by James Devine
CHAPTER TWELVE
Georgetown, D.C.
February 2, 1833:
After consultation with a---for once---stunned-into-silence Jackson, Scott had decided against sending a troop to meet Wellington and escort him down to Georgetown. The strategy he and the G-G had devised in their late night meeting with Blair, Van Buren and others of the kitchen cabinet called for cloaking their preparations with apparent surprise.
Scott now knew that Jackson had initially been violently against any Imperial-imposed tax on slaves and/or their resale but was now reconsidering, having realized its potential for countering the abolitionist movement. Blair, for one, had grasped that a tax---with or without a companion bill on Northern industrial growth---would indeed have the unforeseen effect of legitimizing slavery by making its existence directly financially beneficial to the Empire. He favored a public voicing of opposition but a tacit silent agreement of support. Van Buren apparently---it was never crystal clear with the ‘Little Magician’---favored sending a special delegation to lobby Parliament to drop the proposal. (That the USBA already had a Parliamentary delegation didn’t seem to affect Matty Van’s thinking; he apparently wanted to talk the bill to death…or to so appear.)
Scott hadn’t left The Residency until well after midnight but was back in his War Department office by 8 a.m. No matter what the purpose, a visit by as distinguished a dignitary as London could possibly send---a former commander-in-chief as well as former Prime Minister---called for formal welcoming ceremonies. His office was already working on the details and would coordinate with The Residency as soon as Lieutenant Wilder arrived. Meanwhile, at Jackson’s orders, Donelson was overseeing a hurried freshening up of the old house itself.
Having given orders that the 4th Artillery and the other ceremonial units standby, Scott returned to the real issue: why was Wellington here? What has London decided to spring on us? And why, in God’s name, now?
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Georgetown-Baltimore Road
February 2, 1833:
They had risen before dawn and, after a quick breakfast of tea and biscuits that Tom had arranged with the innkeeper the night before, they were ready to ride. As they were reining their horses toward the road, the proprietor came out into the yard. A barrel-chested man in his early 50s with the map of Ireland imprinted on his face, Ed Brady had fought in the Napoleonic Wars before emigrating to the USBA.
“I hope the food and accommodations were acceptable, gentlemen?” he asked. Informed that they were, Brady added, looking up to the ‘Colonel’: “And will Your Grace be leading the commemorative services at Waterloo for the 20th anniversary? Some of the lads from Third R.I. Fusiliers have written me that something may be planned…”
Thomas was unable to swallow a chuckle, though Bratton’s snort was clearly one of disgust. But the Duke smiled and thrust out his hand. “Third Royal Irish, eh? A good regiment, though a bit lax on discipline. You should have identified yourself last night, sir. It’s always a pleasure to meet one of my old boys. Yes, the Waterloo anniversary is coming up. I’ve heard something is in the works, but haven’t kept up on the details. Well, we both have time yet. Meanwhile, thank you for your hospitality, ah…”
“Former Sergeant Brady, Sir. The honor was mine.”
The trio of riders was silent as they headed down the road, though the Duke could be heard softly whistling ‘Rule Britannia.’
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Georgetown, D.C.
February 2, 1833:
The ugly brown dome of the Capitol Building was visible on its hill as they rode into the outskirts of Georgetown. Bratton observed that the ‘city’ hadn’t grown much, if at all, since his departure four years before. Wilder’s mood was a mixture of relief that the journey was concluding without incident, mixed with disappointment that the adventure was over. The Duke, of course, exhibited his usual serene air of confidence.
“Well, Sir, this is the metropolis,” Wilder said, as they reined up their horses at Silver Spring. “Do you wish to go straight on to The Residency, or stop off at the Liaison Office?”
The Duke looked around carefully, one hand cupping his saddle’s horn. Reminds me of hamlets I marched through in Portugal. Fifty something years and this is the best they can do? They tell me Philadelphia is a real city. Well, I’m sure there’s some reason they moved their capital here…and I’m sure it smacks of a sordid political deal. Doesn’t everything over here?
