The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (77 page)

     The Lieutenant, virtually born in the saddle, was casually riding first, the reins in his left hand and his right holding the saddle horn lightly, body shifted at a 45-degree angle to the left as he studied the column coming down the Emmitsburg Road. The first shot blew him into the tall grass lining the path, the bullet penetrating the breastbone to the right of the neck and exiting from under the left shoulder blade.

     The fire of the USBAA Regulars converged on the patrol from the woods on the flank and rear. Two more troopers dropped immediately, while a third was thrown clear of his terrified, bucking horse. The Sergeant’s own horse reared, but he regained control while simultaneously drawing his pistol, the rifle dropped when the animal jerked his front legs skyward. It was that bucking and lurching that saved him and kept him in action momentarily. He fired wildly into the brush, all the while knowing the futility of the effort.

    
Damn, so soon? 

    The shot that knocked him off the horse got him on the right shoulder. His pistol went flying into the air as he tumbled backward. It was the rock that did the most damage. His head caught it squarely and blood and brains emptied out backward to form a dark, spreading pool. He never knew the Lieutenant had somehow staggered up, impossibly reaching for his own pistol, when a Dominion corporal old enough to be his father, coming up from behind, terminated with a close-range pistol shot through the throat.

   After the initial blast from their muskets, the dismounted Regulars, who had been tracking this particular CSA patrol since late yesterday afternoon, finished off the firefight with their pistols. Then they grabbed the fallen muskets, equipped with ugly-looking bayonets that made them resemble short lances, and charged. The few Confederates on their feet---the entire patrol had dismounted, some more voluntarily than others---threw up their arms and begged to surrender.

   It was over in less than a minute.  The Regulars unveiled the Stars and Stripes and waved the flag toward the column now halted in the road. The distant cheers and huzzahs were dimly audible…

___________

Camp Washington

October 18, 1833:

    “Thanks to the transfer of Fortress Monroe, I believe we can safely rule out an invasion from the Peninsula.  And assume that the Dominion invasion will come somewhere along this route.” Zach Taylor traced a route due west from Georgetown.

      President Calhoun stared down at the map but made no comment. It was Secretary Gratiot who posed the question. “Will you utilize the natural defenses of Bull Run, or do you want to take them on in the open?” He was careful to avoid indicating his own preference, which, as an engineer, was to take advantage of the natural defenses afforded by the long, winding stream.

     Taylor grinned. “What do you think? Charlie… of course I’ll make use of the Run. Be a damn fool if I didn’t. The question is whether Scott’ll come west,” he pointed to Sudley Spring, “or down here by Blackburn’s Ford and this unnamed one.”

    The President was confused. “You mean he won’t just come straight on? Scott is a battering ram. I’d have expected him to come right down the Warrentown Pike.”

      The Secretary and the two generals---Twiggs was also hovered over the map in Taylor’s quarters---exchanged smiles. “That’s a given, Mr. President. If there’s anyone who’ll try to ram his way through, it’ll be Winfield Scott. But he’s sophisticated, too.               

     “He’ll attempt to stretch us thin by dividing his force. Thing is, he won’t have enough troops to come from both flanks and the center. It’ll be the Warrentown Pike plus one of the others. I’m betting he’ll go east.” Taylor’s finger moved from Blackburn. “Two short, powerful drives. Easier to hook back up once across, too. That’s from his perspective, of course. Getting across, I mean…”

     The others laughed, somewhat nervously in at least one case.

___________

“Une Maison Sans Danger”

6
^th
& G Streets

Georgetown, D.C.

October 18, 1833, 9 p.m.:

    Dave Harper was unaware of the phrase “safe house.” Nevertheless, tonight he was being introduced to the concept, though his French lover referred to it as a “une maison sans danger.”

    Discreet residence it apparently was; Jacqueline Jean-Claude seemed supremely unconcerned that the Counsel-General would burst through the door at an inopportune time. (This being their first rendezvous since the Army set up camp at Cranford, turning the guest cottage into a temporary headquarters building.)

