by James Devine
“Congratulations and Merry Christmas, Mr. Van Buren,” said Scott, reaching out a huge paw that engulfed Van Buren’s dainty right hand. Wilder winced in sympathy as a look of real pain shot briefly across ‘The Little Magician’s’ face. I truly believe the General has no conception of his own strength.
“Thank you and a Merry Christmas to you and the ever-lovely Mrs. Scott,” Van Buren softly---he never spoke much above a whisper---replied, extricating his now-reddened extremity from Scott’s powerful grasp. Turning to Wilder, he added: “And to you too, Lieutenant…?”
“Lt. Thomas Wilder is an aide to the Governor-General, as well as at the War Department. He’s from your state, as well.” General Scott smoothly followed up Van Buren’s inferred question. “Tonight, his job is to see that the diplomatic corps finds something in common with the Congress, besides the food and drink. Isn’t that so, Lieutenant?”
Wilder had worked under Scott long enough to know an order, even when it was not enunciated. With a smile, he made his excuses to the powerful and backed away. In doing so, he backed directly into David Harper, who managed to keep his glass of champagne from spilling onto Wilder’s formal uniform. “Well, Thomas, mingling with the powers-that-be. Looking to change the shape of your insignia?”
“Hello Harps. No, I was simply doing my job, working to keep this wonderful assemblage happy, when I ran into the General and his wife. The new Vice G-G came over to say hello to the Scotts, so I made my retreat. Right into you. Enjoying yourself?”
“I’d enjoy it a lot more if you could introduce me to that cute little blonde over there. Though I suppose she’s the property of the Count, if that’s the Russian C-G, as I think it is.”
“That’s his daughter, David, not his mistress.” Wilder was dry. “How should I introduce you? As the incoming Secretary of the Interior?”
“A ‘high Interior Department official’ will do. I’ll take it from there.”
Wilder snorted but was saved from immediate international matchmaking by a signal from General Scott. “You’re on your own. The General beckons. Maybe later, during the dancing. Just don’t cause a diplomatic incident, okay? I’ve got enough problems this week.”
The General was now standing apart from the crowd, near the window overlooking the Potomac. His wife had disappeared, while the new Vice G-G was now gingerly shaking his swollen hand with the just-arrived Chief Justice of the Dominion Court, the elderly John Marshall. Wilder made his apologies as he moved through the throng surrounding the G-G and his special guest and approached Scott.
“I’ve given your thesis more thought, Lieutenant. And I double-checked: only a pouch, not a passenger, went aboard the Irresistible before she sailed. So it is information they want in London and the plebiscite results are the only information of importance to have originated here in some time. Your thesis is as close to a rational reason as any I can come up with. When the government reopens on December 26th, I want you to determine when that ship will dock in England. Also, how long it would take to resupply and get back to Baltimore. We may be anticipating the news she’ll be carrying…or we could be dead wrong. In either case, let’s determine the timeframe for when we might expect to hear something.
“Also, use your Residency position to find out why Houston is here. The last time I heard about him, he was communing with the Cherokee.” I have my suspicions, thought Scott, and I hope to the Almighty I’m wrong about them. “Now then, where did Mrs. Scott get off to?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Wilder in a low tone that fell off even further as he glanced past Scott to the other side of the now emptying oval room. Led by the G-G, with Mrs. Polk on his arm, the guests were filing into the main dining room. That gave Wilder a full view of Lucille Latoure as she strolled into the mansion on the arm of Lt. Joseph Johnston. At virtually the same time, Mrs. Scott called from across the room. Standing with her, décolletage most prominently in view, was Maria’s good friend, Candice Samples.
Dead heat, thought Tom.
“Come, Lieutenant, let’s join the ladies, shall we?” General Scott, trying unsuccessfully to keep the amusement from his voice. “Unless you’d rather say Merry Christmas to ol’ Joe Johnston over there instead?” Scott was having trouble keeping his huge shoulders from shaking with laughter.
Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, does he know about this, too? “Yes sir, let’s join the ladies. I believe the lady with Mrs. Scott was at your dinner party last summer, was she not?” Two can play this game, General…
The General look down at his aide with merriment in his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Wilder. I believe she arrived---and left---in her carriage.”