“You’ll escort me to The Residency, Lieutenant, which I would guess is that lonely-looking building over towards the river, with all the parkland around it.” Wellington pointed out towards the southwest, where a large white mansion of sorts stood out rather forelornly. “Captain Bratton will be announcing our presence at the Liaison Office. Which I’m sure you can find without any help, eh Captain?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Georgetown seems unchanged since I left in ’29. I’ll inform Sir John and Major Layne of your arrival. Should I await you at the Office, or go on to The Residency myself?”
“Consult with Sir John. I’ll either send for you or come over myself. A surprise visit like this is highly irregular. No protocol, you understand. We’ll have to play it by ear at first. Well, let’s get on with it, shall we?”
They proceeded into Georgetown, riding on, and passing across, streets with grand names like ‘Vermont Avenue’ and others as simple as ‘Tenth Street.’ Some were wider than others, but all were pockmarked by ridges of frozen mud and dirty ice. Bratton saluted and turned off short of the park grounds, heading west on Pennsylvania Avenue, while Wilder led Wellington across Pennsylvania (which cut through) and onto The Residency grounds. They rode up the driveway to the Main Portico (reminding Tom for the first time in several days of Lucille and his unfortunate bravado performance the night of the Christmas reception) as Andrew Jackson Donelson made his way down the steps. It was now almost 11 a.m.
Donelson was one of the select few who knew Wellington’s arrival was imminent. (General Scott in fact had notified The Residency an hour earlier that the trio of riders had been sighted on the Silver Spring Road.) Both Residency and War Department were geared up for the arrival. Now Donelson, selected by Jackson to play the key opening role of baffled Residency representative, came down the steps as if to leave the grounds on official business. Thomas, who had seen the civilian-dressed USBAA lookout get off a signal to Georgetown as they had come down the Silver Spring road, knew the G-G’s nephew well enough to realize the man never left the building during office hours. Something was afoot…
“Good morning, Mr. Donelson,” Tom said as he brought Bay Ridge to a halt in front of the Portico. “Is the Governor-General well disposed? I need to present this gentleman to him immediately.”
“Why yes, Lieutenant, the G-G is in his office. He is in conference with Mr. Blair, but if this is urgent, I’ll break in. I was off to the Interior Department, but I’ll postpone that trip to later, if necessary…” Donelson indicated the pouch under his arm and put on a quizzical face as he stared up at the riders. “Who should I say your guest is, Lieutenant?”
Thomas looked over at the Duke, who smiled somewhat mischievously. “Mr. Donelson is Governor-General Jackson’s private secretary, as well as nephew, Sir.”
The Duke looked condescendingly at the young Tennessean: “If you will tell General Jackson, Mr. Donelson, that an old comrade from the Iberian Peninsula days has come to visit. Minus his army.”
Managing to look both startled and mystified, Donelson headed back up the steps as the riders threw their reins to waiting grooms and walked up the steps themselves. You ought to consider the stage, Mr. Donelson, Wilder thought. You even have me half convinced you don’t know what’s going on.
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Donelson had disappeared into the G-G’s office by the time Lieutenant Wilder escorted the Duke into the main foyer. The chief usher was still taking their cloaks when Jackson came hobbling out on his cane. Frank Blair trailed behind him.
�
�By the Eternal, what’s all this about the ‘Iberian Peninsula’ now? Where’s Lieutenant Wil…” Jackson suddenly broke off as he eyed his old chief. “By God, it is you, General: the Duke of Wellington himself! By the Eternal, General, what brings you to the USBA? And in the dead of winter, no less!” Jackson gave a good account of a flabbergasted Governor-General. “Never expected to meet up with you again on this earth, General. Don’t tell me you too finally had enough of London society!” The G-G spit out the last two words with an anger that made Wilder, Blair and Donelson each wince.
The Duke, however, seemed to take Jackson’s vehemence in stride. “Yes, Andrew, London still reveres you, too. Why, when my tour of the USBA was publicly announced, I can’t tell you how many leaders of society asked to be remembered to you…”
The two men stared at each other for a short moment and broke out laughing before embracing.
