by James Devine
___________
With the Duke seen safely across Pennsylvania Avenue to the Blair house, Harry suddenly found himself free for the first time since his arrival night in Georgetown. And with his afternoon and evening cut out for him tomorrow due to the state dinner, he decided that tonight he would visit the Golden Eagle.
Cleaned up and attired in a freshly-laundered Coldstream Guards uniform, dress sword attached, he made his way the several blocks to the Eagle a bit past 6:30 p.m. Pausing at the door, he wondered how he would find Joanne after the passage of some four years: would she have missed him, or had too much time---and too many men---erased him from her mind?
He strode into the taproom and shook his head at the sight of the same tall, emaciated bartender. A boisterous crowd of what appeared to be young government officials had taken over the bar area and most of the room, while the obligatory lobbyists sat aloof with their clients nearer the fires and in the alcoves. Joanne was nowhere to be seen, but the tawdry buxom blond waitress he remembered as the heavy-handed Kathy spotted him as he shouldered his way through the crowd. He had already ordered Claret when Kathy put down her tray next to him. After yelling her order to the bartender, she turned to Harry and ventured a crooked-toothed smile.
“The proprietress is making her rounds in the back dining room, Sir Galahad. Shall I tell ‘Mi Lady’ you’re here?”
Bratton shook his head and eased sideways. The woman’s breathe, even at this early hour, smelled of cheap liquor and tobacco. “That will not be necessary. I plan on dining here tonight. I’m sure Mrs. Casgrave will be out at some point.”
“Ah, you can be sure of that, Colonel. Especially when she hears there’s a fine example of British nobility all alone here at the bar.” Gathering up her orders, Kathy fought her way back through the crowd.
Even without a word from her waitress, it did not take Joanne long to emerge. Leaning against the bar and looking towards the back dining room, Harry caught sight of her as she pushed her way through the swinging doors. The petite, long-haired brunette---Harry could see that she hadn’t gained an ounce in four years---looked out over the crowded taproom before glancing at the bar. Her black eyes began to glow and the charming little-girl smile he had loved---even after he had realized how fraudulent it could be---suddenly blossomed on her lean, dark face dominated by high, Indian-style cheekbones.
Joanne made her procession across the room, stopping at the occasional table and to listen to a whispered comment or two by standing patrons, but steadily working her way towards Harry.
“Well, Captain Bratton, a long time…”
“Hello, Joanne. Yes, 46 months and 43 days, to be precise.”
The innkeeper’s smile turned pouty. “I was referring, Captain, to the 11 days since you rode into Georgetown with the Duke of Wellington…”
“But my dear, I left town Monday a week ago and returned just this afternoon. I did call the night I arrived but you were, ah, otherwise occupied.”
Joanne cast her eyes down and came up with her fabled look of innocence. “Hm, well, if that’s the case, I forgive you. Now, I have to mingle with my customers, dear Harry, but you and I will share a late supper after the backroom clears out a bit.” She paused and again cast her eyes demurely down before continuing. “Unless you have other plans?”
Well, this looks to be an evening to remember, he thought. “Not at all. I’ll be right here when you’re finished with your guests.”
She reached up on her toes and kissed his check, her lips sliding over towards his right ear. “We’ll make the extra 10 day wait worthwhile, won’t we?” She then broke the embrace and turned back into the crowd of on-lookers, more than one of whom had realized his plans for the evening would not come to fruition.
___________
As he had sworn he would, Lieutenant Wilder had found other places---notably the Indian Queen’s own taproom---to relax and enjoy his late meals recently. Tonight, however, he had agreed to meet David Harper at the Eagle. With Wellington in town and the Congress shuffling back in for the special session, they had not been able to coordinate their schedules for any daytime meals…or nocturnal adventures.
Harps had managed to go riding with the Countess Caroline Sunday afternoon as planned. Tom was eager to hear about it; and relieved it had apparently produced no international repercussions after all. But as he walked in and saw the female innkeeper holding on to Captain Bratton, Tom immediately realized the evening held the promise of degenerating into a farce, in which he, for once, would be only a happy spectator.
