by James Devine
Since the subject was to be Caroline Renkowiitz, Tom was surprised to see Joanne Casgrave sitting with Harps in a back booth. Something about the woman gave off danger signals, but he chose to ignore them. At least with her around, I know the food will be good. Nothing since breakfast again today, with all this Wellington business. And even that was just tea and a biscuit. Damn, I’m starved; thirsty, too.
“Hello David. If is this a private conversation, I’ll wait at the bar…”
“Nonsense, Tom, sit down. Joanne was thrilled to hear you were coming.”
Tom was immediately on guard. Thrilled, huh? Since when? “Hello Joanne, good to see you.”
“Hello Lieutenant.” The petite woman flashed that patently false -modest smile that he had first detected when Harper returned from New Jersey. “As chilled as you look on this nasty night, I’m still betting you want a nice cold beer…and I have two steaks sitting in the kitchen with David’s and your names on them.”
Before Tom could even agree, Mrs. Casgrave had signaled the bartender, Richard, who responded by sending a tall, buxom blond waitress with a foaming mug for Tom, Port for Harper and a small glass of whiskey for herself.
Seeing the tall emaciated man’s quick response, Harps asked Joanne: “How is it working out with Lawrence? Still resentful and moody?”
She smiled in a way that Tom didn’t like. “I have him under control. He’s really a lamb, unless he gets into the gin. So I make sure he doesn’t... And I make sure he’s taken care of when he’s off duty. Sleeps in a little room downstairs, you know.”
Harper laughed at Tom’s look of bafflement. “The bartender, Richard. His last name is Lawrence. Gets into these spells where he thinks he’s the King of England…or should be. Joanne says it’s the gin, but I have to think he’s a little off his rocker to begin with.”
Joanne seemed to purr as she grabbed at Harper’s arm, playfully. “David, really! Of course, you’re right. He is a bit strange. Blames Andy Jackson for keeping him from the throne. Imagine! But when he’s on the straight-and-narrow, which is where I keep him, he’s not that bad. That’s with the gin locked away, though.” She purred again and Tom could begin to smell the perfume she was wearing, even with the combined smoke of a dozen cigars lit at tables across the taproom.
“Joanne has something she wants to ask you, Tom,” Harps said, draining his Port. He smiled at the dark-haired woman cuddled up next to him and Thomas began to wonder if they would attack each other right at the booth. At least Candice has the class to wait till we’re alone, he thought with a hidden grin.
Now the patented false-modest girlish look was again aimed his way. “Yes, Tom. I know you’re involved at the highest levels at both The Residency and the War Department…”
Jaysus, Mary and Joseph. Here it comes. What does she want, an invitation to the Wellington state dinner? He put down his beer mug and waited.
“David says you escorted the Duke of Wellington from Baltimore the other day. He had an aide with him. Do you recall his name?” She smiled innocently.
It’s a good thing I don’t have any beer in my mouth. I’d either choke on it or spit it over the table, right towards both your faces. “Of course, Joanne. It’s Captain Bratton, whom David has undoubtedly corresponded with at the American Office in London.”
Harper was astonished. “Harry Bratton? What’s he doing here?”
Tom smiled. “Like I said, Dave, it’s ‘Captain’ Harry Bratton, late of the Coldstream Guards. Apparently, he’s been on what they call ‘half-pay’ while at the American Office but was recalled to active duty for this trip. A friend of yours, Joanne?”
“I met him socially when he was here several years ago at the Liaison Office. A friend of my late husband’s, actually. You didn’t know my husband, Major Casgrave, by any chance, Lieutenant?” She smiled coyly.
“No, unfortunately, I did not, Joanne.” And neither did Harry Bratton, I’m willing to bet, unless ‘Major’ Casgrave was a procurement officer. In the Biblical sense…
“What made you think Captain Bratton might have come with the Duke?”
“Oh, I received a cryptic message the other night. The kind of thing my dear husband said Captain Bratton was known for.” She paused. “So he is here in Georgetown, then?”
