by James Devine
Ignatieff, on the other hand, restlessly spent Friday afternoon being fitted for several new outfits that Tretiak insisted he’d need for the journey south. The Count had anticipated leaving immediately after a bath and shave, propelled by funds the merchant had immediately arranged for and clothed by whatever Tretiak could quickly obtain. But by the time the new clothes were ready and Ignatieff’s weapons cleaned and augmented by a sword and a small, two-shot revolver, it was too late to think of leaving till morning.
So Ignatieff reluctantly accepted Tretiak’s invitation to dine with the merchant and his wife. The long, congenial Russian-style dinner, accompanied by almost a dozen different white and red wines and the inevitable bottles of vodka, had the desired effect on the Count, who finally relaxed and went to bed early. He had been mildly interested to learn that Tretiak’s operations were not confined to New York, but included offices and warehouses in Providence, Baltimore and Richmond…wherever those exotic-sounding locales actually were! Naturally, he thought sourly, the man has nothing that would be helpful in Georgetown…
The two agents missed each other on the crossing, as the Captain took a 6 a.m. ferry to Hoboken, while Ignatieff, some 90 minutes later, boarded a small boat chartered by Tretiak which cut southwest across the harbor and landed the Russian in Sandy Hook. With that immediate early differential, the duo should never have come across each other on the journey. The Count, however, squandered part of his lead time in the search for an adequate horse. Ignatieff, who was used to commandeering any animal he wished at home, was infuriated by having to dicker with the insolent Jersey farmers. When he finally made a deal, it was late morning.
(He had discarded the idea of impersonating a minor nobleman of inconclusive national origin. After discussion with Tretiak---who knew only that he was on a special mission directly ordered by the Czar (the ‘Nicholas Romanov’ greeting had established his bona fides with the merchant St. Petersburg had quietly placed in New York years before)---Ignatieff had adopted the alias ‘Andre Karlhamanov.’ Karlhamanov was to be a dissident: a disillusioned Russian liberal and college professor whose wealthy family had worked out a deal to send him into exile in the USBA rather than to prison at home. Getting the necessary false documents had also taken time; in fact, Tretiak’s people had labored most of the night to produce them.)
And so it was that Bratton, whose overland travel exceeded the Russian’s by more than 20 miles, managed to arrive at the same Burlington County stop, Stegeman’s Cock & Bull Inn, less than 45 minutes after Ignatieff’s arrival. Nicholas, with the eye patch disguise (he had almost forgotten to pull it on before riding in), immediately sized up the British officer as potentially dangerous while he stood at the far end of the bar watching Bratton check in. For his part, the Captain paid little attention to the Russian agent as he hurried past the bar and made his way to his room.
Thanks to the loose mouth of the owner, a fat and 50-ish blond horror who seemed to bellow in a German accent her every word, the Count knew the British officer was assigned to the Liaison Office in Georgetown before Harry had had a chance to wipe the road’s mud off his face. “Headed back from New York,” she continued in booming tones to the short, skinny bartender who, it turned out, was her long-suffering husband. “Must have been a short stay. I remember him watering his horse here Wednesday afternoon…”
The bartender/husband glanced at Ignatieff and his other two customers, a local farmer and the village smithy, and shrugged his shoulders in a defeated, neutral way. “You hear all kinds of reports about these Liaison fellows. Some say they keep the Frenchie agents at bay. Other people think they’re just here to remind us who’s really in charge…”
The farmer shrugged his shoulders noncommittally, while the big smithy drained his beer and laughed. “As long as they help keep the doors open here and occasionally need to have their mounts reshod and their wagon and carriage wheels replaced, I say: ‘who cares!’ Let the soldier boys be.”
Ignatieff had been careful to leave his pistols and sword hidden in his clothes-roll in his room and had come into the bar with only his ever-present boot dagger and the small two-shot derringer he concealed in the waist band under his jacket. He had identified himself on signing the Inn’s lodging book as Karlhamanov, a visiting scholar seeking a look at this land of liberty and opportunity. That pose he maintained at the bar and, later, while eating alone at a fireside table.
