by James Devine
Scott pulled himself from his chair and strode over to his own pot of coffee. “There is no one in the USBA outside this room, Sir Arthur, who has the slightest inkling of where this conversation appears to be headed. And that direction is not the theory I’ve discussed with the G-G and the kitchen cabinet. Quite frankly, Duke, my theory, developed in part by research Lieutenant Wilder did into official London-Georgetown correspondence of last year, pointed to an Imperial tax on slaves, or, perhaps, their sale and resale.
“If I am reading you correctly, taxing the slaveholders is not quite what London has in mind.”
Wellington had returned to his chair as Scott spoke and now took his time responding, instead stirring his tea vigorously. Finally, he raised his head and looked up at Scott, who had come around to lean against the front of his desk, coffee cup steaming in his right paw.
“Winfield, a bill will be introduced into Parliament by Easter---60 some days from now---which will seek the emancipation of all slaves held anywhere in the British Empire. I anticipate little serious opposition, as the bill has support on both sides of the floor. Among its sponsors will be at least one British American delegate. It will pass by late summer. The P.M. formed a blue ribbon committee to study the impact of such legislation well over a year ago. Although your South is not the only area where this reprehensible practice still flourishes, it is the only one the committee identified as a potential trouble spot.” He paused and sipped his tea, then looked at Scott, inviting comment.
The General’s cup was now on the desk next to him. He straightened up and took a deep breath before walking slowly back behind the desk. Gripping the back of the chair so tightly that Wellington had visions of splinters flying toward him like so much shrapnel, Scott twice opened and shut his mouth, as if unwilling to verbalize his thoughts. After a pause of more than 30 seconds, he began a third time:
“I said I am not in favor of slavery, General. But neither am I in favor of destroying the economy of half the Dominion in one fell swoop. Or in encouraging armed resistance by the white population of that section of the USBA!
“I believe your committee has been getting some bad advice. I see Quincy Adams’ fine hand here. Has he gone mad? We’ve 2,000,000 slaves in the South. To suddenly let them roam free? Who’s to feed and house them? Who’s to toil the land and pick the crops that provide the prosperity the South now enjoys? London has bitten off a chunk here that could end up choking this Dominion! This land has peacefully prospered under the Colonial Compact, Sir Arthur, North and South both, yes, and Canada too, despite what those damn Frogs up there think. What you are proposing could set off the most serious crisis we’ve seen since 1775…”
Wellington was holding up his hand. “Calm down, Winfield. Do you not think this has been thought through? Do you think we’d arbitrarily drop this on you and then tell you to pick up the pieces? Heavens, no! Now hear me out.”
The Duke outlined the Empire-wide phased-in seven-year emancipation plan, with its built-in 23,000,000-plus pound compensation to the Southern slaveholders. Scott’s fearsome grip on the chair’s back gradually eased, to the Duke’s relief, as the terms were explained. He began nodding his head slowly, not in agreement, but in understanding as pieces of the Irresistible puzzle began to come together.
Wellington, however, paused, thinking Scott had accepted the plan. It’s always about the money with these Yanks! Inside their chests beats not a heart, but a big dollar sign…
“Winfield, we’ve been led to believe by certain so-called ‘experts’ on the USBA---Quincy Adams and my man Bratton chief among them--that slavery here is a political, as well as an economic, issue. From your reaction, perhaps that political angle has been overemphasized?”
Scott’s thoughts had turned to Jackson’s response to all this. By the Eternal! That’ll be some explosion…
Now he backtracked to digest Wellington’s question.