I’ll be damned, Tom realized. Harps doesn’t seem jealous in the least. That’s a relief. Glad he’s just having a good time…still, this is one devious woman. Don’t trust her one damn bit. “Well, haven’t seen him since the welcoming ceremony yesterday afternoon, but my guess is he’s still here. He’s probably tied up tonight though. Wellington’s dining with the Liaison Office staff. He may have some free time in the next few days. I understand the Duke may not start immediately on a tour of the South, as originally planned. Wants to rest up after his journey.”
The steaks arrived and Joanne rose, after planting a kiss full on David’s lips. “I’ll leave you two alone to eat while I see how my other customers are doing.” She smiled coquettishly at Thomas. “David and I will be having after-supper drinks, Tom. Perhaps you’ll join us? Many of the girls have remarked on the handsome Lieutenant who comes here much too infrequently…”
I don’t think so. I’m beginning to not like the atmosphere here. Well, there are other taverns in Georgetown. “Thanks, Joanne, but not tonight. In fact, not any night, at least till Wellington leaves. I’m basically on-call 24 hours a day until then. Thanks, anyway. I just about have time to enjoy my steak. Then I’ll be off.”
Joanne managed to look disappointed, with her same downcast eyes’ little-girl smile. “Next time, then. And don’t be a stranger.” She turned and walked away, her compact behind swaying provocatively.
Thomas looked over at David, whose eyes were still fixed on the petite black-haired woman: “So Harps, and how is the beautiful young Countess Caroline?”
The Interior Department man grinned. “Looking very good, Lieutenant, at last night’s Liaison Office affair. And where were you? The Countess asked.”
Tom looked surprised. “I wasn’t invited, Dave. And how did you worm your way in?”
Harper was indignant. “I did no such thing. I was there officially, representing the Department!”
“Oh, of course: a ‘high Interior Department official’ such as yourself! How could I have forgotten?” The two friends grinned at each other.
“Actually Thomas, Mr. MacLane hasn’t arrived in town yet and Van Buren was invited in his new role of Vice G-G. The invitation was just going to waste, so…”
Thomas snickered as he chewed his as-ordered medium rare steak. “So you seized the opportunity. I only hope you didn’t ‘seize’ the Countess too closely. You know that without me there to hold you back, there’s always the possibility of an international incident…”
Harps touched his cloth napkin to his lips primly. “I was the epitome of a gentleman. However, I was able to arrange to go riding with her Sunday, weather permitting.”
Thomas flashed an impressed look, but couldn’t resist: “That’s if Joanne lets you out of her bed in time to keep your date.”
David took the kidding in stride. “On Sundays, Joanne usually sleeps late. Then again, she doesn’t get to sleep till near dawn…
“And how are things at Cranford Plantation, Lieutenant? Or should I instead inquire about the Maryland countryside?”
Tom looked down at his plate in disgust. “I wouldn’t know how things are at Cranford, David. She still thinks I intentionally missed our supper engagement a few weeks ago…”
“Does she still think you were with the Mistress of Twin Peaks?” David could not resist laughing, even as an immediate scowl appeared on Tom’s face.
“How would I know? Lucille won’t communicate with me. She kept returning my notes till it got kind of silly to keep sending them. For all I know, this farce may have driven her permanently into the arms of the Artillery.”
Tears of laughter were running down David’s checks and he barely managed to get out
the next question: “And the Widow Samples? Seeing much of her these days?”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Harper, I was invited to spend the upcoming weekend at Twin Peaks. But those arrangements were made before the Duke showed up. I sent Candice a note late yesterday that I would be unable to travel outside Georgetown this weekend, but would be free, though on-call, here in town. I’m expecting an answer tomorrow or Wednesday. That townhouse is a major upgrade over my room at the Indian Queen…”
“And Candice Samples is a ‘major upgrade’ over any of Joanne’s ‘girls,’ and…” Harper drained another glass of Port, “…a lot richer, too. Something for you to give serious thought to, Lieutenant. Ah, Joanne’s beckoning me. Sure you won’t stay? Variety’s the spice, they say.”