Candice Samples had glimpsed the Lieutenant while his back was turned, talking with General Scott. I’ll have him under my Christmas tree, she thought. Either here or at Twin Peaks. The Samples plantation in Westminster, Md., was set in rolling countryside that afforded views of the Blue Ridge to the west and the flat Pennsylvania countryside to the north. From either of its two hills, the Potomac was visible on a clear day. Mrs. Samples’ late husband, Charles, had led the 3rd Maryland Infantry under Jackson in the Lower Louisiana Territory campaign and came home to marry a teen-aged Candice in 1810.
After a career as a planter and Maryland legislator, including one term as the state’s governor, he had vigorously supported his old commander during Jackson’s first, unsuccessful, try for the Governor-Generalship in ’24. That was the campaign in which the hypocritical---in Candice’s view---Henry Clay---a Southern gentleman who owned slaves himself but yet favored abolition!---had thrown his support to the insufferable---in Candice’s view---John Quincy Adams. That unspeakable pretentious Puritan! Candice’s husband was chosen by Jackson four years later to be his Secretary of War. But Charles, an indefatigable fox hunter, had fallen from his horse during a hunt soon after the campaign. He was dead by the time the other members of the hunting party had gotten him back to Twin Peaks, leaving Candice a very wealthy widow.
And a merry one. Colonel Samples had been 38 when he married the 18-year old Candice and thus had been 56 at his death. He had been more interested in hunting and politics than the bedroom, or, perhaps, Candice had simply exhausted him. At any rate, he had looked the other way while she engaged in a series of discreet encounters during the second decade of their marriage, including influential members of the government and, briefly, a Liaison Office official.
Although Candice could and did have her pick of the eligible bachelors her own age in and around the District, Lieutenant Wilder had caught her eye the previous summer at a party at the Scotts. His flashing blue eyes, blond hair and quick wit had aroused her interest, as had the promise a of hard young Army body under the blue-grey summer uniform. She had offered a ride home, upon hearing him tell another guest that he had walked from his hotel. They had barely made it back to her townhouse…for her driver knew without being told where to go…with their clothes intact. Once indoors, that had immediately changed. Thomas may have graduated from West Point, but his real education began that night, she thought now with satisfaction and excitement as the Lieutenant accompanied his boss across the room.
Maria Scot knew the look in her friend’s eye and feigned shock. “Candice, you’re not…still…?” She giggled softly. “He’s just a boy…the General thinks he has promise…”
“Winfield isn’t the only one who feels that way, Maria. Then, the General has his hopes and uses for Thomas…and I have mine.
“Merry Christmas, Winfield. And you, too, Lieutenant.”
The General, beaming broadly at the two ladies, took Candice’s hand and kissed it softly. “Merry Christmas to you, Candice. You remember my aide, Lieutenant Wilder?”
Turning to Thomas, who hoped his cheeks were not as red as he feared, Scott was equally sarcastically formal. “Mrs. Candice Samples. You may recall Mrs. Samples from Mrs. Scott’s dinner party last summer…”
“Certainly I do, General. It’s good to see you again Cand…Mrs. Samples. And Merry Christmas.”
Thomas wondered how long this charade might go on.
Scott, however, had other ideas. Turning to his wife, he said: “Maria, I don’t want the G-G to think we’re boycotting his party. And there are some people here tonight that I’ve yet to greet. Lieutenant, if you’ll escort Mrs. Samples in, before you get back to your other duties assisting General Jackson…”
Candice took the Lieutenant’s arm as they crossed into the main room, where the guests were helping themselves to the lavish buffet set up along one long wall. Wilder could see the G-G now talking with an elderly man dressed in the antiquated eighteenth century style, with Houston and the Polks close by. He could also see Lucille Latoure making her way around the room on the arm of his West Point classmate, that damn Joe Johnston.
“We haven’t seen enough of each other this fall, Thomas. It’s my fault, as I’ve been staying home at Twin Peaks too much of the time.”
