by James Devine
Thomas and Captain Judge saluted and walked towards the rowboat which would return the Captain to the Fort. Thomas spoke in a quiet voice: “Two things, Captain, if you would. While I get my horse from the stable, if you could send the crew for my things. More importantly, we need to alert the General. Better get a rider out of here before we leave. If the War Department is closed by the time he makes Georgetown, he should have secondary orders that can direct him to General Scott’s home.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Wilder. Our distinguished visitors will never know what’s going on. The message will be brief: ‘Lt. Wilder escorting Duke of Wellington and staff aide to Georgetown, departing 10 a.m. Stopover expected undetermined inn Georgetown-Baltimore Road. Arrive 2/2/33 late morning.’ I’ll see to this immediately. What’s this all about? Do you have a clue?”
Thomas squinted up into the sun’s glare, which made the Captain’s face unrecognizable. “I’m not sure, Captain Judge. If worst comes to worst, you may retire a Major, though.” He saluted and turned to walk to the stable situated on a side street.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Georgetown-Baltimore Road
February 1, 1833:
They had actually gotten started by 9:45 a.m. The Royal Marines indeed kept a fine stable and provided Wellington and Bratton with their two finest mounts. Wilder had been waiting with Bay Ridge, the beautiful blue-black stallion his parents had given him as a West Point graduation gift which had seen him through his Dragoon days in Arkansas, when the two British officials reemerged from Irresistible. They had climbed aboard their horses immediately and, with little fanfare, followed Thomas through the narrow streets and out of Baltimore.
If they had seen him confer a last time with Captain Judge, no mention was made of it. The Captain indicated that, as planned, the second USBAA rider had left for Georgetown at 8:50 with the message for General Scott. Their commander would have the astonishing news by early evening, if all went according to plan. The G-G doesn’t know it yet, but he and his kitchen cabinet will be burning the midnight oil again tonight. Only this time, they won’t be discussing that damn Bank. I wish I could be there to see the look on Jackson’s face when Scott gives him the news. Hell, I’d give a month’s pay to see the look on the General’s face when he reads Judge’s note!
___________
They rode at a brisk pace, but one moderated by Thomas to allow the USBAA messenger to outdistance them. (On his way to Baltimore, Thomas had alerted farmers along the route holding Army replacement mount contracts to be ready; this was not the first time express service between the capital and its major port would be required. The two veteran Fort McHenry riders selected by Captain Judge were well-acquainted with the remount stops.) The Englishmen seemed to accept Tom’s pace, while the wind and cold kept conversation to a minimum until they stopped in early afternoon to rest and water their horses at still another roadside farm.
As they stood eating the cold RNS provisions, and enjoying some hot tea provided by the farmer’s wife, Wellington, after a brief inquiry into Wilder’s background and qualifications for the information-gathering positions, probed for comments on the political climate in the capital and the country. Bratton said little, but seemed to study the Lieutenant intently.
“From your two vantage points you must have a good view of the political situation, Lieutenant,” the Duke said. “Did the plebiscite returns surprise you? Or the electorate as a whole?”
General Scott had repeatedly warned the Lieutenant to shy away from political discussions, especially with high-ranking officials. Few came any higher than the Duke of Wellington, but a direct question required a direct answer. “Well, Your Grace,” he began, thinking how much it galled him to be forced to repeatedly use that damn title, “the plebiscite was generally quiet and its outcome more or less expected. Much more so than in ‘28, as I recall. Mr. Clay’s candidacy never seemed to catch fire, if you’ll understand the expression. General Jackson even picked up some significant support in the Northeast, where he was routed the last time.”
“Why do you think that was, Lieutenant? Jackson picking up support in the Northeast, I mean,” Wellington asked.
“Well Sir.” To hell with the damn ‘Your Grace’ every other sentence! “New England appreciated his strong stand on nullification, as many people up there think South Carolina was testing the waters. Also, the Vice G-G elect, Mr. Van Buren, is considered the politician of the age. I know General Scott admired the way he organized General Jackson’s campaign. Said it was a model of sound strategy and tactics; compared it to a military campaign.”