     “No Cheri, Jacques is out of the city…if such a term can be applied to this miserable little village.”  Her smooth ageless naked olive-skinned body glowing as always after their initial mutual assault, she seemed to glide across the room, carrying a tray with a bottle of Bordeaux and two glasses. “He’ll be gone at least overnight.”

     Harps quickly rose from a prone position to balance on his left elbow. “Left the city? This is a strange time for traveling…” The crisis had raised even David’s previously dormant intelligence instincts:
was it possible the French C-G was secretly in cahoots with the Rebels?

       “Ah Cheri.” Jacqueline fondly rubbed the back of one hand on Dave’s check while handing him a glass, which she promptly filled. “Like us, the Russians maintain une maison, as, I suspect, all the consulates do. Being Russian, of course, they probably have more than one… At any rate, Jacques and Count Karl rode out this afternoon to inspect one of their’s somewhere north of the city. The Count wants to see if perhaps it would be feasible in case of a siege.”

       Harps found himself personally offended: “Do they think so little of our Army that they expect a mob of motley Rebels to come charging across Chain Bridge and overrun our own capital?”

       Jacqueline sighed a smile and kissed her younger lover lightly on the lips. So unsophisticated. Except in l’amour…how exciting…how lucky…to have been the teacher of such an apt student…

      “We are Europeans, my darling David. We have seen all too much of war. Bonaparte burned Moscow; the Terror in Paris… These are simply precautions. And besides, the more une maison sans dangers the Russians have to inspect, the more time we have to enjoy this one… Ah, I see you’re becoming ready. So soon and so well…”

___________

Liaison Office

Pennsylvania Avenue & 21
^st
Street

October 19, 1833, 8:30 a.m.:

     “So you think Ignatieff may be hiding out at this ‘discreet residence’ somewhere north of the city, eh?”

       Harper was sitting at the big conference table, sipping tea and reporting his suspicions to Major Layne, the only one of his British contacts up-and-about yet this Saturday morning.

   He had left a purring Madame Jean-Claude at the side street maison and come directly here. Jacqueline said she expected the two C-Gs back in early afternoon, but would get word to The Deerhead if there was a change of plans that would leave her free again this evening…

    He had performed to her satisfaction---her own responses had made that clear---after their interesting interlude conversation, but his mind was elsewhere during those periods when she drifted off to sleep (or, perhaps, passed out).

    Caroline had told him during a second dinner at the new Grant’s Street Cafe---which featured Italian food, a first for Georgetown---that Count Ignatieff had disappeared again. Her father had confessed, however, that the Count was still in the Georgetown area. His demeanor had been plain: whatever Count Nicholas was planning shocked and appalled him.

    All in all, it had been a bad few days for Count Karl, his daughter sadly reported. Harper now began to tell Layne and the just-arrived Captain Bratton her indignant tale.

      According to Caroline, Renkowiitz, as the British officials undoubtedly already knew, had been called to both The Residency and the Liaison Office. He had returned from the former even paler than from the latter.

    Her father had endured a fierce harangue, he had told her more in dismay than anger, from the Governor-General. Van Buren read verbatim from the Richmond newspaper reports hinting at recognition and an alliance between the Double Eagle and the Rebels. A formally correct Duke of Wellington had later icily reminded the Count that as the King’s official representative in British America---and therefore responsible for foreign policy---he could justifiably ask for Renkowiitz’s credentials in light of these Richmond reports, coupled with the burgeoning Syrian crisis.

     “Perhaps even worse,” Caroline had said in a shocked whisper, “was an incident after my father left the Governor-General’s office. Before he could leave The Residency, he was accosted by Mr. Frank Blair and a tiny, aged man he described as uncannily resembling the G-G. They took him into a small office---just a closet, apparently, near the Portico---and threatened him!”

      David, who had listened to her tale in somber silence, weighing the possibilities, couldn’t resist a smile. “Dear Caroline,” he jumped at the opportunity to reach across the table and take her hand, “perhaps being somewhat upset, he misconstrued the conversation, overreacted to their words…”

      Caroline’s eyes blazed in a way that surprised and fascinated him. “No David, Papa
misconstrued
nothing. This old man---Papa said he was virtually identical to Mr. Van Buren though obviously older---reached up on his toes and roughly jabbed Papa in the chest with his walking stick. Accused my father of complicity in the murder of Mr. Jackson, which they claimed Count Ignatieff arranged! As well as another American, a woman.” Tears began to surface in her eyes. 

