by James Devine
We’ll be lucky not to all catch pneumonia at this rate. Then, come May, we’ll be frying again. Damn Hamilton for agreeing to the old Virginians’ proposal to move the capitol here from Philadelphia in exchange for their support of his Dominion fiscal reform plan. And damn those wily old Virginians, yes, including Washington, who made a collective financial killing selling this godforsaken swamp to the Dominion…
And I still can’t find out why Sam Houston was here…or where he’s vanished to since. Wilder tells me he was a house guest of Jackson’s right up until the Lieutenant left on leave a few days before New Year’s. When Wilder went back to The Residency on January 2nd, Houston was gone, as mysteriously as he had suddenly appeared.
Why do I think this has something to do with Texas? Because Houston burned his bridges, by all accounts, in Tennessee, after resigning the Governorship and leaving his new bride to head off into the wilderness with the Cherokee. Then he came back here last April and got into a disgraceful brawl with Congressman Stanbery of Ohio. What was more disgraceful was that Congress put him on trial for whacking Stanbery with a hickory cane; but didn’t censure Stanbery for firing a pistol at Houston. A pistol that fortunately---for Houston---misfired. Then he left Georgetown and wasn’t heard from till the reception.
But if he’s reconciled with Jackson---the G-G was aghast when Houston resigned the Governorship---I have a bad feeling that something is afoot. And, dammit, that something has to do with Texas. I can read between the lines of a political speech as well as anyone. And I know Jackson. The G-G wouldn’t have gone out on a limb suggesting the Empire acquire Texas unless he had specific goals in mind. While I may not be a politician, I can count heads. And the count in Congress suggests the slave power is in trouble. Jackson may have reconciled with Houston in order to begin the process of bringing Texas and the rest of the Southwest into the USBA. As slave states.
I have Zach Taylor in command at New Orleans. Zach is rather informal, but he’s a good soldier. I think I’ll alert him to be on the lookout for Houston along the Texas-Louisiana border. We can’t stop him from entering Texas, but we can make some contingency plans in case he does.
Reaching a huge paw out to grab his coffee mug, Scott called for his secretary, feeling better by the minute. But then he remembered that damned Irresistible. Well, he thought, Wilder says the earliest she could return to Baltimore is the end of the month. We’ll just have to wait to see if anything develops. He slammed the mug back down angrily.
Taxing the slaveholders! Do those people in London realize how that would heat the pot past the boiling point? Not only will the slaveholders be furious, but the damn abolitionists will object, too, once they get over their initial euphoria concerning the financial hit the slave power stands to take. It won’t be long before they realize that once London gets accustomed to that annual revenue stream, the Imperial Government won’t want to give it up… Far from leading to the abolition of slavery, a tax would in effect legitimize it!
Scott shook his huge head in disgust. Surely I’m not the only one who can see that? Taxing the slaveholders…London certainly knows how to stir things up!
___________
Jurgurtha Numidia, aka "Moses", had answered to many names in his life. Today being a mid-week workday, "blacksmith" was the main one. Jurgurtha didn't mind that; "hey blacksmith" usually meant work…and wages. More wages than he could hope to receive as Minister of the Church of Jesus Christ, Liberator.
And more money than he received from the New England Abolitionist Society as Georgetown station chief. Hell, even if I didn't have to use that purse for supplies and cash to speed the refugees on, it still wouldn't equal what I make as a smithy, he thought with a disgusted grunt while hammering on a wheel shaft in his damp stable.
Jurgurtha had started life as "Little Jack," son of the biggest slave on a South Carolina lowlands rice plantation. When Big Jack took fatal offense to one too many undeserved lashes from the overseer, an embittered minor French aristocrat bankrupt and exiled before the Revolution, the plantation Massa sent dogs to find and devour him in the swamps. Satisfied that Big Jack was dead, but furious that such a valuable asset had had to be destroyed, the Massa put Big Jack's family on the auction block. A British American sea captain, in port to pick up a hold of rice for delivery to Boston, had purchased young Jack.