The Duke turned and, sipping his tea, looked briefly at Bratton. “Yes, I’ve heard of Van Buren’s mastery of politics. Has a nickname, does he not? ‘The Little Magician,’ I believe. But I’m interested in this ‘testing the waters’ business. What’s that about, eh? Not familiar with the phrase. Are you, Captain Bratton?”
“I believe, Your Grace, that ‘testing the waters’ is an American colloquialism that we might better understand as a ‘test case.’ Am I right, Lieutenant?”
“That’s a good comparison, Captain,” Tom began before the Duke interrupted:
“A ‘test case?’ A test case for what, Mr.Wilder?”
“Sir, the abolition movement is gaining strength in New England. Its proponents see the nullification battle over tariffs as a, err, ‘test case,’ if you will, for the day when they will introduce emancipation legislation in the Congress. You see, Your Grace,” (Thomas didn’t mind using the term when he doing the lecturing) “if a state has the right to nullify one Dominion law it dislikes, how could it be stopped from nullifying any other? In other words, if nullification was to become an accepted legislative practice, what use would a Dominion emancipation bill be? If the states at which it was aimed---those where slavery now flourishes---could simply ‘nullify’ the law and continue on their merry ways?
“That, at any rate, Sir, is the abolitionist argument. And, to bring this full circle, why General Jackson gained increased Northeastern support.”
The Duke and Captain Bratton were staring at one another. “Hmm, very interesting, Lieutenant, and well done. I begin to see why General Scott has you at the War Department. We’ll continue this discussion tonight at whatever inn we stay. Meanwhile, gentlemen, we’ve still a long way to go, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Wilder?”
They remounted and continued southwest to Georgetown: the two Britons with a slightly different perspective on the sophistication of the USBA’s political process, and Thomas, cheerful for the first time in a week, basking in the Duke’s offhanded praise.
___________
Georgetown, D.C.
February 1, 1833:
Winfield Scott sat at his huge desk, rubbing his eyes and flexing his tree-trunk neck. It’s the damn paperwork that’ll send me into retirement some day, he thought with disgust. That damn Gaines is a born paper-pusher. He eats this stuff up. Me, I need to get into the field more. Going out to Illinois for the Black Hawk War was a tonic. Not the fighting and dying, of course, just being in the field…
The General rose from his chair and walked around the room, letting the blood circulate in his massive legs. Almost 5 p.m. Think I’ll call it a day. Wonder what damn fool event Maria has us scheduled for tonight? If it was up to my wife, we’d never stay home…well, she deserves her fun where she can find it. Georgetown isn’t exactly London or Paris---or even New York---when it comes to excitement.
The General was reaching for his cloak when his secretary, Lt. Luke Beaufort, appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me, sir. Rider just in from Fort McHenry.” The secretary handed Scott Lieutenant Wilder’s message: ‘Ship identified as Irresistible sighted off harbor at 6 a.m. Anchorage anticipated by 8 a.m.’ Scott folded the message and handed it back.
“Get this over to the Governor-General, Lieutenant. His hand only, you understand? Tell General Jackson I will hand deliver the follow-up message when received, no matter the hour.” Scott tossed his huge head, indicat
ing to the secretary to leave. He leaned back against the front of the desktop as he watched his aide depart. Well, she got back in a hurry, didn’t she ever! Let’s see: December 16th to February 1stst. Forty-seven days. That’s got to be record time. Which means something’s up. If it’s not a slave-based tax, it’s something of comparable importance. I wonder what, if anything, Wilder has found out…
___________
Georgetown-Baltimore Road
February 1, 1833:
Darkness comes early to southern Maryland in midwinter but Wellington and his party pushed on till the lights of Brady’s Fox Hunt Inn began to become visible after 5 p.m.
“I suggest we stop here, Sir,” Wilder said as the three horsemen slowed their pace several hundred yards north of the Inn. “We’re still about 30 miles from Georgetown and there isn’t a better inn within 10 miles. The food is good here and it doesn’t look too crowded. Shouldn’t have trouble getting rooms.”
