The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (9 page)

    “Don’t ever again suggest, even in jest, that I consider selling or trading off so much as a square inch of the realm,” he said, slowly and icily.

    “My Alaska province is our foothold in North America. We have already begun to expand down the eastern Pacific Coast. Our settlement of Fort Ross has put both the British and Mexicans on notice:  I will not acknowledge any God-given right of the British to hold North America. And the Mexicans must realize that they can not stop us from advancing further into their California province! We expand, not retreat! Is that perfectly clear? I will require a plan from you within 30 days as to how we can build up our North American presence. Never again let me hear any of you speak of relinquishing Russian territory…”
     The shaken War Minister was vigorously shaking his head in agreement. Apparently, Ignatieff realized, the Prince had suggested that the seemingly-worthless Alaskan tundra---just an extension of Siberia, in Ignatieff’s view---be sold or otherwise offered to the British in exchange for a hands-off policy as things developed in the Turkish adventure.
      “…Well gentlemen, if my policy is now completely clear to each of you, is there anything left on the agenda?”
      Count Nesselrode, anxious to change the subject, brought up the Princess Lieven’s news from London.
      Turning to his ambassador, the Czar said: “Yes Prince Khristofor, as I understand it, your lovely wife is reporting some interesting developments within the British Empire. Expand on the news, please.”
        “Your Majesty, my wife has written me that Lord Grey’s government has secretly continued with the plans first apparently discussed under the previous Tory government to abolish slavery throughout the British Empire.”
       “At what level of the British government did this secret emerge, my dear Prince?” asked the Czar. “How common is the knowledge of this proposed action?”
       “My wife informs me that it comes from the very highest levels of the government and is a tightly-held secret, or was when she dispatched her letter.”
        “Begging Your Majesty’s pardon,” broke in Count Sergey Uvarov. Officially the newly-appointed Education Minister, Count Uvarov was one of the pillars of Nicholas’ reactionary regime.  As such, he was one of the very few who could successfully survive interrupting an Imperial conversation.   “I fail to see how this, err, rumor meets the criteria as a discussion point on today’s agenda.”
         “I’m not certain either, Sergey. But I am certain the Prince…and others…will explain. Proceed, Prince Lieven.”
       “Yes, Majesty. The British, you may be vaguely aware, abolished the African slave trade over 25 years ago. However, slavery has continued to flourish in substantial portions of their Empire, notably, the West Indies and the Southern portion of British America. The plan seems to be one of financial compensation to the slaveholders, paid out over a period of years.”
        “To reiterate Count Uvarov’s question, why would this be of interest to Russia?” asked the Czar, a strange smile on his face.
        The Foreign Minister broke in. “If I may, your Majesty. I believe Count Ignatieff has an interesting explanation.”
      “Well Nicholas. You’ve been quiet all morning. Have you been considering this issue, too?”
        “Yes, Your Majesty, I have.” Ignatieff leaned forward in his chair. “I, too, have received information from London, though not from the level at which the Princess so ably operates.” He nodded formally to Prince Lieven, though the malice was evident in his eyes.
      The Prince flushed at the obvious implication of Ignatieff’s remark. Though formerly a general who had fought successfully against Napoleon, he was now 57 years old and soft from years of diplomatic work. He would be no match for the younger, stronger and steadier Count in a duel.
But I will find a way to strike back, Ignatieff. You are not as invulnerable as you think, you malicious bastard
.
    “My information confirms,” Ignatieff was saying, “that a proposal to abolish slavery  will be presented to their Parliament this spring. The concern seems to center on the reaction in British America.” The Count then proceeded with a briefing that, while not as detailed or as lucid as the one Bratton was to give in London two weeks later, nonetheless educated the Russian leadership to the potential explosiveness of the abolition issue.
         “So, it appears the Lion may be in for some internal strife,” said the Czar, the smile playing at his lips, at the conclusion of Ignatieff’s report. “I don’t suppose you have any thoughts on what our position should be if this most unfortunate strife should come to pass?”
           “Your Majesty, I have given this matter serious consideration. I have some ideas on how advantage can be taken, if and when the situation ignites.”
     Before a hard-faced group whose glares gradually softened as the potential for Imperial gains became more enticing, Count Ignatieff painted a picture of Russian advancement to the very gates of India.
         “Now all of this, of course, is mere daydreaming if the potential crisis is settled peacefully. But there may be an opportunity here, if British America erupts in violence. If we can edge that crisis toward violence, I consider it our holy duty to do so.”
         “‘Holy’ duty, I question, Nicholas,” said the Czar, smiling now broadly. “’Imperial duty,’ definitely. How do you suggest my government should proceed?”
         “Your Majesty, I propose that I travel to London at once, in order to ascertain on the spot if abolition will be ordered; and how the Grey government thinks the issue will be received in British America. If abolition has been submitted to Parliament, and if the government is still worried about the reaction, I shall then proceed to British America, to make contact with any leaders of a rebellion, or potential one. In order to offer them your Majesty’s friendship and assistance, financially and perhaps otherwise.”
           The Czar of All the Russias was on his feet. “Count Ignatieff, you are ordered to proceed to London immediately, there to determine what course of action is in the best interests of my country. You will work closely with Princess Lieven, of course, as well as with the Prince, once he returns to England.”
         Ignatieff nodded with satisfaction at the Czar’s order.
Yes, I’ve always had a craving to ‘work closely’ with the Princess…       
          “Gentlemen,” said the Czar with evident relief and a hint of warning, “unless there is further comment or other issues left to be discussed, I declare this conference closed.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

