by James Devine
“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.
___________
Cranford Plantation, Virginia
January 18, 1833:
If there is anything a woman, especially a proud beauty like Lucille Latoure, can not stand, it is to be ignored. Which is precisely what Lieutenant Wilder, by accident of circumstance more than by design---for he did not have a good enough understanding of the female psyche to have hatched so effective a strategy---had managed. His ignoring of Miss Latoure was not studied, but a combination of overwork and ignorance.
Lucille had been surprised when the Lieutenant, at the conclusion of the G-G’s Christmas reception, had simply strode by as she and Joe said their good nights to the Scotts atop the Main Portico. Thomas saluted the General and continued purposefully down the steps toward a waiting carriage. The Scotts had exchanged strange mirthful looks but had not commented as the carriage rolled away the moment Thomas disappeared inside.
A colored Residency usher had meanwhile hurried outside and spoken to the head doorman. “The Governor-General is too late, I’m afraid,” the doorman replied, pointing to the departing carriage. “I believe Mrs. Samples’ carriage has already left.”
The exchange, overheard by all on the Portico, including Lucille, Joe and the Scotts, had rendered her speechless and mortified. A mortification that was not alleviated---quite the contrary---by words the General spoke to her in a quiet voice only she and Mrs. Scott could hear while Joe went down the steps to see about their own carriage. “Miss Latoure, we have an old saying in the Army: ‘The battle is most often won by he who gets there firstest with the mostest.’ I commend that adege to you… Now, I see our carriage has finally appeared. Good night, my dear.”
___________
Lucille’s mortification had deepened the following evening when Lieutenant Johnston escorted her to Arlington House. There she discovered that Thomas, true to his word, would not be joining them. He had already come and gone.
“Poor Tom looks exhausted,” Mary Lee said, accepting a glass of Madeira from a house servant. “He could only stay an hour. Said he had to get right back to Georgetown. The poor dear, working so hard, even on Christmas Eve! And he said he won’t be able to leave Georgetown to come to Christmas dinner tomorrow, either. Trying to serve two masters like General Scott and the Governor-General is wearing him out.”
Joe nearly spit his mouthful of Port across the room. Even the ‘Marble Monument,’ as Robert Lee had been nicknamed by his classmates, allowed himself a somewhat embarrassed smile.
“Yes, my dear, Thomas did mention that General Scott has had him searching for some information which may or may not exist. Perhaps all that research is the culprit.” He flashed a warning glance at his old friend Joe, who looked ready to keel over in laughter.
“Yes,” said Joe. “That must be it. It’s all that nighttime research he’s been doing.”
Lucille’s mortification turned to outrage. How dare he! And with that…that...over-aged floozy!
Lucille Latoure was used to having her cake…and eating it, too. In this case, she had wanted Tom to come to the Custis mansion at Arlington for Christmas Eve, even though she had also invited Joe. But Lieutenant Johnston was to be away on official duty and thus unavailable for the New Year’s Eve ball she and her younger sister, Jaine, were planning for Cranford Plantation. All the leaders of Northern Virginia society, including the Lees, were coming. Lucille had expected Thomas dutifully---and gratefully---to be her escort.
She had not gotten around to so informing Tom of his good fortune until the afternoon of December 28th, however, when she dispatched a servant to Georgetown. The servant, Sebastian, freed momentarily from direction, had dallied on the way and had not arrived at the Latoure townhouse until after dark, too late to deliver Lucille’s note that evening. The next morning, he had been unable to locate Lieutenant Wilder at either the War Department or The Residency. General Scott’s secretary had sent back a private note informing Lucille that the Lieutenant had left on leave that noon and would not return until after the first of the year.
Lucille, now faced without an escort for her own ball, had rushed the several miles to Arlington House to prevail on Robert to locate Tom. Robert had uncomplainingly ridden into Georgetown on the 30th and returned to pen Lucille a short note she received late that evening. Thomas, Robert had blandly noted, was required to notify the War Department of his anticipated whereabouts even when on leave. From December 29th through January 1st, he was scheduled to be visiting a plantation in Carroll County, Md., returning to Georgetown late on New Year’s Day.
There weren’t many plantations the size of Cranford in the Virginia and Maryland countryside that surrounded the District of Columbia. The Custis plantation, Arlington House, was one. The only one of such dimensions in all of Western Maryland, including Carroll County, Lucille knew, was Twin Peaks, home of that over-aged blond bitch, Candice Samples. How dare Thomas do this to her! She’d never speak to him again!
Now, almost three weeks later, it appeared her vow had validity. Thomas had made no attempt to contact her. And Joe had gone off somewhere with the 4th!
Lucille had been invited by Mrs. Scott to dine with her and other Georgetown ladies on the 24th. She resolved to drive in to the family townhouse in Georgetown the day before and let Thomas know she would not tolerate such incivility and insensitivity…Candice Samples! How dare he!
___________
Sebastian hadn’t, in fact, dawdled on the way to deliver Lucille’s New Year’s Eve invitation to Tom. Being the butler and major domo at as large a plantation as Cranford called for a degree of intelligence higher than most Southerners would acknowledge in any slave…or other African.
The 40-ish Sebastian had been around a long time and had kept his eyes and ears open while keeping his mouth shut. At least around the Latoures. He had surreptitiously learned to read and write; elementary but enough to make a difference. And he had made himself invaluable in the years since the Massa, Mr. Latoure, had died.
