The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (64 page)

10:30 a.m.:

       The Vice Governor-General, in his role as President of the Senate, waited on the Capitol steps with the Speaker, Mr. Stevenson of Virginia, and the honorary ‘welcoming’ Tennessee delegation.

      Van Buren was glancing with amusement at Rep. David Crockett. The legendary frontiersman’s presence would certainly not be welcoming to the G-G; they loathed each other. The Vice G-G was also looking forward to the reaction of Jackson to Congressman Polk; Colonel Burr had related the G-G’s suspicions that his protégé was secretly a fire-eater…

       The Vice G-G and the others could see Jackson’s carriage and honor guard making its way through the ominously quiet crowds on Pennsylvania Avenue. People had been pouring into the city for days as word spread that Jackson would finally speak directly about the crisis. Now the Marines gently but firmly moved the citizenry out of the way so that the G-G’s carriage could complete its journey. Van Buren looked skyward: the dark sky seemed ready to explode with lightening, to say nothing of thunder. The air itself was crackling with electricity.

      Inside the building, the usual array of privileged---diplomats, military, Congressional wives and local planter aristocracy---were already crowded into the galleries. Lucille Latoure, by now expert at obtaining entrance, had today produced tickets for herself and mother issued originally to the Vice G-G and presented to her by that dear old gentleman, Colonel Burr.

     (“Now there’s a woman worth fighting a revolution for,” Burr had told General Scott. He had shaken his head admiringly but sadly: “And to think she has only these barbaric young Georgetown bucks to choose from. If only I was 20 years…” Scott had cut him off: “Colonel, if you were 20 years younger, you’d be a prime candidate for her mother’s hand.” Burr had given a good impression of bristling as he drew himself up to his full 5-foot-5: “And who, my dear General, can say that I am not still…” Scott simply shook his head.
Incorrigible…but, apparently…useful
.)

      As the Senate had once again come over to the House chamber for the joint address, Calhoun, Troup and the other Southern Senators had settled in with their home states’ House delegations. The buzzing in the House well was approaching a roar as the scheduled 11 a.m. starting time drew near.

      Speaker Stevenson had ordered the House clerks to examine the entrance badges at the various doors to the Chamber. While it was a more efficient system for inspection---fewer doors meant fewer uninvited guests---the decision had left the Capitol’s outer doors unpoliced.

     Captain Bratton had noticed that when he had arrived with Sir John Burrell. “Any riffraff in the city can walk right up to the chamber itself,” he had observed. Burrell’s response was typically patronizing: “No worse, perhaps better, than the riffraff within, my dear Captain. Have you ever gotten within feet of this man Crockett?” Bratton had grinned. “Well Sir John, perhaps we can serve His Grace best if we separate for the moment. You handle the riffraff within; I’ll stay out here till Jackson arrives. Save me a place…”

        Richard Lawrence, in a newly-purchased set of second hand clothes (funded, though he did not realize it, by Czarist gold), would have been entirely unrecognizable in what was, admittedly, if not a mob then a rowdy crowd, except for his peculiar tall, gaunt frame. Still, he had left early enough to have secured a spot in the Rotunda next to a column near the main entrance to the House chamber. “Just lean back against the column and wait,” Andre had told him on their repeated visits to the building. “When the time arrives, step forward.” As he looked around, he could see that, as usual, no one was paying him any attention…

___________

Capitol Building Driveway

10:35 a.m.:

       The Marine out-riders, still horsed, were at attention before the Gubernatorial carriage rolled to a stop. The other Marines were quickly down and forming a ceremonial corridor leading up to the official hosts. Captain Goodwin and his final two honor guards walked Jackson, who refused help descending from the carriage, to the Vice G-G and the Congressional leadership.

