The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (66 page)

        Scott nodded: “I’ve already sent word to Fort McHenry and Fortress Monroe.” He paused. “Would he try to elude us by going overland first…Philadelphia or Charleston, say… Embark from there?”

        Bratton was dubious: “Well, Sirs. He did come in through New York.” He grimaced. “That’s how I met him, actually, damn it all! But I don’t think he’d head north. Too far and too much chance of detection, even if he has altered his appearance again. My guess is a local port. Or he’ll simply lose himself somewhere in the South.”

         The Lieutenant was having a hard time following these exchanges, but knew enough to keep quiet. Obviously, the General had a better grip on the situation. As he demonstrated momentarily:

        Looking at Wellington, who had remained silent throughout, he asked Bratton bluntly: “Do you people think he’s caused
maximum havoc
…?”

        Harry frowned and looked at his own chief. Wellington’s nod was barely perceptible.

         “That would depend, General, wouldn’t it? On your people’s reaction: both to Mr. Jackson’s demise; and the speech he was stopped from giving…”

         Wellington and Scott exchanged significant looks.

        The General sighed: “All right, gentlemen, good work. Lieutenant, you need to get with Andy Donelson about the funeral arrangements. Looks like poor Jackson’s going to be laid out in the Rotunda before he’s shipped back to Tennessee. See to it.” Tom saluted and walked toward the secretary’s office. He could hear Scott ask Captain Bratton one last question:

       “You’re absolutely sure this Russki is behind this whole thing?”

        Tom slowed his way to catch Bratton’s answer: “General Scott, we have been consistently wrong, or rather, late, concerning Count Ignatieff since he arrived. However, in his arrogance, he left us his calling card, so to speak…”

        As the Lieutenant turned, Captain Bratton was withdrawing a black eye patch from his coat pocket. “This was hanging from the bed post above Mrs. Casgrave’s body…”

___________

Calhoun Residence

8:45 p.m.:

       James Polk had been at The Residency most of the late afternoon and early evening. After some time, however, it became clear that, while he may have been on suspension from Jackson’s Kitchen Cabinet, he was not a member of any status in Van Buren’s band of intimate advisors.

       So he had finally acknowledged the obvious and ridden over here, where the Southern inner-circle had gathered after leaving the Capitol.
I might not have much news from The Residency, but the papers I retrieved from the Rotunda floor are powerful enough intelligence for one day’s work…

      Polk had briefly scanned the contents of the cream-colored folder himself, then wordlessly handed them to Calhoun before heading to the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue.  By now, he surmised, the entire Southern leadership would know that Jackson had been about to betray them in the name of Dominion unity.

      He shook his head as he tied up his own horse; none of the servants were visible.

     That damn old man knew the Syrian thing gives the South the leverage to extract a 25-year emancipation ‘sunset’ provision…and to grab Texas and the whole Southwest before Mexico City can react. Yet Jackson intended to squander that once-in-a-century opportunity in favor of a Dominion convention to settle the slavery issue once-and-for-all. Basically, he was for trading the South’s constitutionally-guarenteed property rights for some vague domestic autonomy status in the Empire…

      Polk stood on the porch and shook his head. Andrew had been a mentor to him, yes, and he felt his death greatly. A terrible shock, especially coming in the manner it did.

   
But for the good of the South, perhaps---no, definitely---it is better he is gone, if that speech is any indication
…

___________

       Alabama’s Clay had the floor, a stone mug of whisky in his hand. In fact, it appeared to Polk that virtually every member of the inner-circle had his own supply…though some supplies were more dented than others.

      “…complete sellout of the South,” Clay was sputtering. “Can’t believe a planter could come up with such foul treason. I see Frank Blair’s hand in this. That damn newspaper editor…”

       Calhoun, his dark smile in place, was evidently allowing the boys to blow off steam. He sipped from a small glass and look expectantly at the newcomer. “Well, James, back from The Residency. So what is the mood over there on Pennsylvania Avenue?”

