by James Devine
“Certainly, Lieutenant,” said Mrs. Latoure, smiling through the surprise written on her face. “Though I can’t image the need for such secrecy. It does seem rather exciting, however, doesn’t it, dears?” The expressions on each of the younger women had changed: Jaine’s eyes had narrowed as she stared questioningly at Tom, while Lucille’s furious glare had faded to a somewhat sullen look of puzzlement.
Thomas escorted the eldest Latoure lady to the far end of the garden, this afternoon bathed in a warm spring sunlight, before deciding that here their conversation would not be inadvertently overheard by the household staff. Well, hopefully this will last a bit longer than this morning’s disaster at Arlington…He looked directly at Mrs. Latoure:
“Ladies, I am about to tell you something which will shock you. It concerns the Duke of Wellington’s speech tomorrow…”
“I worked hard to obtain tickets for tomorrow, Lieutenant,” interrupted Lucille in an icy tone, “as a birthday surprise for my mother. I’m sure we can all wait to hear the Duke’s address from his own lips.”
“…which I understand you will attend as guests of General Scott.”
Never taking his eyes from the mistress of Cranford, he delivered the news in a monotone he hoped was both straightforward and neutral, continuing through a series of gasps that gradually turned from disbelief to anger. None of those gasps, however, had slipped from the lips of the plantation’s mistress.
Her unblinking stare, however, reminded him of the legendary hardfaces both Scott and Wellington were capable of flashing at will. Damn, no wonder this whole operation runs so well. She can radiate an air of command with the best of them.
“We appreciate the courtesy exhibited by General Scott in allowing you to come here today, Lieutenant. I have some questions, if you don’t mind.”
Well, at least she didn’t turn and walk away. “Yes, Madame, I’ll answer to the best of my knowledge.”
“It is my understanding the Duke arrived here before the special session ever started. Has General Jackson known of this emancipation plan since then? When was he told? Who else knows? And when did you and General Scott find out?”
“I believe the G-G is being informed of London’s plans as we speak, Mrs. Latoure. It is my understanding that you are among the very first British Americans, certainly among the first dozen, to know. As for General Scott, I have no idea. I myself was informed a few days ago.
“Why are you telling us this Lieutenant?” Jaine’s voice, though tense, was an imitation of her mother’s; any coquettishness had been discarded in light of the seriousness of the subject matter.
He was blunt: “So that you’ll have time to prepare, Miss Jaine.”
“Prepare? Prepare for what, Lieutenant? To plant and harvest our own crops?” Lucille’s scorn cracked whip-like through the air. “Or does General Scott plan to send a regiment under your command to do that for us?”
Tom turned slowly to look at her, hoping to project his own imitation of General Scott’s drill-stare.
“To prepare for any eventuality of a security nature which may arise once word of the Duke’s speech reaches Alexandria, probably late Sunday or Monday.”
Lucille’s anger was replaced by a look of bafflement. “Security? Whatever do you mean?”
Mrs. Latoure turned to her eldest. “He means, my dear, any eventuality once our people get wind of London’s plans.”
She and Tom exchanged looks of mutual understanding.
___________
Tom might have felt he had taken all necessary precautions before briefing the Latoure ladies on the Duke’s upcoming speech. But Sebastian ferreted the secret out anyway---and in record time.
The heads-up butler knew something of the highest importance to Cranford was to be discussed the moment the white folk adjourned to the garden. He couldn’t interrupt, of course; nor could he send a child of the plantation to spy from a nearby tree.
The cagey Sebastian simply kept his ears open during the ensuing meal. While he couldn’t piece all the puzzle’s parts together, he came away with the definite impression that the Latoure girls had been stunned into virtual silence by Lieutenant Tom’s news.