“Pardon me, Your Grace, but you misinterpreted my reaction to your outlining of the emancipation plan. The compensation, especially, clears up the riddle as to why the Chancellor of the Exchequer requested our Interior Department to come up with facts and figures on the slave population last spring. That’s what led to the theory of a tax. And my nodding…
“Your experts are dead-on concerning the importance of slavery as a political issue here. That can not possibly be overemphasized. It is at least as important a factor as the impact on the economy and the human issue of how best to handle the slaves once freed. From what you say, politics is not an issue in the Indies, or the Cape. It is a far, far different story here. Their mutual need to protect the institution of slavery has molded the Southern states into a voting block that has dominated our politics since the organization of the Dominion. The South has become accustomed to that political power. In fact, you could say that there has been a complete reversal: while the South became a voting block to protect slavery, it is slavery that now protects the voting block…and, by extension, the South’s on-going political power in the Dominion.”
Scott was now pacing the floor behind his desk. “Without slavery to bind them to the others, the northern-most slave states---Maryland, Kentucky, Missouri---would have little reason to continue in alliance with the deep South; the same with states like New Jersey and Delaware, which are considered ‘free’ states but still harbor significant numbers of slaves and often vote with the Southern block.”
The pacing stopped and Scott again fiercely gripped the back of his chair. “The South’s power in the Dominion depends on slavery. I question whether any amount of money will convince them to accept its demise. And that’s before we take into account the financial blow it will be to their economy.”
Wellington remained silent, thinking: This is one remarkable man. I am glad he is on my side.
Scott broke the extended silence with a smile. “Well, Sir Arthur, I do begin to see one purpose of your ‘tour.’ You’ll be sounding out the political leadership in the various sections of the country. And, you have several months to do so, as any news of the introduction of an emancipation bill won’t reach here till early May.”
The General glanced down at his desk and then stared at Wellington again, his face hardening once more. “May I ask if you have already broached this topic across the street? Because, if you have not, General, you have placed me in a very difficult and tricky position.”
There was again silence in the office and Scott reached across his desk to retrieve his coffee. Damn…cold. He went back to the pot and poured himself another cup as he waited for Wellington’s response.
The Duke looked out the window and across to The Residency, half camouflaged by the snow-covered park trees. He sighed and looked up at Scott. My God, I’d half forgotten how big he is. He sipped at his tea and sighed again.
“Winfield, your answers to my probing as to your personal and professional feelings on slavery, as well as your overall reaction to the news I’ve just sprung on you, are no more nor less than I anticipated from the moment I agreed to this mission. Your summation of the political situation here is masterful. It has been my intention from the beginning to alert you before anyone else, including the Governor-General. And then rely on your counsel thereafter. I realize you feel an allegiance, and rightfully so, to Jackson, in his role as commander-in-chief of the USBA defense forces.”
The Englishman’s voice suddenly hardened as he rapped out the next two sentences:
“However, your higher allegiance is to the King. As I am here as his representative, our conversations and subsequent actions take precedent.”
Wellington gave Scott a hard, non-blinking look. “You do understand that, General Scott?”
Scott returned his own unblinking stare. “I do, Your Grace.
“However, you’ve still put me in one hellava spot!”
Wellington smiled, but there was no laughter in his voice or eyes. “Yes, Winfield, It is ‘one hellava spot.’ This legislation---criminally overdue however premature one
may think it---puts us all in ‘one hellava spot.’
“Now you know that man in The Residency well. You’ve served with him in war and in peacetime. Adams and Bratton tell me his reaction may well tip the scales towards acceptance—or rebellion. How will our ‘frontier barbarian’ react?”
___________
Winfield Scott heard the Duke of Wellington’s question and resisted the urge to give the obvious response: Why, he’ll explode, by the Eternal!
Instead, Scott put on a frown and slowly turned and began to once more pace the office. I’ll wear out my boots and the rug if this keeps up much longer.
Wellington watched calmly, knowing his old subordinate was reviewing the facts before issuing a measured, thoughtful answer. The minutes dragged on and the clock chimed 3 p.m. before Scott finally returned to his desk and sat heavily down. He stared across at the Duke and shook his head.