         Van Buren put out his hand. The G-G’s still-hard grip brought the slightest color to Matty Van’s face. “Welcome, Mr. Governor-General. All is in readiness for your address.” The two men exchanged quick glances of solidarity: Colonel Burr had obviously briefed the Vice G-G on what was planned. It was a different story with the next dignitary in line: though Speaker Stevenson was an old friend and ally, his support could not be assumed on this issue. The Virginian’s handshake was firm but his eyes were troubled. Neither man was sure their alliance could survive…

         The Vice G-G was observing this encounter with interest when he felt a strong grip on his arm. A grinning Blair was indicating ahead to the waiting Tennessee delegation. No words were necessary as they watched Jackson approach the world-famous frontiersman.

        “Congressman Crockett.” The G-G was cordially formal. “And how are things back in our beloved Tennessee?”

       “Fair to middl’in, Gin’ral. Betcha wished they’d a sent a Frenchie this time, rather than me agin, huh?” Crockett grinned before rattling a nearby spittoon with a remarkably accurate stream of tobacco juice.

        The major blood vein snaking down Jackson’s forehead was suddenly quite visible. That, however, was his only response. Instead, he moved on to the next Congressman in line: “Mr. Polk. I trust you’ll provide me with your reaction and counsel at the conclusion of my address? Perhaps this afternoon or evening?”

        “My pleasure, Mr. Governor. As my input in preparing the address was so minimal, perhaps my analysis will thus be that much more appreciated.”

         Jackson’s eyes narrowed and flickered dangerously, but he simply nodded and moved on. Van Buren and Blair looked quickly at each other. Both had noted the sudden paleness undercutting the deep tan of Polk’s face.

___________

The Golden Eagle Tavern

11:00 a.m.:

      Nicholas wiped the razor clean. The bowl in front of him was filled with clomps of his rich black hair. He toweled his now shining skull and took the bowl to the dressing room window, where he emptied it carefully and fully. With any luck, the coming storm would scatter the shavings in its fury…

      He debated whether to take the eye patch with him for disposal elsewhere; in the end he decided to leave it hanging from the bed-frame. The implicit taunt amused him: yes, you colonials---and you too, Captain Bratton---Andre Karlhamanov was certainly here. But where has he gone? Or, more precisely, where has Nicholas Ignatieff gone?

      The Count returned to the bedroom. At first, perfunctory glance, Joanne Casgrave seemed soundly asleep: her face buried in the pillows. Only the angle of her slender neck seemed slightly ajar. That, of course, would lead to a closer inspection, involving turning her over in any futile attempt to wake her.

     
Perhaps the purple coloring on the face and forehead will have receded by early afternoon. Though the bulging eyes will most definitely remain at their sockets’ edge… The marks on her throat where her lower larynx has caved in will naturally reveal the cause of the collapse. Other distasteful signs of her demise will have dried but still be visible on the beddings…

       Nicholas pulled on his coat and adjusted the two guns enclosed in his vest. He reached for the black hat he had had her purchase for him last week. It now came lower on his head, concealing from a distance the identifying colorings of his right eye.

       He strode to the door and glanced back for one last look.
You stupid colonial bitch
!
I’ll admit, you helped pass the time…and served my purposes well. But Nicholas Ignatieff---Count Nicholas Ignatieff---
Любви вам? Я даже не как вы.
(Love you? I never even liked you…)

___________

The Golden Eagle Tavern

11:15 a.m.:

       The stranger in the wide-brimmed black planter’s hat descending the Golden Eagle’s back stairs looked---to the earliest rising of the Eagle’s newly-recruited (at ‘Andre’s’ direction) ‘girls’---to be simply another overnight client. No one:
miserable, pampered
cooks included
, he thought with disdain, was yet functioning. He crossed from the bar through the kitchen and exited a back door. The horse ‘King Richard’ had obligingly had saddled and readied for him was tied to a nearby post. He mounted and headed for the Long Bridge.

    The news from the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue was yet to filter down Capitol Hill. No one thought to stop or question him as he rode off the Bridge minutes later and pointed his horse toward Richmond.

___________

The Capitol Building

11:02 a.m.:

    The Gubernatorial-General party paused at the top of the steps. Somehow, Jackson---probably at the sight of Crockett and/or Polk---had left his speech on the carriage seat!

