The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America

by James Devine

  Enough of this sniping back and forth, decided Mrs. Latoure. “I understand, Lieutenant, that General Scott has ordered you to Alexandria on Friday. I hope you intend to stop by Cranford? It’s been so long since we’ve had the pleasure, hasn’t it Lucille?”

  Before her dumbfounded daughter could interject, Thomas was accepting the invitation. “I’d be delighted to, Mrs. Latoure. The General has scheduled several stops for me in your area that morning. I look forward to visiting Cranford again. With your permission, I will be there in early afternoon.”

  “My daughters and I will look forward to it, won’t we, Lucille?”

  The daughter’s smirk was back in place. “With bated breath, Mother, I’m sure.”

  The Lieutenant politely nodded and moved away, leaving the older women to wink at each other as the fuming Lucille glared at her mother.

  ___________

  Lucille wasn’t the only one in the increasingly boisterous crowd who was fuming. Captain Bratton was furious that those Liaison Office incompetents hadn’t reported that Karlhamanov was here at the Consulate. (In actual fact, Major Layne had called off the tail on Andre several days earlier when it became evident that the Russian was spending most of his time at the Golden Eagle.)

  Now Bratton---whose anger was strictly professional, as the thought of Joanne Casgrave at a diplomatic reception was inconceivable---could only stare as Andre was introduced to a circle of Southerners gathered around Calhoun.

  The scene had also caught the eye of Frank Blair, who left a group that included the Prussian, Von Benes, and approached Harry. “The stranger with the eye patch, Captain Bratton. Do you know him? I don’t believe I’ve ever laid eyes on him before. And official Georgetown is such an insular place such a thing hardly seems possible.”

  Bratton glanced at the American, whom he knew chiefly by reputation. Better be cautious, now, Harry. Don’t make a scene until you know more. “Met him on the road from New York soon after I arrived, Mr. Blair. Answers to the name of Karlhamanov. Claims to be an exiled Russian liberal, a college professor. Haven’t a clue what he’s doing here tonight, though.”

  “A Russian liberal, eh? Well, it is possible. The French are in one of their own liberal phases at the moment. Perhaps he knew the Jean-Claudes in Europe.” Both men could now see the French C-G move away after concluding the Russian’s introduction to the circle of Southerners. Andre now remained with Calhoun and the others.

  Perhaps he is setting up stopovers for his much-delayed tour of the South, Bratton thought. I had dismissed him from my mind, thinking he’d already left. Then again, he may be having a difficult time tearing himself away from the arms of his paramour…

  A few minutes later, after bowing to the Southerners, Ignatieff looked around and saw the British officer and another, older, man watching. So the good Captain has accompanied his superior to the party. Let me be most congenial. He quickly walked toward the pair, his ‘liberal face’ fixed in place.

  “My dear Captain. It is so good to see you again. And, of all places, on French soil, so to speak.” He bowed formally and turned toward Blair. “I have not had the pleasure, Senator…?”

  Bratton was direct: “Andre, this is Mr. Francis P. Blair, an advisor and confidant of the Governor-General. He was just inquiring about you. I was explaining that I thought you had left Georgetown to tour the South.”

  “A pleasure, Mr. Blair. I am Andre Karlhamanov, a dazzled visitor to your shores.” He turned to Harry. “On the contrary, Captain, since there are two more important speeches to be given before this exciting session of the Congress adjourns, I postponed my trip. Fortunately, as it turns out, as several Southern members of the Congress have graciously extended me invitations to visit them in their home states. Apparently, this famous ‘southern hospitality’ is no myth.”

  And why would this ‘liberal’ be so interested in visiting with the most reactionary group of all the British American leaders?, Harry thought. A quick glance at Blair revealed that the American also seemed skeptical.

  He decided to change the subject slightly. “Mr. Blair thought your presence here tonight might indicate a prior acquaintance with the Jean-Claudes, Andre. But I told him you had not mentioned it on our ride from New Jersey.”