         Polk looked around the room. “Shock, depression, confusion. What you would expect. Some barely-concealed glee, too, in my opinion, from some of those damn Yankees, Webster and the lot…”

         North Carolina’s Brown stood. “What news? When’s the funeral? When will Van Buren address the Congress? Have they discovered this fiend’s identity yet? Or his motive?”

        Polk raised his hand. “Slow down, Bedford, all in good time.” The others chuckled and someone handed Polk his own mug. He sipped shortly and began again:

        “The funeral is foremost on their minds, along with securing the city’s stability. Though, if this had been a coordinated insurrection of sorts, any hell would already have broken loose. Looks like this may have been a single madman, who, by the way, apparently butchered his landlady before going to the Hill…”

       He cut off the instant buzz. “Later. More importantly, Van Buren doesn’t seem to have focused on the crisis yet. I’d say emancipation’s off the table for a few weeks.”
No reason to confess just yet that I’ve been cut off from power over there,
he thought
. Who knows what tomorrow may bring…

       “Now, I’m anxious to hear this group’s thinking regarding this damnable speech the Old Man was about to make…”

___________

The Residency

11:45 p.m.:

       The crowd had dwindled to the five of them now: the new G-G, Scott, Wellington, Blair and Colonel Burr.

          Men and women had continued to come and go throughout the evening:

          General Gaines reporting that, in part thanks to the arrival of elements of the 4
^th
Artillery from their post outside the city, Georgetown was quiet; the 10 p.m. curfew was being observed. A delegation of New England Congressmen to urge the new G-G to announce his unequivocal support for emancipation as early as tomorrow. Ewing, Benton and some other Westerners to offer support and urge caution. Candice Samples, among other women, to console Emily Donelson. Finally, some 45 minutes ago, Donelson and Wilder with detailed plans for the funeral.

       Now, formal attire loosened or shed---including a decoration-littered commanding general’s tunic---the group was scattered around the room, sipping their own beverages of choice as they planned a course of action.

       “Put off your speech until next week, three or four days after the funeral,” Blair advised. “Let things calm down a bit before the people have to look emancipation in the eye again. A brief respite will do us all good…”

         Burr poured himself a cup of tea; despite the mugginess of the night, he apparently felt his habitual chill. “I believe Frank’s correct, Matty. Let the people concentrate on their grief; if nothing else, it unites them. There’s plenty of time to return to this Parliamentary hot potato.” He grinned: “Serve Congress right if you keep ‘em here all summer…”

          Blair again: “What worries me is the disappearance of that folder.  Mark my words, Calhoun has already read it. And begun making his plans…”

        Wellington cleared his throat. “Since this is late at night and off-the-record, Mr. Governor, I must say I share Mr. Blair’s concern. That folder did not simply blow away in the storm. Someone snatched it; someone with impressive presence of mind, considering the circumstances.”

    The discussion continued nearly till dawn. Among other things, the new G-G was astonished to learn contingency plans had been drafted to field a Southern-less army…

___________

Indian Queen Hotel Taproom

June 18, 1833, 7:00 p.m.:

    In the blur of events since the previous Wednesday, Tom Wilder was sure he had spent at least a few minutes with his friend Dave Harper. He just couldn’t remember when; or where.

     Possibly it had been after the joint War-Interior Department briefing last Thursday when the Liaison Office spelled out its theory on the assassination. Or, more accurately, its theories considering the escape and/or hiding plans of this Russian agent, Ignatieff.

      Or, it could have been during or after the Saturday funeral procession to the Capitol, where Andrew Jackson had been laid in state in the Rotunda, at the exact spot of the assassination. Estimates were that more than 50,000 had passed through in the next 24 hours, though General Scott had scoffed. “Use your head, Lieutenant. There aren’t half that many people within 100 miles of Georgetown. Where did they all come from?”

      Wilder hadn’t really given it much thought: he had been too tied up with the ceremonial details. Scott himself had overseen the security preparations. Tom grinned to himself; maybe that 50,000 included all the troops. The General certainly packed Georgetown with the two services!