      Though he had never witnessed this brand of emotion from her before, David was sure the tears were legitimate. He now pressed her hand between both of his while thinking rapidly.
Of course! Lawrence didn’t necessarily strangle Joanne! Maybe
Ignatieff put him up to it before he dispatched him to Capitol Hill. Or, maybe, sent the idiot bartender on his way, then killed her, himself, so there’d be no trail leading back to him, Count Ignatieff!  And Bratton warned me he was
dangerous
! Sometimes these damn Limeys carry this understated business too far…

     “
I’m sure Mr. Blair and this old man didn’t speak for the G-G, dear Caroline…”

      “Oh David, I’m so worried. Wasn’t all. The room was very small, you see. That horrid old man kept forcing my father back until he fell against a desk. Then he grabbed my father by the lapels of his coat. Said he and Mr. Blair had been close friends of Jackson and took his death personally. Said they intend to track down Count Ignatieff, whom they had been informed is back in Georgetown. Said my father would never see Baltimore, much less the Baltic Sea, unless he told them where Nicholas is.”

      “And…”

      “My father claimed diplomatic immunity and threatened to file a formal complaint with the Liaison Office. That damnable old creature told him to ‘stick his diplo…’ well, sneered at him, so to say. Reminded him they were private citizens. That his diplomatic immunity didn’t impress them.”

    Despite the gravity of the situation---and Caroline’s emotional condition---Harper had all he could do to keep a solemn face. “And…”

     “Mr. Blair removed that awful old man’s grip on my father’s coat and escorted Papa to the door. Told my poor father that he’d be under
American
surveillance---not British---from now on. That he better deliver Nicholas to them, dead or alive.”

     The Captain and Major Layne kept exchanging glances as the report poured out. Harry reached across and shook Harper’s hand. “I congratulate you, Mr. Harper. Your brand of espionage is somewhat unique, but nevertheless productive. It may explain why our vigorous searches of Georgetown’s back alleys and places of lesser repute have failed to turn up evidence of this fiend…

     “So the Russians maintain at least one secret location here. Interesting. Apparently, Count Karl is using M. Jean-Claude as a sort of ‘cover.’ And now we know where the French residence of discretion is…

      “Well, please continue your unique work. While we continue to seek out this Russki.” Bratton glanced back at Major Layne as the trio rose from the table and walked toward the door.

     “Though I wouldn’t care to wager against Colonel Burr getting to him first.  All in all, the fiend might well consider surrendering to His Majesty’s Government.  His fate might be a bit more…
civilized
. Don’t you agree, hum?”

___________

Samples Townhouse

Connecticut Avenue

October 19, 1833, 10:45 p.m.:

      “So you passed the head of Worth’s Corps this afternoon?”  Candice and Thomas sat at a small table in her boudoir, drinking red wine and polishing off a cold buffet served earlier by grinning servants.

    Thomas’ dusty, sweaty uniform and muddied boots had disappeared for cleaning and he was now clad in a dressing robe after having enjoyed a warm bath. The Captain had arrived directly after reporting in at the War Department from another reconnaissance near Centerville some three hours earlier.

     Candice, meanwhile, was now dressed in a ridiculously revealing black lace nightgown. The equally ridiculously revealing dress she had momentarily worn to greet him had also vanished.

     “Yes darling, the column appeared on the Taneytown Road in front of Twin Peaks Thursday morning. I set out in my carriage early this morning and cleared it finally north of Rockville. Precious, where are they headed? Surely they’re not going to camp them here in the city?”

    Thomas smiled. Word of the Alexandria encampment was by now prevalent in Georgetown, but Candice had been at Twin Peaks for most of the past month.
Which still can’t account for the ferocity of her hunger
. As dirty, unshaven and, yes,
rank
as he had been, she had launched herself on him the moment he stepped through the door.
Got to find a new description: ‘insatiable’ just doesn’t do her justice
…