr. Jackson walked his guest over to Tom. “Your orders are to take good care of this old relic tonight, Lieutenant. Just have him back here tomorrow at 4 p.m. sharp.”  The two ancient adventurers looked each other in the eye and shook hands silently. Jackson was still watching from the Portico as Thomas helped the Colonel into the War Department carriage.

       The driver had some difficulty working his way through crowds that were building up outside The Residency gates. Tom was baffled; he’d never seen a Georgetown crowd this big, this quiet and at this time on a Saturday afternoon.