by James Devine
“No, no, that’s not New York there,” he heard a crewman impatiently explaining to a nearby group of dazzled passengers as he pointed toward the easternmost land mass. “That’s Brooklyn there, behind Fort Hamilton and in from the Royal Naval Station. Behind Brooklyn is Long Island. The same landfall we sighted yesterday. There’s New York,” he added, pointing to the heavy cluster of buildings now becoming visible dead ahead. “And the big island we’re passing is Staten Island, with Jersey right behind it. Those cliffs are called the Palisades. They run north for 50 or more miles.”
The other passengers seemed impressed, even awed, by finally seeing their destination after some 29 interminable days at sea. Ignatieff, though, was furious, having realized that New York City was located on either a peninsula or an island. It didn’t matter which; what mattered was that he’d have to get back across to the western side, this “Jersey,” before he’d be able to start for Georgetown.
The Count knew his status as a steerage passenger ruled out obtaining any expert directions to his contact’s address. He decided to wait till he was ashore before asking questions. The contact, Vladislav Tretiak, lived or worked, according to the notes roughly pushed into his pockets by that damn Terravenessian, at 42 Christopher Street. Where in what appeared to be a quaint Dutch town minus only its dikes, Christopher Street was, he could only guess. Another hour and I’ll be off this damn wreck. I still intend to be in the saddle, if at all possible, later today.
___________
Ignatieff, when he reflected on it, had realized that the “seven-day” deadlines imposed by the Princess were meaningless. Who would know until well after the fact how long it had taken him to find Tretiak or then to get to the Consulate in Georgetown? And, anyway, the final result is all that matters; not how long it takes to arrive!
The Count waited impatiently until the upper class passengers had disembarked, then pushed roughly through the steerage crowd and, at long last, onto dry land. He strode off the dock to the adjoining thoroughfare, West Street, now almost devoid of the open and closed carriages that had jammed it when The Pride first docked. Now, only a few open wagons were left to cater to the remaining passengers, many of whom looked dazed or nervous over the prospect of what to do now that they were finally in New York.
Ignatieff grabbed a passerby and, in his ambiguous Eastern European accent, managed to learn, to his surprise and satisfaction, that Christopher Street met this West Street less than a mile north. Slinging his rough bundle of clothing and weapons over his shoulder---the Count intended to have Tretiak’s servants burn the damn clothes as soon as he established contact---he began to move north, the combination of slick cobblestone and his own paper-thin boots slowing his pace somewhat.
Roughly 20 minutes later---10:50 a.m.---he finally stood in front of 42 Christopher. To his disgust, he had been forced to trek east on Christopher some blocks from West Street, but to his relief had passed several stables. If Tretiak didn’t keep a stable of his own, several of the horses visible in and around the commercial stables looked healthy enough to at least start him on his way to Georgetown; as long as there was a way to ferry the beast across the damnable harbor!
The Count made his way up the steps of the old attached red brick house and banged impatiently on the door. After several more quick knocks, an old and obviously Irish servant woman answered and looked skeptically at the unshaven, dirty-haired apparition with the patch over one eye. He immediately pushed past her. In the vestibule, in clear, concise and upper class Russian, he demanded to know the whereabouts of her employer. At the blank look she returned, he switched to exasperated English: “Where is Mr. Tretiak? Is he here? Summon him at once, do you hear?”
Before the poor woman could react, the inner door to the vestibule opened and an elegant middle-aged man in a long brown robe of comfortable-looking fur stepped out.
“What is the problem here? What are you doing in my vestibule? Answer me!”
The Count’s features lit up in the wolf’s look that had startled and scared Princess Dorothea. Returning to Russian, he replied: “Nicholas Romanov sent me. He expects Vladislav Tretiak, born in the shadow of the Kremlin, to do his duty.”
There was a momentary flash in the merchant’s eyes. Then he stepped aside and, speaking in cultured Russian tones, invited the Count into his home.
___________
The sun, which had risen behind Brooklyn and lit up New York Harbor to the arriving travelers from England, had awakened Captain Harry Bratton in the private residence off the Broad Way that the Liaison Office maintained for senior visiting officers in Manhattan.