Tom quickly saw that the Captain, whose embrace with the proprietress was just breaking up, had no way of seeing him in the crowd. The Lieutenant moved quietly to the end of the bar nearest the front doors and ordered a cold beer, then waited for the final actor in tonight’s comedy to make his appearance.
Dave Harper strode in minutes later and, glancing around quickly, spotted Lieutenant Wilder. He fought his way next to him. “Well, Tom, I see you’re still on your feet. What happened? Did the Mistress of Twin Peaks stay in the Maryland horse country all weekend? Or did General Scott keep you too busy to add a new chapter to your legend?”
Tom grinned contentedly and allowed himself another pass on his beer mug before answering: “Not at all, Harps. Candice arrived Friday afternoon and we spent the majority of the weekend cozily camped out at her townhouse… Of course, I had to hit the pillow very early last evening to restore my strength. But it’s your weekend that we’re here to discuss.” He gestured at the bartender, who was sullenly refilling order after order. “What will you have?”
Harps, surprisingly, ordered a beer and then turned to his friend. “Well, Lieutenant, aside from the fact that one of the damn Cossacks seemed to be in the saddle along with me and the other rode between us, my Sunday afternoon with the Countess went well. She’s a fascinating person…”
Wilder nearly choked on his beer as his eyebrows went up in imitation of his commanding officer: “Of course. It’s her inquisitive mind with its superior Russian education that attracts you…”
Harps was indignant: “Hell, Tom, she speaks four languages. That’s damn near as many as you. And she does have an inquisitive mind. She has a fair grasp on the workings of our government and the political situation here.” He grinned at his friend. “And, she wondered how you’re making out with the, as she called her, ‘formidable Miss Latoure.’”
“She didn’t really call Lucille formidable?”
“Actually, she used a Russian adjective that I understand might best not be translated precisely in polite society.” They both grinned.
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I got the feeling at the Christmas reception that Caroline had a pretty good idea of what was going on. So what’s her background? And how come she’s sticking it out here? They say her mother lasted less than a month. This must seem like an Indian village compared to St. Petersburg.”
Dave was beginning to tell the Lieutenant that the Renkowiitzs were poor and very minor Russian nobility, despite Caroline’s mother’s pretensions, to whom any diplomatic post was a Godsend. But then he spotted the imposing British officer standing near the center of the bar in the now slowly-clearing taproom.
“That tall Brit over there, Tom. Have you seen him before?”
“Of course, Dave. Rode down from Baltimore with him last week. That’s your American Office contact, Harry Bratton. Though this month he’s obviously using his military title.”
“Huh. So that’s Bratton. Looks like he’s waiting for someone. Couldn’t guess who that might be, now…”
The two friends grinned at each other again. “What’s the matter, Harps? Aren’t you going to do battle for your lady’s hand?” Tom was pleased with himself for once being the one to insert the needle.
Harps was having none of it, however. “When and if I find a lady, I’ll let you know, Lieutenant Wilder. If you’re referring to Mrs. Casgrave, if I were willing to ‘do battle’ for that lady’s hand
, the dead would already be littering this taproom…”
The two laughed aloud. Tom was relieved that his suspicions concerning David’s feelings for the brothel madam had proven correct.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Dave. I had a feeling you were none too serious. Glad to have that confirmed.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Tom. She’s actually a lot of fun---if you don’t cross her---and great in the sack; in fact, she’s even taught me a few new tricks. But nothing to get emotional about.” Harper drained his beer and signaled Richard for another round. “Course, if she owned a plantation that takes up half of Maryland, it might be a different story…”
Tom laughed as Dave’s eyebrows, which had risen halfway up his forehead, retreated to their normal position. “Hey, it’s your love life we’re here to discuss tonight, Mr. Harper, not mine.”
“True enough, Lieutenant, but just remember: being the squire of Twin Peaks isn’t the worst way to go through life.” It was the second time Harps had gently reminded his friend of his once-in-a-lifetime chance to court a millionairess…a sex-crazed one at that.