And that the Lieutenant’s table conversation with the Mistress of Cranford centered on three things: someone named Wellington; a speech to Congress next week and emancipation. Sebastian had no real idea who this ‘Wellington’ fellow was, but he knew ‘emancipation’ was a fancy word for ‘freedom.’ And that this ‘Wellington’ planned to preach emancipation to the white folks’ ‘Congress.’ And while he couldn’t follow all the details, one phrase kept reverberating through his increasingly excited mind: “seven years.”
The question was how to quickly get this news to Moses. Even a trusted house servant couldn’t simply leave a plantation, even one as benevolent as Cranford. Even if he could come-and-go (which he most definitely could not), there were papers to be readied and signed by the Mistress authorizing the trip. Papers which would undoubtedly be closely scrutinized by hard-eyed, armed whites more than once between Cranford and Georgetown. Virginia had not forgotten Nat Turner…
Sebastian had about quit racking his brain in frustration when the solution presented itself. Mammy Anna, Mrs. Latoure’s personal maid and the acknowledged head female slave---some said the acknowledged head slave, period, Sebastian thought wryly---came to the Mistress as the white women were bidding adieu to Lieutenant Tom on the mansion’s steps.
“Miz Angeline, we need da papiz for us to get on over to Arlington ‘morrow for da weddin’.”
Sebastian’s head jerked and he stared at Mammy. Of course! The wedding of Mammy’s niece, Clerisa, one of the Lees’ house servants, to Smithy, who ran Arlington House’s stables and blacksmith shop! In all the excitement, he’d completely forgot! Why he, Sebastian, had been invited himself! He wouldn’t even have to attract attention by asking for a last minute pass…
And once the service was over and the barbeque begun, he’d have time for a very private conversation with the presiding minister…The Rev. Jugurtha Numidia himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
British Liaison Office
Georgetown, D.C.
March 1, 1833, 1 p.m.
Sir Arthur was waiting for the Governor-General at the top of the steps. They greeted each other formally before turning to enter the building, Frank Blair and Burrell falling in behind them.
The Duke was still congratulating Jackson on the sharp appearance of his honor guard when they stepped into the big corner office Sir John had vacated upon Wellington’s arrival some 30 days before. A servant poured three teas and a coffee for Jackson as the small talk continued rather uneasily; the British were tense knowing what was coming, while the uncertainty made the two Americans uncomfortable.
The Duke sipped his tea as he waited for the door to close behind the servant. Jackson, unaccustomed to the subordinate role and eager to be done with this, decided to begin by briefing Wellington on arrangements for the next day’s Capitol Hill ceremonies. The Duke curtly cut him off.
“I’m sure your protocol people have everything under control, Governor-General. They seem satisfactory with the pomp and circumstance, judging from the welcoming ceremony last month. However, that’s not what I called you here today to discuss.
“By now you and Mr. Blair have certainly realized there may be more to my visit here than a simple private tour. The Government has dispatched me here, Governor-General, at the King’s direction, to inform you and the Dominion’s citizens of legislation to be introduced in Parliament this month which will have a major impact here.”
He paused and sipped his tea, eyeing the two Americans. Jackson’s guard was up, as expected. The shrewd narrowing of Blair’s eyes indicated that the ‘closest advisor’ was running the possibilities through his mind.
“Governor-General, (the emphasis on and reiteration of Jackson’s official title was deliberate, as all present by now realized) a bill supported by both the Whig gover
nment and my own opposition Tories---and co-sponsored by at least one member of the Dominion delegation---is being introduced which calls for a seven-year phased-in and compensated abolition of slavery throughout the Empire. This emancipation program will begin on January 1st of next year, if passed and signed into law, which it undoubtedly will be.”
He again paused, not to sip more tea, but to stare directly at the now scarlet-faced G-G.
“I am somewhat incomplete in describing my task here, Governor-General Jackson. I am also to ascertain that the Dominion government is fully cognizant of its responsibilities under terms of the Colonial Compact to accept and enforce the legislation as written. In its entirety.”