Though still technically a slave, Little Jack had the run of the merchant ship and grew successively taller, broader and stronger over the course of several years and voyages up and down the Atlantic Coast and into the West Indies. The ship's master, Captain Van Dyke, took a liking to the strappling young man who, absorbing the lesson of his father, never showed his anger or bitterness in the Captain's presense. During the long, often dull voyages, Captain Van Dyke in fact ignored protocol by privately educating the boy in the "three r's".
This fairly happy time ended on a bright, hot July morning in 1795, when the French warship Vergennes stopped the merchant ship off the coast of Georgia and impressed nine able-bodied seamen…and Jack. Life on the Vergennes was hard on the entire crew, but especially on a 13-year old former cabin boy now thrown down into the riff-raff of the ship's crew. It took just one fight---and one death---before the ship's company learned not to tamper with Jack, however. A drunken crewman went overboard with a splash that signalled that Jack was no man's plaything...
It took five years, however, for Jack to find the right time to escape: when the Vergennes anchored in Port-a-Prince harbor during a lull in the on-again, off-again rebellion raised nine years earlier by Tousaint L'Overture, a former house servant turned rebel general. Though Tousaint would be remembered by succeeding generations as the "George Washington" of the Haitian revolution against Napoleon, he had actually been captured and sent in chains to France, where he died ignomously in a prison in the Jura region.
Fortunately for Jack, he had made his way to another rebel army, led by Jean-Jacques Dessaline, who was at best an unreliable ally of Tousaint. It was Dessaline who outlasted Napoleon, when Bonaparte's interest in Haiti faded after the conquest of his Louisiana lands by Scott and Jackson. By the end of 1804, Jack had become an officer under Dessaline, leading a regiment of hard-eyed and skilled guerrillas. Jack had long since adopted the name Jurgurtha Numidia, after learning of the Numidian king who had fought with and against the Romans a generation before Caesar. As Jurgurtha, he planned to live out his life as an officer in the Haitian Army, enjoying all the prerequisites that such a position entailed.
Unfortunately for Jurgurtha---and Haiti---the new nation, having won its independence, had no idea what to do with it: the country spun into a seemingly-bottomless well of chaos. Finally throwing up his hands in disgust in 1811, he booked passage to Boston, made contact with the Abolitionist Society and eventually was sent to Georgetown. Whether Jurgurtha would have done so if he had heard the terrifying news from New Orleans, or if such news actually spurred him back to British America, was not known, even to his handlers and associates.
What was known was that Jurgurtha at some point learned that, in that same year of 1811, a 500-man slave rebellion in and around New Orleans, under the leadership of Charles Deslondesa and his partner Quamana, had been put down by Dominion troops and Louisiana planters with such fury that Deslondesa’s and Quamana's heads had been among the 100 fastened to pikes on the gates of New Orleans streets.
A Tousaint-style rebellion in British America, Jurgurtha Numidia could see, stood no chance. Peaceful, if surreptitous, means would have to be employed to set his black brethren free...
So, at age 50, Jurgurtha Numidia, aka Moses, now preached to his flock on weekends, tended to his smithy business…and ran escaped slaves past the Virginia, Maryland and Georgetown authorities. All in all, he thought, a fairly contented life, especially when his wife Melissa was in town. Except for young Tousaint...
Tousaint L'Overture Numidia was the son of Jurgurtha's Haitian wife, Brigette, a tawny mullatto beauty who had died in childbirth in 1809 in Po
rt-a-Prince (whether that had influenced Jurgurtha's decision to flee Haiti was also not known to his friends. He never mentioned her name.). Born free and educated at Williams College, a struggling Massachusetts backwoods facility always on the verge of closing, Tousaint was hotheaded, outspoken and fearless in his denouncation of slavery. All attributes, his father thought, that were fine in Georgetown's freeman's community...but not in the outside world. Tousaint was now working as a clerk in Daniel Webster's Congressional office…to the outrage of the entire Southern delegation, to say nothing of most Northern Congressmen.