___________
Captain Bratton, in turning around to survey the remaining taproom crowd, had seen Lieutenant Wilder hoisting beers with another young British American. The two seemed to find the entire situation amusing. Harry finally got the younger officer’s eye and the two nodded. As the room was now emptying rapidly---Georgetown early on had earned a reputation as an ‘early-to-rise, early-to-bed’ capital with a short, intense evening social life---he moved easily down the bar towards Tom and his friend.
“Ah, Lieutenant. Thought I might catch sight of you here. Establishment hasn’t changed a bit. Just as I remembered it…”
Just wait till Joanne gets you upstairs. Then tell me if it’s the same. “Well Captain, perhaps you have a slightly different perspective than mine.
“By the way, this is David Harper of the Interior Department. Dave tells me much of his correspondence to London is initially directed to you.”
Bratton’s eyes lit up. “I say, Mr. David Harper! Of course! Jolly good to meet you in person after all this time. Though I feel that in many ways we are already well acquainted after all the paperwork we’ve exchanged. Delighted to meet you. Was planning on getting over to the Interior Department within the next day or so. Should have done so sooner, but was called away on His Majesty’s business right after the welcoming ceremonies…”
Harper shook the big Briton’s hand warmly. “Glad to finally make your acquaintance in person, Mr. Bratton. Or should I say, Captain Bratton. Does resuming your military position mean you’re no longer at the Office?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Harper. I’m simply back on full pay for the duration of His Grace’s tour of the Dominion. By fall I expect to be back in my cubbyhole in foggy old London. I say, however, how about another round? Or are you, too, evacuating this fine establishment?”
Tom couldn’t resist: “Another round would be much appreciated, Captain. And no, we’re not evacuating. David and I plan to have a late supper here. We usually do two or three times a week, but the Duke’s arrival has kept both of us on the run.” He paused.
“Would you care to join us?”
Bratton, who kept peeking around toward the back room doors, shook his head. “Normally it would be my pleasure. However, I do have a late evening supper engagement of my own.” Joanne at that moment emerged gliding through the doors. “Which I believe is imminent.”
The proprietress was plainly not pleased to see two of her lovers sharing a round of drinks, joined by that damn young War Department aide. Joanne, who prided herself on her sexuality and ability to arouse any man, could not understand how the Lieutenant seemed somehow invulnerable to her wiles. Right now, however, she had more important things to worry about.
“Well Harry dear. I see you’ve identified the true powers behind our government. And they the true power behind the Empire…”
Taken unawares---for Lieutenant Wilder had mentioned her name sparingly in his references to the Eagle---Captain Bratton smiled uncertainly. “Ah, Joanne my dear. So the Lieutenant wasn’t exaggerating. He and Mr. Harper actually are regulars. He’s just told me they sup here two or more evenings per week.”
The proprietress was icy: “Yes and how fortunate tonight is one of them. Hello David. I didn’t expect you this evening. Nor your Army friend…”
Harps was splendidly neutral. “Well Joanne, as you said, Tom and I do have the affairs of the Dominion to determine. Instead of burning the government’s candles, we thought tonight we’d take a break and utilize yours.”
Stung by her offhand reference to him---and delighted to stroke a fire he could sense raging in the black-haired woman---Tom could not resist adding: “We’ve even asked the Captain to join us in order to bring a world perspective, but he seems to have a previous engagement.” He offered his most innocent blue-eyed smile.
The look of rage that flashed across her face demonstrated that he had scored a direct hit. It also brought back Harper’s earlier remark about not crossing her. These two can have her. Am I glad I stopped coming here…
Joanne had regained a measure of her self-control: “Captain, your table will be ready in 15 minutes. I’ll send a waitress over to remind you.” She turned and walked away, her compact behind frankly ogled by any number of men at the bar.
For all his British sophistication, Harry Bratton was taken aback by the turn in the conversation. “Well gentlemen! From the attitude of the proprietress, am I to deduce the pair of you absconded with the tavern silverware last week? Or were you overly rambunctious with some of the hired help, eh?”