     Captain Goodwin hurried down to the driveway and returned with the cream-colored folder as the G-G and his aides enjoyed a rueful laugh. The party proceeded into the Capitol, the Marine guard opening the path through the crowded Rotunda: Jackson now tightly clutching the folder, Van Buren and Stevenson following him, the Kitchen Cabinet and the Tennessee delegation bringing up the rear.

     No one was paying much attention to the tall, cadaverous fellow in the clean but threadworm suit, other than to envy him the height that allowed a commanding view of the area. Apparently, no one standing nearby could hear his heart beating and the blood pounding against his temples. As the G-G’s party pushed through, Jackson stopping frequently to shake an outstretched hand, the gaunt observer drew his hands inside his waistcoat.

      The Marine trio, Goodwin in the lead, was suddenly past. The G-G himself was now within five feet of the man standing at the base of the column, stopping again to shake yet another hand while balancing himself on his ever-present cane.

       The rumbling that had filled the soon-to-be-King’s ears like so many horses charging trackside suddenly cleared.

      Richard Lawrence could hear his friend Andre’s command: “
Fire now!”

     He stepped through the crowd and, pointing the two new Patterson pistols slightly down, pulled both triggers…

      Astonishingly---since they had been well tested and cared for---one of the pistols misfired; more precisely, failed to ignite at all. The other, however, worked perfectly: a ball exploded into the G-G’s chest under the left side of the breastbone. The force, combined with the three-foot proximity, sent the ball crashing out Jackson’s lower back. Incredibly, the velocity was such that it lodged in the right knee of Secretary Cass, who stumbled forward into the G-G, who was now collapsing backward.

     No one present would ever forget the sudden complete silence. Nor the bedlam that then followed.

      Goodwin and the Marines had turned at the sound of the gunfire. The Captain was the first to react, pushing past the two enlisted men and jumping at the tall man who still held both pistols as he studied with seemingly detached curiosity the havoc he had just rendered. Later, men would remember Goodwin attempting to draw his sword as he pushed toward Lawrence. The assassin, seeing him coming, reached back before slamming the barrel of the pistol in his left hand into the Marine’s head. Snarling incoherently with rage, Goodwin seemed oblivious to the blow but then the force of the companion pistol’s barrel on his forehead pole-axed him.  He collapsed in a heap at Lawrence’s feet.

       The bartender had reacted instinctively; now his addled brain was confused:
Why are
they charging me? They should be cheering! Andre said they would…

       Now Lawrence could feel other arms grabbing him from the sides. And, suddenly, an enormous black-winged creature came flying over the Marines’ shoulders and landed on him. The force of the collision sent everyone crashing to the floor, though Richard’s head cracked back against the column, opening a gaping hole on the back of his skull and sending blood and brain matter flying. So he never saw the huge fist that splintered his face from nose to chin.

       It may have been that either of those two successive head blows would have done him in. Various neck bones were broken and certainly, the chunks of teeth and gum---to say nothing of the blood---that exploded back into his throat might have choked him, taken in conjunction with the fact that the openings to his nasal passages had been destroyed. Twentieth century forensic examination would have revealed that the blow to the face had driven the bones constituting the bridge of the nose into the brain, however.

    Certainly, despite the blood, it was not the ugly gash near his third rib where Goodwin’s sword had embedded itself. (No one later was quite sure who administered that blow…or how.) Nor was it the ball from his own previously malfunctioning weapon, which perversely chose to send a round into his left hip during the floor scrimmaging.

      When order was finally restored---General Scott had personally flung spectators aside to reach first the G-G/Cass heap and, after a grunt, the assassin’s entanglement---it was apparent that the carnage had been fatal to both major players.

       Jackson was most probably dead before he even toppled backward into his Secretary of War; the ball passed directly through the heart at a 90-degree angle before exiting the lower back with the spent force that would deposit it in Cass’ leg.

      The cataclysmic explosions to Lawrence’s head and face---evident when Davy Crockett and the two Marines were pulled off and the one bystander, a local Maryland planter who had held firmly to the assassin’s left arm, was freed from under him---left no doubt that he, too, had departed the planet.