Wellington had nodded at the suggestion to stop and laughed at the reference to rooms. Bratton, however, seemed to bristle. “Are you suggesting that the Duke of Wellington would be turned away at the inn, Lieutenant? Bloody little chance of that, I would expect…”
Wilder looked at the Englishman as they dismounted and handed their reins to the stable boy. You pompous jackass! You come over here and treat us like second class citizens in our own country. This isn’t Ireland. Here, we push back: “I’m sure there’s room for the Duke, Captain Bratton. I was referring to the chances of you bedding down in the stable…
“However, that does raise a serious question, Sir,” he added, turning to the still chuckling Duke. “We’ve not discussed whether this is a public visit to the USBA. Am I to announce you to Mr. Brady, who is, as the sign says, the innkeeper, or simply to refer to Your Grace as a distinguished visitor from Great Britain?”
Even in the half darkness of the lantern-lit yard, Wellington’s eyes sparkled as Scott’s sometimes did when Wilder said something sharp. “Very good, Lieutenant. I am here on a tour of the Dominion, but one that has yet to be announced publicly. I believe it will be easier all around if I remain incognito until we reach Georgetown and I can pay my respects at The Residency. You will introduce me as ‘Colonel Wellesley, British Army, ret.’ And the Captain as ‘Captain Bratton of the Coldstream Guards.’ Now, let’s go in, shall we?”
An hour later, their gear stashed in their rooms (to Thomas’ disgust, he was forced to share his space with Bratton) and the dirt of a hard day’s riding washed from their hands and faces, Wilder and the two Englishmen were seated at a back booth near a roaring Inn fireplace.
A waitress, one of the owner’s daughters, Erin, had already served a round of drinks: hot rum for the ‘Colonel’; Port for Captain Bratton and a mug of beer for the Lieutenant.
“Even in the dead of winter, Mr. Wilder?” Bratton said, pointing to the stein. “And you Americans still drink it chilled, too, I see.”
“I’m not one for spirits, Captain Bratton,” Thomas said without, he hoped, a trace of a blush. “I do enjoy fine wines in the appropriate settings, and an occasional glass of Port. However, I acquired my taste for beer naturally. And I refined it at the Point. That’s all we could get, at Benny Haven’s…”
Wellington, who seemed to enjoy the biting give-and-take between the Colonial Office man and this surprisingly feisty young USBAA officer, broke in: “What’s that? ‘Acquired your taste naturally?’ Eh? And what was this about ‘the Point?’”
Well, it was bound to come out sooner or later. Thomas looked the Duke in the eye. “I’m a third generation British American of Irish Catholic descent, ‘Colonel Wellesley.’ So I naturally like my beer. I also graduated from West Point, the USBA Military Academy, back in ’29. Benny Haven’s is a rather disreputable tavern outside the Main Gate. Like every West Pointer, I remember it fondly…”
There was a short silence at the table, which the Duke broke with a snort that seemed to denote acceptance rather than disdain. “Well, Lieutenant, we Englishmen enjoy an occasional pint ourselves, eh Bratton? But not on a cold winter’s night. Have that waitress bring over another round and tell us what’s on tonight’s menu…”
Over their meals---‘the Colonel’ and Captain Bratton chose two of the Inn’s specialties: prime rib and a steak served sizzling hot, respectively, while Tom ate a hearty beef stew---‘the Colonel’ steered talk back to the political situation.
“Captain Bratton, Lieutenant, served in the Liaison Office at Georgetown back in the late ‘20s. He has emphasized to me the political importance of the slavery issue in the USBA. So your observations this afternoon about emancipation and nullification made an impression. Tell me, have you any indication that the abolitionists are planning to introduce an emancipation bill in the upcoming Congress, which for some reason doesn’t convene until next December, if I’m not mistaken?”
Taken back by the news that Bratton had first-hand knowledge of the USBA--did the Captain realize he had deliberately slowed their progress to Georgetown?--the Lieutenant paused before focusing his thoughts on the ‘Colonel’s’ question.