I can see plenty of you now, Thomas thought. I swear, those things look bigger every time I see them. “Candice, as the General says, duty calls. I’ll deposit you with the Scotts. When the party’s over, however, I’m free ‘till day after Christmas…”
“Not any more you’re not. We can decide tomorrow whether to stay here in Georgetown or go back to Twin Peaks. I’ll make my rounds. I do want to wish Andy a Merry Christmas; he does look poorly.
“But we’ll leave together. I have my carriage…”
__________
M. Jean-Claude, or, rather, his beautiful wife, Jacqueline, was at the center of an international circle that included Sir John Burrell of the Liaison Office and the Russian CG. Count Renkowiitz’s daughter was not in sight. “I am so glad you gentlemen have agreed to put politics aside and come to our townhouse for Christmas,” she was saying in a sonorous, upper-class French. “Even in frontier outposts, we must try to bring some culture and civilization. Though in this place…”
Wilder bit his lip to keep from smiling as he walked past the diplomats on his way to General Jackson. You’d be amazed, my dear Jacqueline, to discover how many British Americans would agree with you…
The G-G was still talking to the tall, sloop-shouldered old man outfitted in the style at least 20 years out-of-date. At first glance, the ancient looked like someone dressed up to impersonate George Washington. But then Thomas overheard Congressman Polk’s comment to the man identified by the Scotts as Sam Houston.
“Those old Virginians stuck together politically of course. That’s why they ruled us for more than a quarter century,” Polk was saying. “That doesn’t mean they particularly liked each other, however. Take Monroe, here. Madison told me last year that Washington detested him personally. And that the feeling was mutual. Now look at him. He’s Washington’s spitting image!”
Thus did Wilder discover that the old man was former Governor-General James Monroe.
___________
Wilder always thought of Jackson as a volcano minutes away from eruption.
Tonight, Vesuvius seems calm. With enough Tennesseans around him, he usually is. Between the Polks and this man Houston---must find out why General Scott’s eyes and ears pricked up at the recognition of him---the G-G’s a good bet to weather the reception without adding any fodder for the various diplomatic pouches. Unless he signals me, I’ll let him be.
___________
Trying to keep from making eye contact with Lucille, who was now dazzling “The Little Magician” with her singular smile while holding tightly to that SOB Joe’s arm, the Lieutenant was suddenly and uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t seen Harps in sometime. Nor was the Russian girl visible in the milling groups that continued to eat, drink and dance as if Lent, rather than Christmas, was just hours away. Not that many of the British Americans assembled in The Residency tonight were Catholic…though Lucille is or was one…but Wilder was still surprised at how many of the ancient traditions of his religion were still practiced in varying forms by the numerous Protestant sects which dominated the USBA.
Harper and the Renkowiitz girl had apparently made contact after all. Thomas could now see them on the dance floor over by the bar in the far corner of the room. I guess the girl is fluent in English, because I know Harps doesn’t know any Russian, he thought, grinning. I do recall him bragging that he knew enough French, though, “to make things exciting.” Things could get exciting, damn it all, if Harps holds her any tighter and the Count sees them. I’d better get over there...before a squad of Cossacks shows up to drag him away.
But the music was ending and Harper was reluctantly unhanding the Countess while the Lieutenant made his way across the room. If Maria Scott looked doll-like next to her imposing husband, Caroline Renkowiitz looked doll-like next to any man. Even with her bright blond hair made up and in a formal gown and jewels---how wealthy is the Count? Thomas thought curiously---the girl was so slender as to have virtually no curves at all. Yet David has the look of a man who has struck gold…
“Well, Lieutenant Wilder, have you met the Countess Caroline Renkowiitz yet? Countess, the Lieutenant is the real brains of the War Department—when he’s not on duty here advising our Governor-General.”
Wilder shook his head in disgust. “Don’t believe anything this ‘gentleman’ tells you, Countess. I’m just an errand boy for the two Generals.”
The Countess smiled but it was another young---American---female voice that answered him.
“Now Lieutenant, don’t mislead our visitor. We don’t want the diplomatic corps to think General Jackson invites just any old poor white trash to The Residency, now do we?”