Bratton had ferried over from Hoboken Thursday afternoon and had dispatched his card to the law firm of Craft & Burr on Reade Street after settling in. He had requested a “private meeting with Mr. Burr on behalf of a newly-arrived representative of His Majesty’s government.” The confirmation card, signed by Burr in an elegant small script, proposed an 11:30 a.m. meeting “as I will be in court first thing tomorrow.”
With the evening to kill, Harry had amused himself with supper at the Shakespeare Tavern, a pleasant establishment with a literary bend he recalled from previous visits. Later, he had discovered that other, more private establishments of his recollection promised other charms, though to his disappointment at increased prices.
The Captain was still despondent that Joanne had been unavailable and that she had made a career of profiting from her uncommonly intense carnal desires. That would not stop him from sampling her delights after his return to Georgetown; but it seemed too bad that the ‘romance’ would probably not be there. Speaking of ‘sampling,’ he was at a loss as yet as to how to inquire after Candice Samples, if that was still her name. He had not been able, even at the Liaison reception for the Duke, to discreetly ask after her. Well, there’d be plenty of time for that. Perhaps he’d simply leave a card at her townhouse, if she still maintained the same one. Or, he’d send an innocuous message to Twin Peaks---that very aptly named plantation!
This morning he had walked the streets of the City, marveling that in contrast to Georgetown, New York was expanding at a faster rate than ever. Apparently, a recent fire had sparked a decision to cede lower Manhattan to commerce and industry, with the hotels, better restaurants and private homes moving gradually up the island. And the confidence of the burghers he had met last night! They foresaw development as far north as a line extending from Kip’s Bay to the Hudson! There’s an excitement here unlike anything in that sleepy little hamlet on the Potomac. This is the real capital of the Dominion…not that unhealthy little swamp!
He paused at the corner of Reade Street to compose his thoughts, then moved on toward the shingle proclaiming the ‘Law Offices of Craft & Burr.’
The door opened smoothly and the Captain stepped down into a waiting room of sorts, illuminated chiefly by the large front windows. Behind a desk that centered what were obviously two private offices sat a plump tow-haired man in his mid 20s whose air of pompous self-satisfaction was negated by the unsure glaze of his eyes as he regarded this impressive, erect visitor.
Typical doorkeeper, thought Harry. Wouldn’t bet against him being a son-in-law of one of the principals. “Good morning, or perhaps good afternoon. My name is Captain Harry Bratton, of His Majesty’s Coldstream Guards. I have an 11:30 appointment with Mr. Burr.”
The plump young man rose lethargically to his feet, his fat cheeks bulging. My God, does this fellow dine exclusively on mashed potatoes and Madeira?
“Ah yes, Captain. I’m Nelson Chase. Do take off your cloak. Colonel Burr has not yet returned from court, but I expect him at an…”
The door to the left side back office opened and a trim middle-aged man with a receding hairline and glasses shoved onto his forehead stepped out. “Bring Colonel Burr’s visitor into his office, Nelson, and pour him some tea. It’s not everyday we’ve a representative of the Crown…”
The man came around the outer desk and extended his hand. “I’m Mr.
Craft, the Colonel’s law partner. He should be back momentarily. Come into his office.” They walked into a darker room dominated by a roaring fireplace. A large desk, strewn with newspapers, legal documents and what appeared to be letters, was pulled up closer to the fire than seemed safe. A writing table and several casually scattered old chairs completed the scene. A window off a sidewall provided the only other light until Chase lit a desk-top lamp.
“The Colonel lit the fire himself before he left for court,” Craft explained. “The poor man is cold even in the August heat. Says he’s been that way since the Battle of Quebec.”
Craft laughed at the look of surprise on Bratton’s face. “No, Captain. Not Wolfe’s victory in 1763! And not the one in 1814 when General Scott finally put down the revolt, either.