“An emancipation bill is the abolitionists’ long-term goal, ‘Colonel.’ At least ten years down the road, from all I’ve heard and read. Perhaps I overemphasized their strength in the North at present. It’s growing solidly in New England, where it’s begun to have an affect on local political races. In New York and Pennsylvania, the movement doesn’t yet have the political clout it now does in New England, but is drawing more attention than ever. In the West, people are more concerned with developing the land than arguing social issues that have no direct impact on their lives. Even out West, however, there seems to be growing conviction that slavery is a moral blot on our society. Yet everyone realizes that, even if the abolitionists managed to get a bill introduced and passed---which is remote at best---they’d never muster the two-thirds majority necessary to see it into law.”
Captain Bratton leaned forward across the remnants of his sizzling steak. “And why do you say that, Mr. Wilder? Why a two-thirds majority?” The ‘Colonel,’ too, looked puzzled.
“Because, gentlemen, according to our constitution, it takes a two-thirds majority to overturn a gubernatorial-general veto. That’s a veto which is automatic, at least for the next four years, as long as the G-G’s health holds up.
“After all, if there is anything as sure as death and the British Empire, it is that Andrew Jackson would veto any emancipation bill placed before him. That, ‘Colonel,’ I don’t believe any British American citizen, including the most rapid abolitionist, would argue.”
The political talk seemed to die off shortly thereafter, and the ‘Colonel’ soon excused himself and went to bed. The two younger officers remained in the tavern, where Bratton quizzed the Lieutenant on the Georgetown social scene, both high level and low. He seemed particularly impressed that Joanne Casgrave had taken over ownership of the Golden Eagle.
___________
Georgetown, D.C.
Evening, February 1, 1833:
Winfield Scott was relieved that his wife had not made plans for the evening. He needed to stay home to await the arrival of the second Fort McHenry rider.
With a complete trust in Maria’s ability to keep official secrets, a trust earned in the almost two decades of their marriage, the General had long before discussed the Irresistible mystery with her. She of course knew that Thomas had been sent to Baltimore and was aware that messages were expected if-and-when the ship was sighted. Only the timing surprised her. Winfield hadn’t expected Irresistible for a few more days, at the earliest.
After relaxing over glasses of Port, the couple was preparing to sit down to supper when a servant went to answer a sudden knock at the front door. “General, a soldier who identifies himself as from Fort McHenry is in the vestibule. He requests to speak with you.”
Scott glanced at the clock and shared a look with his wife. It was 7:12 p.m. He strode out without a word. Saluting the obviously
tired but still awestruck corporal, he took the message from the man’s hand before speaking. “Thank you, Corporal. When did you leave?”
“About 8:50 this morning, Sir. Been in the saddle all day, except for remounting.”
“It will be noted on your record, son. Good work. I assume you know the drill as far as food, lodging and care for your horse?”
“Yes, Sir, I’ve ridden this route before.” The Corporal saluted and left.
Scott was tearing open the message and reading it even before the door closed behind the non-com. He could count on one hand the times he’d truly been taken back during his years in the service, but this message left him dumbfounded. His old commander from the Peninsula campaign, General Sir Arthur Wellesley, now formally the Duke of Wellington, had come across the Atlantic on Irresistible! And was within 40 or so miles of Georgetown, escorted by Scott’s own aide. The General read the message a second time. ‘…Stop expected undetermined inn Georgetown-Baltimore Road. Arrive 2/2/33…’
Tom’s giving us overnight to prepare…good boy. Should I send an escort troop up the road tonight? No, wait till morning. Let’s not look too concerned…even though this is one delicate situation.
Maria had taken the message from his hand and gasped as she read it. “Win, Wellington himself here? Why do you think…?”
Scott’s face settled into a puzzled frown. “I’m not sure, but something tells me all hell is about to break loose, my dear. The Duke didn’t take to the North Atlantic in January for fun. London’s planning something so big that they’ve sent the most prestigious name they could to inform us. I’d better get over to see Jackson. Don’t wait up.” He kissed her softly on the forehead and, pulling on his heavy military great coat, called for the carriage he had ordered to stand by as soon as he had arrived home.