Webster was a hard boss, who made him burn the midnight candle, Tousaint had repeatedly told his father when scolded for never being home. Jurgurtha doubted that; Webster was brilliant, but a man-about-town. His speeches were clearly of his own creation. Unless Tousaint is drafting the Congressman's social calander, Jurgurtha thought, the boy is either partying himself…or planning mischef with the small group of followers he has cultivated.
Knowing his son, Jurgurtha hoped for the former...but believed the latter... And hoped for the best...while anticipating the worst.
___________
“Well Lieutenant, now that I’ve got things straightened out at the Department, how about joining me at the Golden Eagle? It’s past noon, you know.”
Lieutenant Wilder looked up from behind the desk in his tiny Residency office and smiled. “Harps! Where have you been? At first I was afraid the Cossacks might have come for you while I was on leave. But I heard you left Georgetown around New Year’s yourself.”
“Went home to New Jersey, Tom. A family emergency. Tell you about it at the Eagle. By the way, have you run into that sweet young Countess on your diplomatic rounds?”
Discussion of Countess Renkowiitz---and how David could get in touch with her---occupied the conversation on the way down Grant Street to the Eagle, where they were seated by the proprietress herself. Mrs. Casgrave, a short, black-haired woman in her late 30s or early 40s, resembled Countess Caroline in build, except for a very definable pair of hard breasts and an equally defined rear. Her dark eyes flashed as she recognized David but she gave the Lieutenant no more than a cursory glance.
“David, where have you been…and when did you get back? The girls and I have missed you!”
“I returned last night from New Jersey, Joanne. So this is the first chance I’ve had to drop by.” Harper didn’t even blush as the woman planted a sensuous kiss on his mouth. “However, I plan to have supper here tonight.”
The woman looked down with what, even to Wilder’s unprofessional eye, was a practiced polished projection of false girlish modesty. “I look forward to it.” She led them across the room, holding Harper’s arm tightly. “This should be a nice, quiet booth. I’ll send over something special.”
Wilder grinned as Mrs. Casgrave sashayed away. “Her, too? Damn Dave, do you have them stashed all over Georgetown?”
Harper returned the grin contentedly. “Joanne likes younger men. I’m younger. What can I say? So how was your holiday season, Lieutenant? Any progress on the Cranford front?”
Wilder shook his head in disgust. “Nothing doing there, I’m afraid. Looks like Lucille Latoure prefers the Artillery to whatever the hell you’d call what I do.”
“But you were away for New Year’s. I know, I looked for you that week before I knew I was leaving but they said you’d be gone till January 1st. So where did you go off to, if not Cranford Plantation?” Harper looked across the booth in amusement. “Or should I ask how things are at Twin Peaks? And you rib me about ‘older women’!”
Wilder reddened but slightly. “Well Dave, as they taught us at the Point: ‘A man has to do what a man has to do.’ Anyway, so what took you back to Jersey? I hope it all turned out all right…”
Harper looked up as a waitress appeared with steins of beer, a basket of fresh hot bread and a steaming plate of hot chicken. “Compliments of the Golden Eagle,” she said with a smile. “Joanne said there’s plenty more if you’re still hungry…”
Harper grinned as he broke open the bread and prepared to spear a quarter of chicken: “See Tom, it never hurts to be in good with the owner of your favorite tavern… But seriously, as you know, my family has owned and operated a hotel and tavern in a little town called Schraalenburgh since my grandparents’ time. Someone made a substantial offer for The Midway---that’s the name of our place---and we had a family conference to consider the offer.”
“So what was the outcome?”
“We’re turning it down. My brother will run the place, now that my parents are slowing down. We have a good location. Bergen County is mostly farms, but the area is growing. Schraalenburgh is midway on a main north-south road and our hotel is almost directly in the middle of the town, right on the main road. That’s why we call it ‘The Midway.’ I expect my family to operate it for years to come…”
Lieutenant Wilder usually spent mornings at The Residency and afternoons at the War Department. He and Harper walked up 17th Street to the grandiosely-named ‘Pennsylvania Avenue’---at this time of year a rut-filled expanse of frozen mud---and the ‘temporary’ building, erected late in the last century, which housed both War and Interior. It was at the bottom of the building’s steps that the pair, once again discussing David’s chances of arranging a meeting with Countess Caroline, literally bumped into Sebastian, the Latoure family servant.