Thomas laughed and pulled on his beer. “Sir, I am, by act of the USBA Congress, an officer and a gentleman. Certainly you don’t think…”
“…that either of us would dally with the hired help in this establishment, Harry?” Dave completed in a tone of exaggerated injured shock. Harry joined in the general laughter as Harper continued:
“Anyway, the next round’s on the Interior Department….” The trio lifted their glasses: “To the Interior Department.” Shortly afterward, Bratton vanished into the backroom, while the two British Americans found an empty table by a fireplace. When they had finished their meals and paid the bill he had not yet returned…
CHAPTER TWENTY
London, England
February 13, 1833:
The dismal wet-and-dark afternoon matched the mood of Lord Palmerston as he emerged from his brougham in front of #10 Downing Street.
He carried in his pocket notes from a report just arrived from St. Petersburg that had the potential, in his view, to blow the elaborate emancipation program out-of-the-water even before the legislation was introduced in Parliament. And that, he thought, is the least of its possible consequences.
The Foreign Secretary passed quickly into the old house and was escorted directly to the Prime Minister’s office by one of the secretaries. With the pained face of an old man who knows he has not long to serve, Lord Grey looked up from the papers spread across his desk: “Yes, Henry, what brings you up the stairs in such a rush? Surely Bonaparte hasn’t returned to raise another Grande Armee?”’
Palmerston smiled as he shook his head but there was no mirth in his voice. “No Prime Minister. But the news is not good nevertheless. I’ve just received a visit from Baron Heytesbury, who’s just home from St. Petersburg. The Sultan, it seems, has asked the Russians for assistance against the Egyptians. The damn fool has invited them to land a force in Syria to cut off the Egyptians’ march on Constantinople!”
Lord Grey’s spectacles slid down his many-veined nose. “And the Czar’s response?”
“Why he’s ordered an army to Damascus! The bloody Ottomans have agreed to open the straights to a Russian fleet, warships as well as transports. They’re gathering at their Black Sea ports now. They’ll sail within 30 days!”
The P.M.’s normally pale face had now gone gray. “Don’t those idiots
in the Porte realize that the Russians, once landed, won’t leave until forced out? Why, the fools have virtually ceded Syria to the Bear!”
“And, Prime Minister, left the Bear within striking distance of our shortest potential route to India…” Palmerston shook his head. “Our dream of a canal across the Suez could turn into a nightmare.” He balled his fists in frustration:
“How could the Turks be so incredibly stupid?”
Lord Grey had taken off his spectacles and dropped them on his stack of state papers. “Henry, this could upset the balance of power, not only in the Near East but in Europe itself…”
The Foreign Secretary was grim: “I agree Prime Minister. If the Russians should somehow gain unlimited access to the Mediterranean through the Bosporus Straits, they will soon bite off all the Balkans. That would make the eastern Mediterranean their private lake. Then they can gobble up the rest of the Ottomans’ territory at their leisure: The Valley of the Euphrates, Palestine, Egypt. They’ll push on through to Persia and…”
“And arrive at the gates of India fresh and ready to overpower us. Let St. Petersburg get its hands on India and the Romanovs will be invincible. We’d as well move His Majesty’s seat of government to Georgetown!” Lord Grey held his head in his hands.
There was a tense silence in the room until Lord Palmerston cracked a smile. “Well Prime Minister, let us hope it does not come to that…
“Anyway, enough reason to call the Cabinet into session, wouldn’t you say, My Lord?”
The P.M. nodded. “Yes Henry, this news puts policies domestic and international in a new perspective. By George, colonial, too! We’ll meet tomorrow at 11 a.m. I assume all the members are in Town?”
Lord Palmerston nodded. “I would assume so. In any case, I will return to the Foreign Office. I already have some options being developed for presentation. I’ll lay them before you and the Cabinet tomorrow. By the way, do you intend to notify Buckingham Palace?”