        Some of those troops---including Bull Sumner’s dragoons---had left town Sunday afternoon, escorting the G-G’s body back to Nashville. That had meant more planning, so it was doubtful he had seen Dave over the weekend.

        He had, of course seen Candice---
if
seeing
is the correct word for it
, he thought, grinning---late on several evenings. Her grief at her old friend’s demise was very real.
But, she hadn’t allowed it to adversely affect her appetites.

         With all preparations, security and otherwise, completed for Van Buren’s address to the Congress tomorrow---like everyone else, Tom was still having trouble thinking of Matty Van as ‘the G-G’---the Lieutenant had found he did have some free time tonight.

         As Candice had decided to retreat to Twin Peaks on Monday, he had no other commitments; Lucille, he thought with a frown, had gone home to Cranford last weekend, though she was due back for the speech. He hadn’t seen her since Mrs. Latoure invited him to a small dinner-party two nights after the assassination. With the Tylers, Joe Johnston and Mary Lee also in attendance, it hadn’t been much fun…the others’ grief over Jackson’s death was more than tempered by their anger over emancipation.

        Thus, with no duties or other commitments, he was free to meet Harps for a few beers. Fortunately, Dave had agreed to come over from The Deerhead, though both taprooms were now habitually extra-crowded, with The Golden Eagle still shuttered…

        Harper was standing at the bar with a strange look on his face when the Lieutenant came down the stairs from his room, the mug of beer in front of him already half consumed.

       “What’s the matter, Harps? Not some late-blooming grief for the unfortunate Joanne?”

         “Of course not, Lieutenant. Any mourning I conducted for her---and believe me, it was strictly of a carnal nature---was over months ago. Ghastly thing, but…funny you should bring her up, though…”

        “Why’s that? Nothing funny I can see about getting strangled, asleep or not…”

       Harps downed the rest of his beer and whipped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around the bar suspiciously before lowering his head and voice:

      “I’ve just come from the Liaison Office again, Tom. Bratton and his boys want me in touch with Caroline. Find out what she knows about Ignatieff.”

      Wilder stared at his friend. “They think she was in on the plot? That’s ridiculous….”

       “No, no, of course not. And, they don’t think he’s hiding out at the Consulate.

        “They do think Count Renkowiitz---or someone over there---does know where he went. Or headed, at any rate.”

     “So you’re to pry this international secret out of Caroline? Come on…”

      Harper pulled himself into a comically erect posture. “I have been provided choice seats in the visitors’ gallery. Two of them. I am picking up the Countess at 9:45 with an Interior Department carriage. After the speech, we will proceed to visit the various receptions. At some point, hopefully she’ll let something slip. At least, that’s the idea.”

        “Jaysus, Mary and Joseph…”

       “Don’t worry Thomas. If-and-when we see the ‘redoubtable Miss Latoure,’ I’m sure Caroline will be happy to pass along your greetings.”

___________

Calhoun’s Residence

June 19, 1833, 8:00 p.m.:

      The fire-eaters had departed the Capitol livid. Except for Calhoun. As far as the head fire-eater was concerned, things were moving along nicely.

       That didn’t mean he hadn’t been shocked and shaken by the events of the previous Wednesday. Calhoun had detested Jackson and most everything he had stood for. Everything, damn it, now that the old man was on record as betraying his own planter class! 

        Though he certainly did not condone assassination as a political instrument, Jackson’s forcible removal from the scene, however, was a positive step toward that goal he had set, though never publicly enunciated: separation of the Dominion into free- and slave-holding entities.  A Southern confederacy that might---or might not---choose to remain in the British Empire!

       So Van Buren’s speech today, infuriating the fire-eaters by revealing and endorsing the old man’s ridiculous plan to call a special Dominion convention to deal with the emancipation issue, didn’t bother him. A reaction that startled and baffled his associates until he carefully explained his reasoning.

       “By all accounts, the entire Dominion is shocked by the assassination. There is an excess of emotion: grief, outrage and yes, a feeling, somehow, of guilt, on the part of the people. Understandable, actually. The people are, in the end, simply a mob. Their reaction is thus predictable to anyone who has dealt with mobs.