He observed the big British agent come back into the bar, which began to fill up with others, obvious regulars whom the hen-pecked bartender greeted by name. Bratton got into a conversation with the smithy and another, better-dressed man, but between the constant barking of the proprietress and the rising level of bar noise, the Count was unable to follow Harry’s conversation.
As he sat eating a very good sauerbraten dinner and drinking a passable local red wine, he was able to study the Captain. Harry remained at the bar, having moved from hot rum to a Port the bartender claimed was imported. If this one’s regularly assigned to Georgetown, our paths will cross again. I’ll obtain his name tonight or tomorrow from the Inn’s book and then have the Consulate staff investigate. He looks too sharp to be assigned to a dull post like this…unless he’s being punished for some indiscretion. Ignatieff grinned. Then again, he could be in command of this ‘Liaison Office,’ whatever that is… No matter, I’ll know all about this big Englishman within a week.
Although he had no idea who the man was---and certainly wasn’t on guard for signs of Russian espionage---Bratton had of course sized up the wiry yet broad shouldered, black-haired, athletic-looking man with the eye patch who kept to himself, uttering as few words as possible in an Eastern European accent as yet unidentifiable. He’s definitely a traveler, Harry thought. Question is: which way is he headed? Bratton, who hated to eat at a table alone, had finally ordered at the bar. His steak medallions in a red wine sauce were surprisingly good for a country inn in the middle of nowhere. Then again, except for some hard bread and cheese washed down with lukewarm tea from his canteen, taken during a noontime break to feed and water his horse, he hadn’t eaten since dining with Burr the previous evening.
That meal, or rather, the conversation, was more on the Captain’s mind than was the identity of the one-eyed traveler. Burr had proven a fascinating dining companion, a gentleman of impeccable manners who was as good a listener as a conversationalist.
The old man had reminisced about first meeting Jackson back in the ‘90s, when Burr had been a Senator from New York and the future G-G came to Philadelphia as Tennessee’s first delegate to Congress. He had been---or so it seemed---remarkably candid about the Western adventures that had landed him under arrest on the infamous treason charge. “‘Old Hickory’ was eager to testify but we didn’t need him,” Burr said. “It all boiled down to what legally and constitutionally constitutes treason, according to John Marshall, who presided in his role as chief judge of the Dominion circuit court that included Virginia. Jefferson simply had no proof that I planned, indicated or tried to separate our then-Southwestern lands from the Dominion to set up another country. One to also include lands then belonging to France!”
Burr was also willing to comment on more current events:
“...those idiots in South Carolina. Jackson was right to send in the Coastal Guard. Should have sent Scott down with a couple good regiments, too…
“I’m afraid of this Bank business; Andy has a blind spot when it comes to economics! You kill the Bank and I think all this prosperity we’re enjoying now could dry up soon enough. All these ‘little’ banks he wants to replace it with! Isn’t it easier and more sensible to regulate the actions of one Dominion Bank than try to keep hundreds of little ones on the straight and narrow?”
However, he danced deftly around the subject of the Vice G-G when Harry brought it up:
“I’ve known Matty Van since he came to Manhattan around the turn of the century. Was originally from Kinderhook, up by Albany, you know. I admire the quiet progressio
n of his career; the way he gets things done so effortlessly!”
The old man grinned ruefully. “There seemed to be controversy in anything I tried to do. Jefferson, the Clinton family here in New York State, my old friend Hamilton… Matty simply has the ‘touch,’ if you will, that so many other would-be leaders so unfortunately lack. Myself included!”
But that was as close to the genesis of the Burr-Van Buren relationship as the old man would go.
Having finished his steak, Bratton was lingering over a final glass of Port when the stranger in the eye patch rose from his table and made his way back to the bar. “I believe I heard earlier this evening that you, too, sir, are traveling to Georgetown?” the stranger asked in an accent that Bratton guessed might be Russian.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” Harry replied with some surprise. “And may I ask how you discerned that from your table by the fire?”