The ticking of the huge grandfather’s clock was the only sound in the room for several minutes after Wellington finished. To Burrell, though, the thought occurred that the sound very possibly instead might be the throbbing of Jackson’s pulse.
Sir John was not the only one holding his breath concerning the G-G’s reaction: Blair was congratulating himself on having had the foresight to have taken Andy’s ever-present cane and placed it out-of-reach on the back of an empty chair. Wellington, meanwhile, was speculating that he might not have to invoke the Compact clause on dismissal of a seating G-G. If Jackson keels over---as he very well may---Colonel Burr’s son could be sleeping in The Residency tonight…
___________
Jackson was indeed struggling to retain control of his emotions. His brain as yet refused to accept the enormous implications of Wellington’s words. Instead, it concentrated on more picayune matters:
These ‘tours’ Sir Arthur has taken…with my full encouragement! Has the Duke let the Virginians and the others in on the secret? Before telling me, the chief elected official of the Dominion? Damn it! And so much for my carefully crafted inaugural address! If Wellington announces emancipation tomorrow, issues like the Bank and western expansion will be the farthest thing from anyone’s mind! What am I supposed to say on Monday? By the Eternal!
The others continued to watch as the G-G’s facial expressions changed as rapidly as his color. Blair was considering suggesting an unorthodox but seemingly appropriate strengthening of their beverages when Jackson finally spoke:
“You have achieved surprise, Your Grace. You’ve caught me with my pickets in. While my advisors and I have questioned whether you were, indeed, here simply to sightsee, we did not foresee this attempt at mandated redeployment of our Southern workforce coming. In truth, we thought more on the lines of possible Crown revenue enhancement…
“I now see why you, ah, requested that I clear my schedule for the entire afternoon. Also why you suggested that Frank here accompany me rather than Donelson.” He paused briefly, staring directly at his former commander. “One of the keys to your success on the Peninsula, Sir Arthur, in my view was your willingness to share the estimate of the situation with your subordinates.
“I would like to hear something along those lines at this time. First, however, I believe I am entitled, as the duly elected leader of the Dominion, a bit of background on this amazing news you’ve finally chosen to share: Just how long has this been considered in London? And how much study has there been on the possible consequences here in America? What encouragement, if any, did the designers of this legislation receive from members of the Dominion’s delegation to Parliament? What opposition? If any USBA MPs participated in drafting this bill, I should like to know which ones. I need all this information to help formulate my response.”
The relaxation of tension on the three other men’s faces was evident: the G-G had his emotions at least temporarily under control. The trigger mechanism on the fearsome Jacksonian temper was in the ‘lock’ position.
Wellington nodded. “Certainly, Andrew. As Governor-General, you are of course entitled to a full briefing on the bill’s particulars. Sir John will do those honors. You and Mr. Blair are welcome to interrupt with questions at any time. I will then brief you on the bill’s development before sketching the ‘estimate of the situation’, as you so accurately phrase it, from London’s perspective.”
For the next two hours, the two Americans received an education on London’s philosophical/political conception of the Empire, and the USBA’s place in it, as well as the Government’s view of the internal Dominion political situation.
By the time Wellington had finished an ‘estimate of the situation’ that left little doubt that Jackson’s second term hinged upon his willingness to enforce the emancipation process, Blair knew that it was time for a brief pause: the G-G was showing all the signs of an imminent eruption. At his suggestion, the Americans repaired to a small room off the Duke’s office. Wellington, meanwhile, signaled his own aide to the corner window.
“We’ve come to the first crucial hurdle, Burrell. Jackson is ready to rebel. Not yet at the concept of emancipation, but at the very idea that we are, in his view, forcing this down his throat. Which, of course, we are. That’s the initial hurdle: to make the Americans---from Jackson down to the most illiterate of his fellow-citizens---realize that the Colonial Compact allows, in fact was designed, with this sort of crisis legislation in mind.