Cranford ran remarkably well. Mrs. Latoure, with help from a now-elderly overseer, Clement Labine, who had trained under, and had been a drinking companion of, her husband, followed the operational system Mr. Latoure had devised. That; the fact that the plantation lay so close to Georgetown and the knowledge among the slaves that the family-owned Alexandria Import-Export business---with its full complement of white male workers---was nearby tended to keep things peaceful. As did Labine’s---and Mrs. Latoure’s--- record of considerate care of the “people.”
And, of course, the example of what had happened to Nat Turner and his followers.
So Cranford was ripe for the selective exploitation Sebastian had been practicing for some years: the smuggling of occasional escaped slaves from Southern Virginia and the Carolinas, utilizing the plantation’s slave quarters as a safe house.
Those in the know called the system “Exodus”. Even those didn’t know much: Sebastian only knew that the refugee---sometimes plural, though it was considered almost suicidal to attempt to move multiples---would show up with only a day or two’s notice. He would hide the escapees, usually younger men, women and an occasional child between eight and 12, until “Moses” could be contacted. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the refugees would be on their way.
The Latoure “people” of course were aware of what was going on. More than one Cranford malcontent had disappeared, with Sebastian’s blessing, into the system, but most were content to hide and feed the escapees until their departure. Cranford people knew there were always three meals and a place to sleep, among their own. Who knew exactly what the outside world was like? Sebastian was positive Old Man Labine had no idea what was happening behind his back. Nor did, he believed, the Latoure girls. The Mistress, though, was a different matter: there had been times when he had been sure she was well aware, even on the occasions when one of her own slaves vanished…
So Sebastian had taken advantage of his relative “freedom” to detour that day to the “Church of Jesus Christ, Liberator,” where “Moses” presided as minister, Georgetown Exodus station chief and unofficial but acknowledged leader of the capitol’s small population of black freemen and women.
“So, the head house nigger makes an appearance. Whaz a matta: the white folk too cold to party tonight?” Moses grinned down from his towering 6-foot-7 height. Sebastian shrugged off the insult. He and Moses had that kind of relationship: taunting each other was simply a sign of mutual respect. Certainly, few in Georgetown’s freemen's community would ever have dared his rebuttal: “Shut up, you big dumb ape, or I’ll see to it you’re sold to a rice planter from Charleston…or, better yet, a merchant ship captain…”
Moses’ laugh rumbled from deep in his enormous chest. “Charleston? No thanks, old man. Ben dere. Ain’t planning on goin’ back…”
The minister’s expression grew quickly somber. “I hope this is a social visit. Don’t want to risk all we’ve built up, just ‘cause some Carolina nigger decided to escape during the dead of winter…”
Sebastian smiled. “Just come socializin’. Wanna to wish the biggest, dumbest freeman in Georgetown a Happy New Year. Speaking of which, you got brandy? It’s damn cold and damp out there.”
Moses smiled and turned toward a cabinet. A moment later a bottle and two glasses had all appeared in his ham-like hand. “Sure do, old friend. Let’s us toast the New Year. And another successful year for Exodus…”
___________
London, England
Evening of January 9, 1833:
Despite her love of all things English, Princess Dorothea remained a Russian patriot. As such, she was always mindful of the need for intelligence that could be valuable to the Czar. She had first begun picking up rumblings of a major British social initiative early in the fall, even before her husband had departed for St. Petersburg. It was the P.M. himself who let slip during a private moment that abolition was being considered. She thus knew about the scheduled secret meeting to review the plebiscite returns in time to write to her husband in early December. By January 5, she had known that the Duke of Wellington would soon depart for Georgetown to inform the Dominion government that emancipation was coming. And she knew that the Grey Government feared armed defiance from the slave power in the southeast.
All this she kept in mind as she awaited Count Ignatieff in the ornate main dinning room of the Embassy. A long, low table dominated the room, with a massive chandelier containing hundreds of candles, less than half now lit, hanging directly over the center of the table. The Princess stood by a roaring fireplace to the left of the room, which featured priceless paintings and tapestries, many brought from St. Petersburg over the years, but others of English design.
The Princess wore an off-the-shoulders brown gown which, co
mplimented by an elaborate necklace, emphasized the creaminess of her flawless skin.
She had not so dressed for Ignatieff’s benefit. Dorothea despised him as nothing more than a sanctioned assassin with high level connections whose intelligence credentials were based on torture rather than deduction. In fact, if not for the tragic death of Alexander, which had lifted his brother Nicholas to the throne, Ignatieff, by chance a childhood playmate of the new Czar, might never have risen so far in the intelligence hierarchy.
No, a quick, quiet dinner, attended by multiple servants, to share political information…and she would be off---alone---into the London society she helped rule.
CHAPTER EIGHT
London, England
Evening of January 9, 1833:
The Count was announced into the room and strode over to her, immaculate in a bemedaled white tunic over jet black pants stuffed into brilliantly-shined high black military boots. Although no weapons were visible, the Princess knew a derringer and a knife were somewhere hidden in his uniform.
And, at close inspection, it was actually true: under his mane of rich black hair, he had one brilliant blue eye—and one half blue/half brown. He looked altogether, she thought with an involuntary shiver of fear, like a wolf.
The Count caught the shiver but mistook it for one of anticipated pleasure as he took her hand and kissed it lightly. She is as beautiful as ever, he thought, and tonight she will be mine. “It is a pleasure to be with you again, my dear Princess Dorothea,” he said, continuing to hold her hand in his. “And in a setting less…formal shall we say…than the receptions of the past.”