“Colonel Burr, you see, was among those who marched into Canada in ’75 in that ill-fated---ill-planned---excursion during the unpleasantness of that terrible year. Why, they say that General Mont…”
“…gomery died in my arms. An exaggeration, of course, though more dramatic than the truth. But, when it comes to me, never let it be said that the fact defeated the fiction.”
A small, elegant figure stood in the doorway, resting easily on his cane, a fur hat pulled down over his ears and matching gloves on his small hands. Though age lines burst from the outside corners of his eyes like roads suddenly forking in several directions from single main highways, the eyes themselves retained their native shrewdness.
Taking off his cloak and hat and dropping them casually on his desk, Burr walked over to the fire and held his hands, still astonishingly gloved, over the fire. “General Montgomery was dead before he hit the ground. One of your sharpshooters atop the walls put a bullet between his eyes. Or perhaps it was a random, lucky shot. After all, it was snowing so hard I’m still not quite sure how close to the walls we were. At any rate, the General was dead when I picked him up and began the retreat. I’ve never shook the chill that invaded my bones on that awful pell-mell lurch back down to Lake Champlain in all the years since.”
The old man turned and grinned mischievously. “However, Captain, I doubt you’re from the Imperial War Museum. Don’t think you’re here to record a survivor’s account of that most unfortunate time. Sit down! Nelson, damn it, where’s the Captain’s tea? And bring me some fresh coffee, I’m still cold.”
Craft chuckled as he withdrew. Chase poured as ordered before excusing himself as well. The old man settled in behind his desk and studied the British officer intently. “Now then, Captain, I was intrigued to receive your note. What’s this all about?”
Bratton sipped his tea. Hot enough, but I should have told him to skip the sugar. Wonder if this old man has a cushion on that chair, or if the seat is raised up. He’s almost eye-to-eye, when I expected him to barely be able to see over the desktop.
“Mr. Burr…err, forgive me for not using your military title, but I was unaware you had one until walking into this office…”
“Quite all right Sir. Every living veteran of those days---and the survivors who aren’t veterans---claims to have been a senior officer in that bloody business. Unique experience, wouldn’t you say? Only time a force composed entirely of generals and colonels took on the British Army and lived to tell about it…” They both laughed.
Bratton began again: “Colonel Burr, there is no reason to keep the identity of His Majesty’s representative secret. The word will be all over New York in a matter of days. In fact, I’m somewhat surprised it hasn’t already reached here. Then again, Georgetown was still digging out of a heavy snow when I left Monday morning.”
Burr’s eyes had brightened at the mention of the capital but he remained silent as Harry continued.
“I accompanied the Duke of Wellington from London. We arrived in Baltimore Saturday past and rode immediately to Georgetown. The Duke determined on the trip across that you may have a role to play during the mission he is embarking on. I was dispatched to ascertain your availability.”
Burr laughed. “You mean to ‘ascertain’ whether I was still alive and alert, Captain.”
Bratton nodded. “Yes, Colonel, that was the general idea.”
The old man laughed again. “Well, Captain Bratton, and what will you report to the Duke concerning this doddering old rebel?”
“That you seem fit, mentally and physically, to play the role that the times may require.” Bratton was blunt yet elusive.
“And what role may that be, Captain? Is the Duke here to officiate at Jackson’s funeral? I know London has been secretly hoping for such a solemn event for these four years now. But I’m afraid I’m too old to be a pallbearer, even for my ancient friend, Andy.” Burr’s chuckle had a devilishly youthful sound.
“Hardly, Sir. The Governor-General appeared the picture of health at the formal welcoming ceremonies last Sunday…”
“Son,” the devilish chuckle broke in, “I’ve known ‘Old Hickory’ 40 years. He’s looked like death-warmed-over all that time. Means nothing, however. He’ll outlive us all.
“Now then, what’s this all about?”
Bratton rose and indicated the teapot. At Burr’s nod, he poured himself another cup. “Colonel Burr, the Duke wishes you to be prepared to travel, incognito if possible, to Georgetown at a moment’s notice within the next few weeks. I am not at liberty to give the reason; the Duke will brief you as necessary at the proper time. Suffice to say, Colonel, a crisis unlike any seen here since 1775 may be on the horizon. That’s why the King has dispatched the Duke to the USBA.”