  “On the contrary, Captain, Mr. Blair. I am here tonight on the coattails of Count Renkowiitz. He said this would be the most glittering night of the social season. I must agree. No one stages receptions like the French. I shall remember this while I am traveling the South. Though I doubt I will see the like till New Orleans. Even at Fort Hill Plantation.”

  Perhaps it was the unintentional reference to the site of his most dangerous assignment as a diplomatic. Or perhaps it was the Russian’s arrogant hinting of an invitation to visit Calhoun. But Bratton would later remember this moment as when his instincts and training convinced him that Andre was no mere ‘liberal Russian professor on tour.’

  Blair too had been studying the Russian while elaborately lighting a cigar. “Well, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you. However, I believe we separately should circulate. I’m sure we all have people we have yet to meet and greet this night. I will look forward to seeing you again, Mr., ah…”

  “Karlhamanov, Mr. Blair. I look forward to seeing you again, also.” The Russian bowed in the European style. He then turned to Harry. “So Captain, how was your trip?”

  “My trip, Andre?”

  “Yes, I thought it common knowledge that you accompanied the Duke to some Northern states. Was it a successful tour?”

  “Quite, from the Duke’s perspective.” He paused. And how did he find out where we went? There’s definitely more to this than meets the eye. “I say, Andre. All this touring and exploring would make a fine travel book! Perhaps we could collaborate after our tours are completed.” Let’s see his reaction to that.

  Andre looked startled, but recovered his aplomb quickly. “Why, what a brilliant idea, my good fellow. Perhaps we should met tomorrow and discuss it.”

  Bratton was direct. “Yes, Andre, that may be advisable. However, now I must attend to His Grace. We will talk again.” But not until I have determined your real identity, Russki. That will be tomorrow’s first task…

  Ignatieff watched as the man he increasingly considered his nemesis worked his way through the crowd. There may well be a book in this, my dear Captain. If so, however, it will not be by us, but about us…

  CHAPTER-TWENTY SIX

  The Residency

  Georgetown, D.C.

  February 28, 1833:

  Wellington had earlier today formally requested that Jackson clear his schedule for tomorrow afternoon so that he and the G-G could “review a number of matters regarding my presence here, including Saturday’s speech to the Congress.” Further, the Duke’s note had mentioned, the meeting would take place at the Liaison Office.

  Jackson, although privately grumbling that the session would adversely interfere with the writing of his inaugural address (scheduled for Monday), had of course agreed. His advisors had been surprised by the choice of locations. Jackson however recognized the request for what it was: a summons.

  “Private tour or whatever the case, Wellington is the King’s representative while in the USBA. And now His Majesty’s designated alter ego wants a word with the chief colonial. So I am summoned to his presence. This would, of course, be well nigh impossible if we met in my office,” he had sarcastically explained before exploding:

  “Ah, the Court of St. James! By the Eternal, I do so despise their whole damnable system!

  “Sometimes I think we’d have been better off if Franklin and Burke had been lost at sea, allowing Washington and Howe to fight it out.”

  He had slammed his desk in anger; then, slowly looking up, had smiled at Blair and the other advisors. “However, sometime after noon tomorrow I will board my official carriage and ride in state to the Liaison Office. We’ll show these ‘Royal gentlemen’ that we simple Americans have a sense of protocol, too, by the Eternal
!”

  Pleased with the way the special session was winding down, the G-G planned to concentrate on his banking system revisions and a plan for stepped up Dominion-funded internal improvements in his second inaugural address, while also calling for further exploration and settlement of the West. He and the ‘kitchen cabinet’ had been concentrating on these key points ever since yesterday’s Senate vote had demonstrated that, as expected, the opposition could not override his planned Bank charter veto.