Thomas didn’t need to turn around to know Lucille had joined the group, Joe Johnston firmly in tow. A grinning Joe, impeccable in his finely-cut uniform, stuck out his hand. “Merry Christmas, Tom. You remember Lucille Latoure, don’t you?” In a low cut gown that matched her auburn hair, Lucille looked the most desirable…and frustrating…woman on earth to the War Department aide.
Tom gritted his teeth. “Of course I do, Joe. Good evening, Lucille. A pleasure to see you again. It’s been a while, since…”
“Why since the Lee baby’s Baptism, I believe. Darlin’ little Custis. Lieutenant Johnston was at Arlington House that day, too. But enough of that! Forgive Tom’s manners, for not introducing us,” she said brightly, turning to Caroline. “I’m Lucille Latoure of Cranford Plantation and this is Lt. Joe Johnston of the 4th Artillery. You must be Countess Caroline, of the Russian Consulate. And, Joe, this is Mr. Harper, of the…what Department was that again?”
“Interior,” said Thomas grimly. “David is a high Interior Department official,” he added, looking at the Countess.
“Glad to meet you, Lieutenant,” said Harps, warily reaching out his hand to Johnston, who shook it enthusiastically.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Harper. I believe I’ve seen you in the building the few times I’ve been there.” Johnston was stationed at the 4th’s headquarters just outside Georgetown. “It is also a pleasure to meet you, Countess Caroline.”
That the Countess could follow the banter is impressive enough, thought Thomas, but she actually seems to have picked up on the undercurrents. There may be more here than it first looks. Ol’ Harps may have his hands full…
“Well, Thomas, will we see you tomorrow evening at Arlington House? Robert is due home in the afternoon and Mary has invited us for a late Christmas Eve supper.” Lucille smiled sweetly and innocently.
That does it, thought Thomas. Candice Samples it is for the holiday. I’m not going to ruin my Christmas watching Lucille prance around with my ‘old friend’ Joe.
“Unfortunately not, Lucille, though I was looking forward to it. General Scott has other plans for me.” Well, ‘Old Fuss and Feathers’ did push Candice on me tonight. “I hope to see Robert before he goes back to Fortress Monroe, though.”
“Oh my, that’s too bad, Tom. I was so looking forward to us all being together.”
Yeah, right, Wilder thought. The two-and-one-half happy couples. You know something, Lucille?
I was born at night. Only, not last night….
“Well, I’d love to spend the remainder of the evening with the four of you, but duty once again calls. Have a Merry Christmas, everyone.” He stared quickly at Lucille and moved back into the crowd. Her usual amused smirk was back in place.
Candice Samples had a smirk of a different sort on her face as she watched her prey work the room in what she considered his ‘official’ capacity. Secure in her own sexual allure, she was unaware of Thomas’ infatuation with and frustration over the Latoure girl; who, anyway, seemed quite content with her own Lieutenant. I’ll bet yours gets more sleep than mine will tonight, sweetie…In fact, your Lieutenant will get more sleep tonight than Thomas will get right through Christmas…
I wish I could order up my carriage right now….
CHAPTER SIX
St. Petersburg, Russia
December 23, 1832:
Nicholas I, Czar of All the Russias, looked out the window of the opulent Winter Palace conference room. Last night’s snow was blindingly bright as the sun’s rays bounced off to light up the huge square in front of the Palace. The onion turrents of the nearby churches and cathedrals also shone brilliantly in the clear, cold morning’s light. I wonder what the long-dead Czar Peter would say if he could see how his city has grown, he thought idly: the wide, splendid boulevards, the mansions, the museums.
I believe I do know what he’d say: ‘Now build an empire to match its capital!’ Well, that’s what we are sworn to do. Day by day, year by year until Mother Russia is invincible and unchallengeable! The decisions made at this conference, once carried out, are simply more small steps down the road toward that inevitable day.
Nicholas was still deep in thought as his Foreign Minister, Count Karl Nesselrode, hurried into the room, carrying the agenda for the third and final day of the planning conference. Like the high-level meeting scheduled for early next month in London, this conference had been months in the planning. Unlike the London meeting, this conference was an annual affair.