Not a muscle in Burr’s face had moved but the original brightness in the old man’s eyes suddenly grew more luminous.
“The Duke feels your…influence…shall we say, not only with the Governor-General, but also with Mr. Van Buren, may be a decisive factor in the looming crisis.”
Again, Burr remained stoic. This must have been a hard man in his time, Bratton thought. I can see him having the rock-steady hand when he faced Hamilton. “So Colonel, are you willing and physically able to undertake this mission, if called on?”
Burr’s face lit with the look of an adolescent who has realized he can carry off a successful prank against the grown-ups.
“Indeed, Captain. I haven’t been to Georgetown since I walked out of the Senate Chamber at the end of my term in ’05. It will be worth the rigors of travel simply to know Jefferson will be turning over in his grave at the thought that I’ve returned to do more mischief…
“You may tell your Chief that I will be at his beck-and-call. By the Eternal! I can’t wait to see the look on Andy’s face when I enter his Residency!”
As Burr escorted him out the door some 15 minutes later after making arrangements to meet for supper, Bratton noted that the old man had never reacted to the reference to Martin Van Buren.
___________
Georgetown, D.C.
Early Evening
February 8, 1833:
General and Mrs. Scott were in their carriage, enroute to supper at Chief Justice Marshall’s home, when, while passing the Samples townhouse, Maria announced that Candice had arrived late in the afternoon. “She’s invited me to a late breakfast at 11 a.m., Win. Seeing as we have no plans until tomorrow evening, I sent back an affirmative response.”
The General smiled, relieved of the necessity of bringing up the subject himself. And also relieved that Bratton had obviously not gone to Twin Peaks. I’ll bet he’s already tracked down old Burr. Wellington was a little too cute on this one…
“Tell me, my dear,” he began, purposefully looking out the carriage window, “do you recall the Duke mentioning the other night that his aide had ‘left town for a few days’?”
Maria shook her head. “No, Winfield. Perhaps that went over my head. Or perhaps I was busy with the service at the time. I do recall seeing Captain Bratton at the Liaison reception last Sunday, however. Other than a longer forehead, he hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Hrrm, you mean he’s getting bald, don’t you my de
ar? He is, but that’s not why I bring him up. Wasn’t he rumored to be, ahem, among Candice’s admirers back when?”
“Yes, darling. During the plebiscite campaign in ’28, when Charles was off campaigning for Jackson. There was talk that Candice and the Captain had become ‘acquainted’…
“Oh, dear! I see where you’re headed. This could get sticky. Oh, dear!”
Scott looked directly at his wife. “Did Candice mention why she came down from Twin Peaks? Word hasn’t gotten out already about the state dinner for Wellington, I hope! Which, by the way, is restricted to those holding political, diplomatic and military titles, and their ladies. I suggested that to Jackson myself.”
Maria giggled. “Not in so many words, Winfield. But her note did mention that our get-together would give her a break from the ‘wilder things’ she has planned for the remainder of the weekend.”
Scott grunted. “Yes, no doubt. The Lieutenant must have a late morning meeting at The Residency. I recall him mentioning that he’d be checking in at the War Department first thing tomorrow. Let’s hope he doesn’t come up the steps on his hands and knees!”
“Winfield!” Maria roughly poked her husband in his massive chest. “Do you really think that’s all they do?”
Scott gently kissed his wife’s check. “Certainly not, my dear. Mainly, I expect they read ‘Caesar’s War Commentaries.’ Aloud. In the original Latin. Vini, vidi, vici!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
New York City
February 9, 1833:
Neither Bratton---by plan---nor Ignatieff---by necessity--had left the City that Friday. The Captain accepted Burr’s invitation to dine at 5 p.m. at a small restaurant on Water Street that featured, of all things, Italian food. The street sign proclaimed its name as “Luigi’s.” After an enjoyable meal with the fascinating old devil, he had stopped off at the Shakespeare Tavern for only a short time. His plans called for an early morning crossing back to Hoboken and the stable where he had left the horse belonging to the Royal Marines.