“‘Old Hickory.’ Just as belligerent and cantankerous as ever…”
“And you, General, or should I say: ‘Your Grace, the Duke.’ Just as sleek and high flaluten’ as ever.
“Well, I sent the Lieutenant here up to Baltimore a few days ago to see what news the Irresistible might be carrying across the Atlantic to our ‘poor colonial shores.’ Never thinkin’ he’d ride back into Georgetown with you in tow…
“Come into my office, General. You look a mite chilled. Some fine Tennessee whisky will warm you right up. By the way, this is Frank Blair, my most trusted advisor…” The door shut behind them, leaving Wilder and Donelson in the hall.
“Well, Mr. Donelson, would you like me to drop off that pouch at the Interior Department? I must report immediately to General Scott.”
“Nonsense, Tom. You knew that was a ruse the moment you saw me. General Scott brought the message from Fort McHenry that you were escorting the Duke here about 8:00 last night. Things have been in an uproar ever since. Let’s hope the Duke was taken in, though. The G-G instructed everyone to act amazed…” Donelson smiled broadly. “So, Lieutenant, what’s the word? Why is he here?”
Wilder shrugged his shoulders. “Honestly, Andy, I haven’t figured it out. You heard him: he’s touring the USBA. All I know is…he peppered me with questions about politics, the abolitionists, Army preparedness and so forth whenever we stopped and even on horseback, when the wind died down. I haven’t answered that many questions since my last finals at the Point…or since General Scott wanted some information.” He paused thoughtfully. “They seem a lot alike, Scott and the Duke: blunt, honest and miles ahead of me. Can’t tell where Wellington was going with his questions. One thing I do know: like General Scott, his questions are all for a purpose.
“Speaking of which, I’d better get over to the War Department. Before ‘Old Fuss and Feathers’ orders my arrest for dereliction of duty.”
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Winfield Scott was pacing his office when he noticed his aide giving his horse’s reins to an enlisted man at the entrance to the building. That’s one beautiful animal he has there, the General noted. I wonder where Tom found him? More importantly, what has the Lieutenant found out?
Scott waited impatiently for Wilder to make his way through the building and appear at his office doorway. When the Lieutenant did appear, it was obvious he had taken the time to brush much of the dirt of the morning’s ride from his uniform and boots. “Come in Lieutenant,” he boomed, “and close the door.
“So, Mr. Wilder, the Duke of Wellington’s come to town. Did he say why?” The General’s tone bordered on frivolity, but the Lieutenant knew his boss well enough to know he had been ordered to make a complete and thorough report.
“Sir, the Duke states his trip is a private tour of the Dominion. He is accompanied by a single aide. That aide, however, Captain Bratton, was at the Liaison Office here in the late ‘20s and since has apparently served in a civilian capacity in the American Office in London. Beneath the polished ven…”
“I know Bratton…Beneath the polished veneer, a hard man. That is your assessment, is it not?”
“Yes Sir. A hard man. Not quite your average tour guide…”
“So, Lieutenant?” The drill was starting up as the icy stare fixed on Thomas.
“General, for the entire trip, at every stop and whenever the wind died down enough for horseback conversation, the Duke peppered me with questions, mostly of a political nature: was the plebiscite’s outcome generally expected? About the abolitionists and the nullification crisis; even about the new Vice G-G, about whom he seemed to know a remarkable bit. That’s in addition to the more-expected questions about the Army and conditions on the frontiers.”
“What’s your conclusion, Lieutenant? Did the Duke really come here on a midwinter sightseeing trip? And what about your celebrated theory on a slave tax?”
Thomas reddened slightly at mention of his much-maligned theory, but quickly moved to answer Scott’s questions. “Sir, this is no sightseeing trip. From spending the better part of a day-and-a-half with the Duke, answering questions that followed up answers to questions I was asked earlier, I’d say this is a fact-finding mission disguised as a pleasure trip.