Tom rose and pulled on his cloak. “Yeah, and it’ll be the death of you. Good night, Harps.”
___________
Somewhere in the MidAtlantic
January 29, 1833:
Count Nicholas Ignatieff, still dressed in the increasingly dirty and distasteful clothes of an English workingman, had already recovered from the shock of his ill-fated London visit. Behind a patch over his perfectly good but twin-colored eye that further disguised him, he had put his bitterness and anger at those in the London embassy aside---they’ll be dealt with in due time, he thought, grimly---and quickly moved to the problems and opportunities ahead.
He had been given the name and address of a Russian merchant in New York, along with certain identifying papers. After a quick outfitting by the merchant, the Count intended to be in the saddle for Georgetown within hours of making port. He expected to reach the capitol in four-to-five days, as he vaguely recalled that New York was some 200 miles northeast of Georgetown.
Ignatieff intended to present himself at the Consulate as a private Russian of means, possibly borrowing the identity of the New York merchant. He would then reveal himself to Renkowiitz, whom he had never encountered. Renkowiitz, of course, would have no way of knowing about the unfortunate events in London (that bastard Terravenissian had said that this damnable old wreck, The Pride of the Hudson, was the only vessel crossing the Atlantic for weeks). He would act towards Renkowiitz as if nothing had happened. By the time the Counsel-General receives any word from London or St. Petersburg (and Ignatieff doubted such news would be passed on to a mere C-G in such a backwater city), I will have taken control of the Consulate under the emergency directive issued me by the Czar himself (of which that damn Dorothea obviously was unaware).
Ignatieff planned a dual life once he reached Georgetown: inside the Consulate, he would mobilize whatever professional staff he would find to aid in the agitating of and comfort for whatever potential rebels he could identify in his outside role as an adventurous member of minor Eastern European nobility. (Doubtless these unsophisticated British Americans would be unable to distinguish between a Russian and other East Europeans, especially with Ignatieff’s gift for language and accents).
The Count was well aware of the potential consequences of failure but dismissed them disdainfully. If the British have sent their most distinguished public figure over here, they’re clearly worried that this abolition issue is potentially explosive. All I need do is identify the most serious and strongest opponents—and then light the fuse.
That’s if and when this miserable excuse for a ship ever sights land…
___________
Georgetown, D.C.
February 4, 1833:
Captain Bratton had escorted the Duke to and from the Liaison Office affair and had now given up hope of stopping in at the Golden Eagle. The Duke had actually seemed to enjoy himself with the staff. He had lingered until almost 10 p.m., some six hours after the reception-and-dinner had begun.
Now, back at The Residency at 10:40 p.m., Bratton debated whether to slip over to the Eagle, but decided against it, not relishing the chance that Joanne was again ‘operating’--as that ignorant fool of a bartender had put it--with a ‘customer.’ No, he thought, not worth it tonight, not when I leave for New York tomorrow morning.
The Duke had reiterated his Ocean-crossing orders to locate this Aaron Burr and determine whether he was in both mental and physical condition to aid in the upcoming crisis. (Implicit in this, of course, was to determine Burr’s own political views, if the old man still held any. And his feelings toward Jackson.) “This chap Burr may be our ‘ace-in-the-hole,’” the Duke had said in the carriage returning from the Liaison Office. “I received the distinct impression from General Scott that while Burr may be a half-forgotten man, he still holds the keys to some impressive skeleton-infested closets in political circles over here. It’s imperative we open a secret line of communication to him. Jackson is going to be, as my old British American troops on the Peninsula would say, ‘a tough nut to crack.’
“Well, Burr may simply represent one more hammer. What time do you depart tomorrow morning?”
___________
Fort Hill Plantation, S.C.
February 4, 1833
John C. Calhoun was in a hurry. Even though the new Congress would not convene for another two weeks, the newly-elected Senator from South Carolina wanted to be in Georgetown by the end of the week.