“The first response will be outrage, of course. He’ll claim, as the Southerners always do in defense of their ‘peculiar institution,’ that the Colonial Compact and the USBA constitution both protect property rights. Since they consider the slaves to be mere chattel, just so much ‘property,’ neither Parliament nor the King has any right to tamper or intrude on their property.”
Wellington nodded, and remained tensely quiet, allowing Scott’s train-of-thought to proceed uninterrupted.
“Twenty-three million pounds translates to almost than 110,000,000 USBA dollars, if my hasty math is correct, at the going rate of one pound to $4.75. A great deal of money, to be sure, especially in the eyes of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. However, really just a token sum per slaveholder! Remember, we’re talking about 2,000,000 slaves here.
“Great God, General, the compensation would be just a fraction of the price of a slave at auction! Take Jackson, for example. I’ve no idea how many slaves he holds at The Hermitage, but even if its 30, that would mean compensation of around $1650.00 or so. If he sold all 30, he would realize about $24,000! And while he’ll receive their services by law four days a week for the next seven years, he’ll have to feed, clothe and house them all seven days. So, economically, it only makes sense if the slaveholders are faced with no other choice: something or nothing!”
“Continue, if you please, Winfield.” The Duke’s voice was low and brief.
“So it becomes a matter of realism: will Jackson, after his initial explosion of outrage, recognize that there are no other viable options? Or will his pride and anger cause him to strike out by refusing to comply and by daring London to enforce its decree? Rallying the South around him, the Great Dominionist turned Ultimate Nullifier?”
Scott’s head was down and his own voice was now barely a whisper: “This thing could very easily tear this Dominion apart, Sir Arthur…
“And I don’t know with any certainty how Andy Jackson will eventually react.”
He looked up at Wellington with a grim face. “You may have heard, Duke, of one of our earliest G-Gs, Thomas Jefferson of Virginia. I was not always his greatest supporter; in fact, even though----or perhaps because---he wrote much of the Constitution, I believe he ran roughshod over it as few other G-Gs have. I was at a gathering at The Residency about 10 years ago, however, a few months before Jefferson died. He said then that slavery was a “firebell in the night” that would inevitably cause chaos here unless ended.”
Scott smiled ironically: “Of course, he never quite got around to freeing his own slaves…
“I’ve always remembered that warning, though. And now I can hear that firebell in the distance.”
There was again sustained silence in the office, both men consumed with the specter of armed revolt breaking out in the South, fanned by the outrage of a staunch Dominionist’s sense of betrayal.
It was the Englishman who spoke first. “Surely Jackson will weigh the risks and realize the South could not successfully rebel? Why, they’re just a third of the Dominion. With you in command of the USBA Army---supported by a Royal Navy blockade of the coastline---they’d have no chance for independence!”
“Depends.” Scott’s tone was flat and neutral.
“Depends? Depends on what, by God? What exactly do you mean, General?”
Scott rose to his feet and walked around the desk again, settling against the front and staring down at the infuriated, sputtering Wellington. “Sir Arthur, you have not provided any rationale for the USBA Army---minus the portion of it which could conceivably form the core of any theoretical Southern resistance---to march South and fight their fellow soldiers. Or any rationale for volunteers from the North to rally round the Army, as volunteers in the South undoubtedly would the professionals who might choose to rebel.
“I believe my aide, Lieutenant Wilder, explained to you that the abolitionist movement is growing steadily in the North. It is, but I’m not sure the conviction that slavery is morally detestable is something they would consider worth dying for. General, as a whole, the British American people outside the South don’t care that strongly about slavery---enough to die---one way or the other. It has no direct impact on their lives that they can see. On the contrary, a unilateral ban on slavery issued by London without any discussion of the matter over here may appear arbitrary and could possibly push Northern sentiment in the Southerners’ favor.”
Wellington now appeared more appalled than stunned, staring white-faced and open-mouthed at the American. A gargled, almost choking sound was forcing itself from his throat.