“And General, based on the direction the questions always seemed to take, I think the subject has to do with slavery.”
“Continue Mr. Wilder.” The drill was slowing as the General’s eyes now indicated a more thoughtful mood was in ascendance.
“Yesterday afternoon, while we rested the horses, Sir, the Duke began asking about the plebiscite. And why General Jackson did so much better in New England this time. That led to a discussion of the long-term implications of the nullification battle, at least from the abolitionists’ perspective.”
The General continued to look thoughtful and Tom hurried on. “That if the nullification principle was upheld, any state could nullify any Dominion law, thus making any attempt in Congress to abolish slavery worthless from a legal standpoint.” Tom paused again, but Scott nodded for him to continue. “Then last night, over supper, he returned to the issue of an emancipation bill. Wanted to know if I felt one would be introduced in the new Congress. That led to a discussion of the G-G’s veto powers, of which neither he nor Bratton seemed previously aware. That was after I explained that emancipation was the abolitionists’ long-term, not short-term, goal.
“Also, he stated categorically that Captain Bratton ‘emphasized the political importance of the slavery issue’ to him, apparently during the crossing.”
“Did he bring up the new Congress or did you?”
“The Duke did, Sir. Knew it is not scheduled to convene until December. One other thing, General.
“After I pointed out that even the most extreme abolitionist is not so politically naive to expect Andrew Jackson to sign an emancipation bill, conversation sort of drifted away from politics…”
Scott rose from his desk and walked over to the window. He gazed out towards The Residency and the Potomac River, his huge hands folded behind him. Finally, he turned to Thomas, who had been standing at parade rest since beginning the report.
“Quite a report, Mr. Wilder. The Duke certainly kept you on your toes. Well done, particularly in extending the trip overnight. Not only did you obtain some interesting information, but it gave us here time to prepare. Now freshen up and be back here in an hour. We’ve pulled the plans for welcoming a Prime Minister from the files. You’ll coordinate them with Donelson, who has done the same over there. I imagine there’ll be a formal ceremony tomorrow, sometime. Get at it.
“One more thing. The G-G is already, reluctantly, planning a Residency dinner for the Duke. You’ll be in attendance in both your official social and intelligence capacities, so I’ll expect you to be at your sharpest. Therefore I’ve arranged to fine comb the guest list so that you’ll have no distractions. General Jackson agrees with me that the, uh, timing of this dinner is such that only Congressional leaders as well as ranking military and government and consular officers and their ladies will be invited. Remind Mr. Donelson that all outlyi
ng planters, their wives, widows and daughters are to be excluded…Understood?”
The boy’s face is about the color of that exotic new fruit Maria helped introduce into Georgetown society last Summer, thought the General. What did they call it? A tomato, I believe. “You are dismissed, Mr. Wilder,” the General barked, turning back to the window before the Lieutenant could see the smile that was uncontrollably breaking out on his face. He remained facing the window until Thomas could be seen walking down the steps.
We had better get him fixed up with the Latoure girl, he thought with a chuckle. Otherwise, that Candice is going to be the ruination of a potentially fine Army career…
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Wellington and the two British Americans saluted each other with glasses of Tennessee whisky served neat by Blair. “Congratulations on your resounding victory, Andrew, and all the best in your second term.” The Duke was at his most cordial. “Incidently, among those in London most moved by your reelection was the Parliamentary member from Massachusetts…”
Blair nearly spit his whiskey across the room, while Jackson’s hand moved to tightly grip his cane, Wellington observed, much as a younger Jackson might have gone for his knife.
“Yes, I’m sure that Puritan bastard was moved, as you say, Duke. By the Eternal, if I ever get my hands…”
“Now Mr. Governor-General,” Blair was formal. “Certainly Adams and Clay conspired to steal the ’24 plebiscite from you. But, in the end, you’re the one standing. You beat Adams four years later and now have trounced Clay.” He glanced at Wellington, whose eyes were sparkling in enjoyment, either of Jackson’s reaction or of the Tennessee whiskey. Or, perhaps, a combination thereof.