“From the, shall we say, ‘proclamation’ of our hostess… I see that my knowledge does not please you. A thousand pardons, sir.
“I am sorry but I’m unfamiliar with military protocol, to say nothing of military insignia, here in your country.” The Count, who was well aware that Bratton’s uniform was British Army and his rank that of Captain, lied smoothly. “You see, I myself have only arrived in America in the past few days. I am on my way to Georgetown and thought perhaps we could ride together tomorrow. If that is against the custom here, I withdraw the suggestion.”
Bratton sipped his Port and smiled. “Our hostess, eh! Yes, I can believe that!
“Well, sir, I will be on the road by 6 a.m. If you are an early riser, I have no objection to your accompanying me.”
Yes you certainly are a British officer, Ignatieff thought. However, he swallowed any retort to the Englishman’s condescension: “It would be an honor, ah…”
“Captain Harry Bratton of His Majesty’s Coldstream Guards. Temporarily attached to the Liaison Office in Georgetown. And you, sir?”
“I am Andre Karlhamanov. I teach at the university in St. Petersburg. I am on sabbatical and hope to study the wonders of your country.”
“Well, Mr. Karlhamanov, to do that you’d have to sail to England. This is not, technically, ‘my country.’ Or anyone else’s, either… But the USBA is a vibrant part of the Empire. You are welcome to study the ‘wonders’ of this place. They do not include, however, that frightfully dull little village on the Potomac!”
For my purposes, they do, my dear Captain. However: “I must begin my tour by notifying our Consulate of my arrival, Captain. Only then am I free to move around the USBA.”
“Well, Mr. Karlhamanov…”
“Please, call me Andre. Even for a Russian, my name is a jawbreaker…”
“Well then, Andre, I, for one, need my sleep. I left New York at 6 a.m. and the same time tomorrow will come much too soon. I intend to pay my tab and go to bed.”
“I, too, Captain, was up early. I will meet you outside at 6 a.m. Good evening.”
Ignatieff left his unfinished drink on the bar and, bowing from the waist, turned and left. Despite his announced intention to leave, Bratton ordered one more as he thoughtfully reviewed their conversation. A Russian intellectual touring the Dominion? Perhaps. Worth keeping an eye on, once we’re in Georgetown. I’ll have Major Layne’s people investigate…
___________
Georgetown, D.C.
February 9, 1833:
There was nothing of urgency in the overnight reports a yawning Lieutenant Wilder shifted through shortly after 8 a.m. The latest from the Minnesota portion of the Michigan Territory indicated that the Sioux had vanished; apparently back to the distant Black Hills to go into winter quarters. There was no word yet from General Taylor in New Orleans on whether Sam Houston had been sighted. There was word, however, that some Comanche had been encountered in early December by the Dragoons along the Red River near the Arkansas border with Mexican Texas. That news snapped the Lieutenant, who had of course been awake most of the night, out of his Candice-induced lethargy. That was his old outfit. He hoped Captain Patterson and the boys had emerged unscathed. They were a good outfit that he remembered fondly…now that he was a thousand miles away!
General Scott’s usual Saturday routine included dropping by the War Department about 11 a.m. after meeting politicians and/or senior government officials for an information-sharing early breakfast. By then the Lieutenant had normally gathered any late-breaking Residency information to augment whatever had arrived at the Department overnight. Knowing that his aide had intended to come in early before heading to The Residency for some sort of meeting, the General decided to make an early appearance himself. Breakfast could wait…old Justice Marshall’s cook had outdone herself last night.
A skeleton crew manned the War Department on Saturdays. Scott saw no need for his men to kill time at their desks if nothing of importance was popping. Cass, the civilian boss, had not taken the administrative reins and was never seen himself, at any rate, on weekends. Thomas was virtually alone except for the clerks who were sorting yesterday’s late arriving mail.
So the Lieutenant was surprised by the sudden call to attention. Scott strode in, opening his military cloak as he walked and indicating with a nod of his huge head for Thomas to gather up his papers for an impromptu briefing. The Lieutenant was just heading into Scott’s office when the General suddenly reappeared; no one had thought to make his coffee at this early hour. Grumbling, Scott settled for the remnants of the morning’s first pot of tea.