  Now he would have to put that work aside to sit with Wellington, who had, strangely, stated that the two would meet with a single designated aide apiece. The Duke would presumably be attended by Bratton. He had requested that Frank Blair sit in with Jackson. The G-G thought Blair could be more useful crafting the final drafts of his own address, but, sighing, had given Frank the word. Though thinking Andy Donelson would have been more appropriate.

  ___________

  British Liaison Office

  Georgetown, D.C.

  February 28, 1833:

  Jackson had been right with regard to rank but wrong with regard to aides.

  Wellington had of course chosen the Liaison Office for their meeting to underline the fact that, as the King’s official representative, he outranked the G-G. It was a point that would be crucial when Jackson realized the implications of what he was being told, the Duke had explained to Sir John when informing the Liaison’s political chief that he would sit-in on the meeting. And Blair, who struck him as a cool, cautious customer, would have a calming effect if the fiery G-G looked to be losing control.

  That Burrell, not Bratton, would be Wellington’s second might surprise Jackson, but the rationale was not appropriate for discussion with the colonial leader, the Duke continued. The information was still too sketchy and preliminary (and perhaps too delicate) to share with the Americans: while going through official correspondence from London that had arrived during their tour of the MidAtlantic States, Captain Bratton had come across a rather startling report.

  Something extraordinary had occurred within the walls of the Russian Embassy in early January; something so dramatic and stunning that the Princess Von Lieven had cancelled all her social engagements for the better part of a week and had remained in seclusion. The Foreign Office was still sorting out the details, but it appeared that a personal representative of the Czar had arrived secretly from St. Petersburg to much internal Embassy fanfare. Within days, however, he had vanished without a trace after some sort of shocking event.

  Sources with ties to the Embassy staff---the Russians of course manned the place entirely with their own people, but still needed to do business with London merchants---said the Czar’s man had been smuggled out of England under the tightest security. The Russians were apparently too terrified to add more, though one had described the operative as an average-sized man of obvious noble birth. The description was useless---it could have fit a thousand men---except for one added feature: the man’s eyes were somehow distorted.

  Harry had come across the report Wednesday afternoon, during a break in their preparations for the emancipation speech. That Karlhamanov fit the description was obvious, he had reported soberly to Wellington and Burrell, except it made no sense: why would the Czar send a top operative to British America? And via London?

  Major Layne had been away on his Burr errand, so his assistant had been called in. When he admitted that the tail on the Russian had been arbitrarily dropped while Wellington and Bratton were up North, Burrell thought the Duke would erupt in rage. But Wellington had merely shook his head in disgust and ordered the mortified---and terrified---junior officer to reinstitute it at once.

  “Harry, you will take charge of the surveillance,” he had ordered. “I still need your help in preparing to brief Jackson, but make it your business to determine once and for all who and what this one-eyed Russian of your acquaintance really is. And why he’s here. Meanwhile, Sir John, you will have to take a larger role in the overall preparations for this address. I trust your political instinct is better than your colleague’s talent for espionage…”

  ___________

  British Liaison Office

  Georgetown, D.C.

  March 1, 1833, 12:30 p.m.:

  Harry hated the idea of missing this historic face-to-face meeting with the temperamental Jackson, but his role would have been a passive one. Instead, having prepared His Grace as best he could---he had argued the G-G’s part in practice sessions with the Duke---he now was meeting with the embarrassed Major Layne to review the Karlhamanov situation. Unfortunately, the Liaison Office had no sources within the Russian Consulate; there had been no reason, Layne was explaining: “We’ve always considered the French to be our major concern, Captain, as you well know from your own days here.”

  Still, there had to be a way to penetrate the Russian screen. Some way to discover the truth behind Andre’s sudden immersion into Georgetown’s social and political life!