“One reason the Compact has worked all these years is that you have more or less left us alone. As an astute young officer observed to me some weeks ago, as long as we contribute our fair share towards the Empire’s prosperity, it hasn’t seemed that London much cares who is in charge over here, or what legislation is introduced, debated and voted on, or even what happens here. To suddenly force this emancipation down our throats may possibly cause widespread resentment, even among those who oppose or are ashamed of slavery. I’m not saying the rest of the Dominion would join in a revo…”
Now it was Scott whose face turned ashen as he stopped in mid-sentence and gaped, his own mouth open, at his visitor. “Dear God,” he whispered. “It’s in the Compact, isn’t it? You referred earlier to the ‘higher allegiance to the King,’ and you being his ‘representative’ here.
“London is prepared---and has been for months---to invoke the article in the Compact which allows the King to remove a sitting Governor-General. That’s why the Irresistible vanished as soon as the plebiscite results were official. Your ‘blue ribbon committee’ had been hoping Clay or one of the others would beat Jackson. Once the committee knew Jackson had won, they sent you over here to determine whether to invoke that article!”
Wellington rose so that he was closer to eye level with Scott. “Winfield, you stated several hours ago that your first loyalty is to the Crown. I don’t believe you are alone in that loyalty. I believe most British Americans feel as you do. That is the essence, the beauty and the brilliance of the Colonial Compact. If this crisis tests that loyalty to the fullest, so be it. I believe Franklin and Burke recognized that there would be a litmus test, sooner or later. Perhaps that’s what your Mr. Jefferson really meant by his ‘firebell in the night.’
“You now know why I’m here and what steps I’ve been authorized to take to ensure that the wishes of Parliament and the King are carried out. I will require and will anticipate your all-out assistance. Is that perfectly clear, General?”
Wellington turned and marched toward the door, pausing to retrieve his cloak. “Winfield, you must help me resolve this dilemma, hopefully without bloodshed. We must convince Jackson and the South to accept this upcoming emancipation.
“Now, I am due at the Liaison Office for a private dinner with the staff. Strictly a morale booster, as we say. Bratton tells me Sir John, Layne and the staff are bored with Georgetown duty. Little do they know…
“I would very much enjoy accepting a supper invitation to your home tomorrow evening. We’ve spent so
much time here today that another official meeting tomorrow might raise warning flags. Besides, I’ve been invited to sit in on tomorrow’s Cabinet meeting. Doubtless, it will be a staged thing, but nevertheless…
“Then, I’m to dine with Mr. Van Buren. I’ll let you know how that turns out. Bye the bye, General, your Mr. Jefferson. Is there any truth to the rumor that this chap Burr whom Jefferson forced from office is the new Vice G-G’s natural father? I understand he may still be practicing law up in New York. Is it true that he and Jackson were once quite close? ”
Scott was nonplussed: Aaron Burr? Where the hell did that come from?
The Duke smiled at Scott’s look of amazement. “Well, I shall look forward to Mrs. Scott’s formal invitation. Think on all we’ve discussed, Winfield. We have a grave storm approaching. A ‘firestorm,’ if you will. Good night.”
Scott crossed the room in as close to a daze as he would permit himself and stood in the doorway. He heard the Duke address his aide:
“Oh, Lieutenant Wilder. Wasn’t necessary for you to wait around. I can find my own way back to The Residency. You may want to check in with General Scott, however…Good evening, Lieutenant.”
The front door of the War Department building shut behind him. It was 5:22 p.m.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Georgetown, D.C.
February 4, 1833:
Dave Harper had managed to see Count Renkowiitz’s daughter at last and had promised to tell Thomas about it over supper at the Golden Eagle. As the General’s meeting with the Duke of Wellington dragged on for so long, the Lieutenant wondered if he’d be able to keep the appointment. General Scott, however, had had little to say once Wellington left the War Department. He had simply instructed his aide to order up his carriage. So Tom had plenty of time to get back to his room and change into civilian clothes before meeting Harper at the Eagle at 7 p.m.