“Deep down, Andy is aware of that. For all his gruff demeanor, for all his propensity to play the ‘frontiersman’ role, he is an educated gentleman who has studied the law and the Compact. In the next room, he is not even thinking as yet about emancipation as anything other than an abstract issue affecting the relationship between Georgetown and London.
“Let us hope and pray that he accepts the Government’s constitutional right to impose emancipation. If he does, he’ll come around on it as a practical matter, perhaps not today, but eventually, sooner rather than later. But if he can not clear this initial hurdle I may be forced to take action, unpopular as it may be. God help us if it comes to that.”
___________
Jackson stood aganst a wall of the small room, sucking in the cool late afternoon spring air from the window Blair had just now opened, and tried to breathe naturally despite the anvil that was apparently pushing against his chest. As in a dream, he accepted the flask that had magically emerged from Frank’s jacket pocket and took a long swig of Tennessee whisky. He momentarily closed his eyes, feeling the warm liquor burn down his throat before relaxing the tightness in his chest. Reopening his eyes, he stared at the flask as if seeing it for the first time. He handed it back to Frank and walked to the window, leaning down and staring at his honor guard, which still surrounded his carriage in the driveway.
“God damn them,” he said finally, turning to look at his confidant. “God damn them all! They treat us like unruly children---to be humored and patronized---until something important comes up! Then, we’re expected to meekly accept and obey, as if Parliament issued its edict from the very heights of Mount Sinai, with Wellington as Moses and we of the USBA the undisciplined, uneducated, unreliable children of Israel!
“I was elected and reelected because the citizens of the USBA agreed with my positions on the issues which affect their daily lives. Am I now to relinquish that mandate in order to placate the guilt-plagued consciences of the British ruling class---nobles, merchants, mine and manufactory owners, landlords---who hold the majority of their own people in conditions far worse than that of the most ill-treated slave in the South?
“By the Eternal, I think not!”
Blair looked sadly at his old friend. “Actually, Andrew, according to the terms of the Colonial Compact, that is exactly what you must do. Either that, or resign…”
___________
The veins on the G-G’s again-scarlet forehead bulged as he glared at his friend and advisor. Foam literally formed at the corners of his mouth as his lips opened, though no coherent words escaped. He pivoted and again stormed over to the window, grabbing the sill with both hands and rocking back-and-forth.
Blair felt entitled to a taste of the Tennessee mash himself. He let it roll around in his mouth as he waited for this latest eruption to die down. Get
it out of your system now, Andy, so we can come up with a response for these two Brits waiting in the next room. Vent your anger here, and then let’s get down to some serious deliberations…
The rocking of Jackson’s body gradually slowed before ceasing entirely. The sound of his breathing also slowed, till it was overwhelmed by the street noise. Four-to-five minutes had passed since Blair had bluntly advised the G-G of his limited options. More than a quarter hour had passed since they had left Wellington.
Jackson finally turned and looked Blair in the eye. “Is that your only advice? Kiss Wellington’s ring…or resign? Surely you have more to add?”
Blair was now pacing the room, as was his habit while considering knotty issues. There is nothing to be gained by reconvening this meeting today. The Brits have announced their intentions; now it is our responsibility to soberly consider before responding. Wellington knows better than to expect an immediate answer. Let’s get back to The Residency and gather the kitchen cabinet. We’ve got at least 48 hours to respond privately…and another 18 or so before the inaugural. It’s obvious the Duke and his people put a great deal of thought and preparation into their presentation today. We need to do likewise!
“General, you heard Wellington say this thing has been 24 or more months in the works. Well, we deserve 24 hours, at least, to formulate our response. I suggest we move back inside and request an adjournment until we have thoroughly studied the matter, with all its implications. It would be unreasonable for them to demand acquiescence immediately. Wellington knows that.
“If you call your advisors in tonight, we can begin to plan a public response for Monday. Meanwhile, we have all weekend to confer with the Congressional leadership--from both parties. And all sections.”