London, England
January 18, 1833:
       It had taken the better part of two weeks of hard-driving, winter travel but Ignatieff had arrived in London two nights ago. He had spent yesterday and most of today in discussions with his own agents, reviewing reports, mostly fragmentary, from their sources within the British government. Information sometimes purchased; sometimes obtained by blackmail or the threat of force. The conclusion: the emancipation bill would be introduced into Parliament shortly; certainly before Easter.
       Ignatieff was a hard man and was hardly ever taken back, but the cost staggered him: the British were willing to spend up to 50-million pounds sterling over seven years to underwrite the plan.
For that price, we could bribe every khan in Central
Asia into
selling us his kingdom!
We could be overlooking India from the Afghan passes in two years…
        More importantly, he had also ascertained that the Grey government sensed possible trouble in the British American South as a result of the bill, which apparently would face no great opposition in Parliament. What the government planned to do to alleviate such trouble was more difficult to pin down, but a high-level meeting had been held earlier in the month, apparently concerning British American reaction to the emancipation issue. His agents were still unclear as to what decisions, if any, had been made; in fact, they were still attempting to find out exactly who had attended.
    Ignatieff hated to proceed into any meeting without holding the upper intelligence hand. Physical toughness, skill with weaponry and cold bloodedness: he prided himself on possessing all three. So, however, did many others, including those he had, literally, stepped on and over during his rise in the secret intelligence apparatus. It was the ability to obtain and marshal information that set him apart, as well as the will to ruthlessly act on the conclusions the intelligence suggested. That’s what troubled him about tonight’s private dinner meeting with the Princess Lieven:
does she know more than my sources
can tell
me about
what happened at that high level meeting? And what actions, if any,
emanated from it?
      Still a breathtaking beauty, though in her late 40s, Princess Dorothea had utilized her position as wife of the longtime Russian ambassador to become a leader of London society. She had, in turn, utilized her society position to gather political information that established her as a political and diplomatic force in her own right.
       Ignatieff had met the Princess during previous visits to London, but had never shared more than a few meaningless words with her. Now he was on fire to be alone with the legendary Dorothea, but unexpectedly unsure as to how to proceed, at least on a professional plane. (On the personal level, the Count was quite sure of himself. Thoroughly misogynistic to an extent astounding even for a Russian nobleman, he had no doubt that the evening would end in her bedroom. He considered the Princess to be little more sexually exclusive than the servant girl he had ravaged the preceding night.) Never before had he scheduled a meeting with a female on a professional level. And a meeting at which, remarkably, she might have the upper hand when it came to information.

___________

Somewhere in the MidAtlantic Ocean
January 18, 1833:
    HMS
Irresistible
had fought its way through a second blizzard and had emerged into bright, if freezing, morning sunshine when Harry Bratton cautiously made his way out of his cabin and onto the main deck.
There is a reason Brattons have always avoided
the Senior Service: we can get bloody well seasick in the middle of a pond
.