  The two men rose from their chairs at the sound of outside commotion: Jackson’s carriage was rolling up the driveway towards the Royal Marine honor guard drawn up at the foot of the Office’s steps. Harry watched as the officer commanding Jackson’s own mounted guard leaped down from his horse; surprisingly, it was not Lieutenant Wilder. The officer was opening the carriage door when the thought struck Captain Bratton: Wilder’s friend, Harper of the Interior Department! Hadn’t he seen that young swan dancing with the Russian C-G’s daughter at the French Embassy several nights ago? And hadn’t Wilder jokingly warned that he might require aid “if the Cossacks show up to haul Harps away”?

  Well now, a word with young Mr. Harper may be in order! I’ll send a messenger to arrange a meeting for tonight…

  ___________

  Arlington House Plantation

  Arlington, Virginia

  March 1, 1833, 7 a.m.:

  Tom had ridden out of Georgetown over the Long Bridge in the predawn darkness and had arrived at Arlington House well before breakfast. Mary Lee had been surprised but delighted to see him. She had received word from General Scott on Wednesday that her husband would be home this evening on a short unscheduled leave and was happily counting down the hours.

  After breakfast, Tom had suggested a walk around the grounds; he wanted total privacy when he broke the emancipation news. Mary’s demeanor had changed before he had finished his report. Her previous display of sisterly-like affection for one of her husband’s closest friends was replaced by a nasty frostiness that bordered on outright hostility: the Yankee intruder come as predicted to destroy her wonderful way of life!

  “You have to understand, Mary, that this is London’s decision, not the North’s. There are less than a dozen people in all the USBA, yourself included, who know what Wellington will say tomorrow!”

  “Yes Thomas, but once the announcement reaches the North, church bells will be ringing in celebration! You Yankees have been planning this for years and now you’ve somehow gotten King and Parliament to do your bidding.

  “And now you and your General Scott expect my Robert to join in ramming this down the South’s throat, don’t you? That’s why he has been ordered here, so General Scott can convince him to side against his own family, against his own people, against the South!

  “Well Sir, he won’t do it. Arlington has been my family’s home for four generations. It is his home. He will defend it, I know he will!” She turned heel and ran back to the mansion, leaving a stunned Thomas with two thoughts:

  Was this a preview of what he faced at Cranford? And did Mary truly epitomize the South’s reaction to what Wellington would be spelling out tomorrow?

  ___________

  Cranford Plantation

  Alexandria, Virginia

  March 1, 1833, 1 p.m.:

  The General’s other errands had been routine (an obvious excuse to get him to Cranford). Thomas rode up the hill toward the big, Iconic-columned house a few minutes before 1 p.m., wondering if he’d be stoned back down the rise within a few
hours. He was still shocked by Mary’s visceral hatred; he had often remarked on her apparent indifference to affairs beyond her immediate sphere. Now he realized that Arlington and her family were fiercely---entirely--the world as she knew and wished it.

  Sebastian was waiting in front of the mansion with a wide, wise smile when Tom pulled up. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Tom,” he grinned. “Miz Angeline tol’ me be on the lookout for you. Allow me to ‘cort you in…”

  The Latoure ladies were gathered in the main hall when Thomas came through the door. The smiling matriarch was flanked by her daughters, one of whom could barely contain the laughter evident in the features of her finely-carved face. While the other’s eyes resembled daggers aimed directly at the USBA officer.

  Damn, this is going to make this morning’s little tragedy look like a picnic on the Brooklyn Heights, Tom thought.

  Greetings exchanged--hissed, in one case--and Tom’s Army cap taken by Sebastian, the Lieutenant countered Mrs. Latoure’s suggestion to proceed to the dining room. No sense putting this off. If the General has taught me anything, it is to confront the bad news first…

  “Mrs. Latoure, I have some critical information for all of you. That’s why I asked for and received General Scott’s permission to come here today. I believe it better if we discuss it before dinner and I think it necessary that we discuss it in an exterior setting that affords total privacy.” With a nod of his head he indicated the gardens evident through the tall glass doors leading from the formal dining room. “I suggest we step out there.”