“There’s much work to be done even before the Senate organizes for this special session,” he told his wife Floride as their carriage carried them away from their beloved home and toward Charleston, where they would board a coastal steamer for the trip to the capitol. “I am determined to see this tariff issue settled to the South’s satisfaction, whether that damnable traitor to our interests, Jackson, agrees or not. And we must be prepared for whatever other mischief the Yankees may have in mind! At least Jackson is on the right side of this Bank issue. That abomination must be destroyed before the Yankees can use it to finance all their damn internal improvement projects!”
Floride, whose lifework---despite the 10 children she had borne John--seemed to consist mainly of calming down her fiery spouse, smiled softly. “Now, Mr. Senator,” she said gently as she inserted the needle, “weren’t you once for tariffs, a national bank and internal improvements, as I recall?”
“Yes, damn it, and as you well know I repudiated those youthful mistakes in the Essay!”
Furious at his loss in last year’s nullification battle, Calhoun had retreated to Fort Hill to pen the ‘South Carolina Exposition and Protest,’ a now-famous rejection of all the Dominionist philosophy he had once advocated. At the same time, he became the first man to resign the vice governor-generalship, instead electing to stand for the Senate. The South Carolina Legislature had overwhelming voted to send him back to Georgetown.
“You see, dear Floride, it is not simply the present battles we must fight. We must maintain the South’s hold on government so that these despicable Abolitionists can not move against us. Despite my other disagreements with the G-G, I appaulded his speech to the Mississippi Legislature last spring. We must have room to expand into the southwestern lands of Texas and beyond. If we can not grow our Southern way of life in that area, adding Senators and Congressmen who will join our fight, then the Abolitionists will one day grow strong enough elsewhere to believe it their right to tamper in our internal affairs, damn them!
“Nullification is an issue that goes far beyond the question of tariffs, as odious as that one is. Why in God’s name can’t Jackson see that?”
Floride looked at her husband in concern. “John, you haven’t articulated that particular position before. Do you think the Yankees mean to intrude into the private life of the South?”
Calhoun’s look of red-faced fierceness softened as he turned to his wife. “Not any time in the immediate future, my dear. But I have followed the local elections in the Northeast closely these past few years. The Abolitionists are gaining strength. There will be a showdown, though I expect it’s a decade or more off. I’ve corresponded with some of the others---Hayne, Troup, Gilmer---and they all agree. The Southern caucus will meet privately before Congress reconvenes.
That’s why we’re going up there so early.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Georgetown, D.C.
February 8, 1833:
Winfield Scott was a Dominionist. But his allegiance to the union of the states and to the British Empire, in which, he was certain, the USBA was to play an ever-increasingly important role, did not stop him from closely watching political developments in his native Virginia.
So it was that Scott, over dinner at his home two nights before, had suggested that Wellington might like to sit down with John Floyd, the iconoclast governor of the ‘Old Dominion.’ Floyd, a long-time Congressman, had been elected governor in 1830 and had immediately embarked on a stunningly bold economic program (stunning at least for a Southern governor and state) that included a network of state-subsidized internal improvements designed to make Virginia, in his words, “a commercial empire.” Although a staunch states rights man, he also opposed slavery as economically inefficient. Originally a Jackson supporter, he had felt betrayed when, after declining renomination for his secure House seat in 1827 in order to work for ‘Old Hickory’s’ gubernatorial-general run, Jackson had failed to reward him with a cabinet post. The rift had continued throughout the G-G’s first term.
All in all, Scott believed, a man the Duke should see.
(Scott, of course, did not know that Floyd had been London’s secret hope in the recent G-G plebiscite. (Floyd had finished third, receiving only South Carolina’s 11 electoral votes.) Palmerston’s blue ribbon committee had put his name near the top of the short list of men Wellington needed to contact immediately on reaching the USBA.)
So, with time to kill before The Residency state dinner now planned for the following Wednesday, February 13, there was plenty of time for the Duke to ride down to Richmond. Wellington had of course agreed but had surprised Scott by mentioning that Major Layne would accompany him. It seemed that Captain Bratton had already left town…