   The Captain---the Duke of Wellington had informed Harry upon sailing that he was back on full pay for the duration of this crisis---had begun suffering before England was out of eyesight. He had remained seasick through most of the nine days they had been at sea. The Duke, whose previous long-distance seagoing had been limited to an Indiaman’s lumbering three-month voyages to and from the subcontinent, hugging the European, African and Asian coastlines, had also been seasick, though more sporadically.
Captain
Sir Stephen Richards, on the other hand, must have a cast iron stomach,
Bratton thought.        
The fellow acts like this hellish punishment—up-and-down, back-and-forth, winds howling and snow coming down interminably—is a bloody Sunday afternoon pleasure cruise down the Thames. Well, Sir Stephen estimates 13 more days till we see Baltimore harbor. Dear God, give us a few days of calm weather…
    “Well Captain, you look like you may, perhaps, survive. I’ve had my doubts...” The Duke was also up-and-about, his distinctive hook nose eagerly breathing in the rich sea air. “If you feel up to it, I wish to go over certain points I am somewhat unclear on.” Captain Bratton shook his head affirmatively, if gingerly. “Certainly, Your Grace. Perhaps if we go below so I can refer to my notes…”
     “Unnecessary, Captain.  Just brief me on the backgrounds of these gentlemen we’ll be meeting in Georgetown. You know them, or of them, eh?”
      Bratton nodded again. “Yes Your Grace. I am familiar with almost all the British American leaders, by reputation if not personally.”
     “Good. Now then: Jackson, of course, I am familiar with. Stubborn, high strung. What the Americans call Scotch-Irish. Which, in my private opinion, is about the worst epitaph any man could be labeled, but nonetheless… Jackson is a fighter; when he forms an opinion, he won’t change it, no matter what evidence to the contrary. There’ll be one question when I meet with the General: which is greater, his allegiance to the Colonial Compact or his allegiance to the institution of slavery? If it is the former, our task in British America, though still crucial, will be easier. If it is the latter, well, in that case our problems have just begun…
     “Now, what do you know about this man Van Buren, with whom I may have to replace Jackson?”
      Bratton was still amazed at the casualness with which the Duke and the Committee members referred to the most controversial---though never as yet utilized---defined power of the Colonial Compact. He paused to gather his thoughts before beginning:
      “Martin Van Buren is a master of the American political craft; in fact, his nickname is ‘The Little Magician’ for the ease by which he gets things done. Van Buren is from New York State and became involved in that state’s political affairs after joining a prestigious New York City law firm right after the turn of the century. He rose through the state legislature and was elected to the USBA Senate about 12 or 13 years ago. By the ’28 plebiscite, he was a key Jackson supporter and manager and is credited with winning the vote for Jackson by brilliant organization of what the Americans call the ‘grassroots,’ meaning the local level. He himself was elected governor of New York that year and resigned from the Senate. After Jackson’s inauguration, he was appointed Secretary of the Interior, the most influential department in the Cabinet. When Jackson broke with his Vice Governor-General, a man named Calhoun, over the question of ‘nullification,’ that is, a state’s right to nullify a Dominion law, Van Buren was the obvious candidate to succeed Calhoun.”
      “Sounds altogether a slippery eel,” the Duke observed with obvious distaste. “We’ve too many of his sort in Parliament.”
      “Well, Sir, the ‘Little Magician’ does seem to always pick the winning side, though I believe he has a bit to do with making it the winner. However, there is something else you should know that may or may not come in handy: Van Buren is rumored to be the illegitimate son of one Aaron Burr. Does that name ring a bell with Your Grace?”
       The Duke frowned. “No, I’m not sure it does. Now why should it?”
        “Well, Sir, Aaron Burr was once Vice G-G himself. He served under Jefferson. Late in his term, I believe in ’04, the Vice G-G became engaged in an affair of honor with Alexander Hamilton…”
       “Yes, that’s why the name registered, if vaguely. Hamilton was a sort of financial genius who served under Franklin and Washington, I believe.”
    “Yes Sir. Hamilton is credited with devising the USBA financial system. A brilliant financier but a truly terrible politician. His fight with Mr. Quincy Adams’ father, the third G-G, allowed the Jefferson-Burr ticket to win the 1800 plebiscite. In any case, Burr killed Hamilton in a duel, after which Jefferson dropped Burr. Burr had also somehow allowed his own political base in New York to erode during his term as Vice G-G.
      “So he went west, presumably to start over again as a representative from Kentucky or Tennessee. Jefferson, however, had him arrested on treason charges. Claimed he was attempting to set up his own country in the West. This, at the time the battle over the Louisiana Territory with the French was heating up. Burr was eventually acquitted in a trial, but his political career was ruined.”
       “An interesting story, Captain, but of what relevance to our mission?”
       “Well Sir, Burr is still alive, practicing law in New York City, at last report…”
        “So?”
         “Sir Arthur, though Burr was the only one brought to trial, there were charges at the time that a certain militia general in Tennessee was his chief supporter. One Andrew Jackson…”
        Wellington shot the Captain a look of impressed surprise.
       “Also, Sir, among Burr’s defense lawyers was a young man named Henry Clay…”
       “Captain, you will ascertain the whereabouts of this Mr. Burr as soon as we land. I see where he might be useful…
        “Now, what do you know about this Calhoun chap? He sounds like a real fire-eater…but wait till we go below. It’s nearing noon. I’ve my appetite back. How about you? You appear to have lost at least a stone…”
       Thus did the trip pass for Captain Bratton, alternating between discussions with the Duke and bouts of paralyzing sea sickness.