“Well Lieutenant, you look fresh enough this morning. Early night?”
The gleam in the General’s eyes told Tom all he needed to know: Scott was obviously aware of Candice’s occupancy of her townhouse…and his own overnight stay. How the devil does he do it? I didn’t even tell Harps where I was going last night…
“Well Sir, the G-G wants a final review of the state dinner menu and invitation list this morning before they go off to the printer, so I thought I’d better get here first. That meeting’s set for 11 a.m. and there’s no telling how long it will take, especially since I understand the Calhouns are back in town.” Maybe that’ll shift the Old Man’s attention away from last night…
Scott’s bushy---‘shrub-like’ might be a better description, thought Tom---eyebrows rose at the mention of the South’s leading fire-eater. But the diversionary tactic still didn’t work.
“Calhoun, eh? Well, that should liven up your meeting across the street! Good thing you got a good night’s rest…
“So, what do we have this morning? And you can omit anything from Portsmouth, unless those idiots have started firing at one another. I’m in too good a mood to let the childishness up there ruin my weekend.”
(In an economy move the previous year, the Royal Navy and Coastal Guard stations in the New Hampshire port had merged, with the old CG station sold to private fishing interests. The turf battles, which actually included---to Scott’s disgust---reveille times and tunes, had been endless. Additionally, the on-going off-duty tensions had increased; two weeks prior, a squad of USBA Marines had invaded a favorite tavern of their Royal counterparts. At last report, more than a dozen combatants were still hospitalized.)
The Lieutenant gave a short rundown of the overnight mail, emphasizing the lack of information from Louisiana and the news from Arkansas. (There was nothing new from Portsmouth.) With an exasperated shake of his head at the news that still another Indian tribe apparently was looking for trouble, the General was blunt: “Looks like those Dragoons could be in for some action this Spring. The Comanche have not come across the Red River before but our new settlements up there might look like juicy targets. Can Captain Patterson handle things?”
Tom was nonplused at the General’s question. But his boss apparently expected an answer.
“Come on Lieutenant, you served in that outfit,” Scott said with a trace of annoyance. “Is Patterson capable of handling an incursion by these Comanche?”
“Yes Sir. Steve Patt
erson can handle things. And E Troop’s a good unit. I don’t know much about the Comanche, but E Troop’ll hold them across the River.”
“Good. Now, about Calhoun…” The conversation turned to the guest list and the need to make sure the new Senator from South Carolina was on it. Tom wasn’t sure why, but Scott wanted Wellington to find out for himself as soon as possible what a zealot the Carolinian was. That made it mandatory that the Calhouns be present Wednesday afternoon. Yet the G-G must think the invitation his own idea.
“You do understand that, Lieutenant? The G-G’s first inclination will be to ban the Calhouns. However long it takes, you and Donelson can not leave that meeting without Jackson’s direction to invite them. I don’t care if you’re there till after nightfall… So, if you have other plans for the weekend, be quickly persuasive. Understood? Now, be on your way.”
Thomas stood and saluted, then turned and walked across the room. As he reached for the doorknob, Scott stopped him.
“And Lieutenant! Enjoy your weekend.” Tom could have sworn the General had winked…
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On the Road to Georgetown
February 10-12, 1833:
The Russian ‘scholar’ was dressed and tying his clothes-roll behind his horse’s saddle when Harry Bratton walked out of the Inn in the predawn darkness. The Captain had passed a restless night; something about Karlhamanov bothered him, though he could not quite put a finger on it.
Nevertheless, the duo was soon on the road, with the Russian inquiring only how far Bratton expected them to make this day.
“As long as we connect with the Delaware Bay ferry at the precise time, we should manage to make northern Maryland by dusk, Andre. But if we have to wait for a ferry, we’ll be forced to lodge tonight in southern Delaware. That will turn this ride into a full four-day jaunt.”