“‘Cuse me, suh, you be Lieutenant Wilder, am I correct?”
Tom looked at the well-put-together coffee-colored man of about 40 in surprise. “Yes I am. And you’d be Sebastian, one of the Latoure people, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes suh, Ah am. Ah got a note here from Miz Lucille that Ah’m to hand you direct.” He reached into an inner pocket and produced a light green envelope addressed to ‘Lt. Thomas Wilder, War Department, Georgetown.’
Taken back, Tom took the envelope with the familiar faint scent and put it into his uniform. “When did Miss Lucille give you this note, Sebastian?”
“Less than an hour ago, Ah ‘spect. Tol’ me give it to you an’ only you. Ah was on mah way over there.” He indicated The Residency at the other end of the wide park-like grounds. “Seein’ as you wasn’t here. But now Ah has the privilege of returning to the townhouse and tell Miz Lucille you accepted her note.”
“You mean Miss Lucille is here in Georgetown? How long has she been here?”
“Why, Ah done drove her in maself this morning, suh. Yep, left Cranford at the crack a’ dawn. Got here ‘bout hour ago. Come straight on. Better luck this time than the last. Miz Lucille was real mad Ah couldn’t find you to give you her note ‘fore New Year’s.”
Harps laughed at the look of astonishment on Tom’s face. “Well Lieutenant, looks like you evacuated to Twin Peaks a little too soon. But then, ‘a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do’…”
Tom looked at his friend with annoyance: “Harps, will you shut the hell up?” Turning to the servant, he added: “Thank you Sebastian. I appreciate all the effort to find me.”
“Suh, Miz Lucille ’pects me to wait for an answer…”
With an embarrassed shake of his head, Wilder reached into his pocket and pulled out the note. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you Harps?”
“Thomas, the only thing that’s missing is a Twin Peaks person coming across Pennsylvania Avenue. That’d really make my day…”
Wilder glanced briefly at the note and looked up at Sebastian. “Tell Miss Lucille I will be there at approximately 6:30.”
“Yes suh, Ah’ll go tell her right ‘way,” Sebastian said with a grin.
Wilder stuck the note back in his pocket. It read:
Thomas:
Mrs. Scott has invited me to dine with her and some other
Georgetown ladies tomorrow, so I came into town earlier
today. Please join me at our townhouse for supper this
evening at 6 p.m.
Lucille
Harper turned to his friend with a strai
ght face as they ascended the stairs. “Well Tom, I guess you won’t be joining me at the Golden Eagle tonight. Joanne will be so disappointed…”
Wilder looked grim. “Harps, with my luck, Lucille just wants me to be the first to know that she and the ‘hero of the Black Hawk War’ are not only married, but are expecting twins…” He turned and walked down the hall towards General Scott’s office as Harper laughed softly and headed to Interior’s section of the building.
___________
The afternoon passed interminably for Tom, who, nonetheless, was dreading his scheduled 6:30 p.m. rendezvous. Even though he really didn’t believe Lucille and Joe were engaged, much less married, there was bound to be a scene tonight. If Lucille had really been upset that he was unavailable when Sebastian came to town in late December, it meant there had been something more in that note than New Year’s wishes.
And his bravado performance at the conclusion of the G-G’s holiday reception was beginning to haunt him. He should have arranged to meet Candice’s carriage at a side entrance to The Residency. But he was, of course, Irish. And so his response to Lucille’s teasing about Christmas Eve at Arlington had naturally involved throwing the taunt right back in her face by boarding the Samples carriage in full view of the entire exiting crowd on the Main Portico. No doubt she had learned---from her new friend Mrs. Scott, perhaps?---where he had gone for the New Year’s holiday. A ‘holiday’ he had barely since recovered from, he thought, cheering up somewhat. That Candice is insatiable…it wouldn’t surprise me if her husband took that header off his horse out of pure exhaustion…
