by James Devine
“Is borsch on the menu, or is Joanne fixing you steak and eggs?”
Harps feigned a look of outraged superiority. “Neither, Lieutenant. As it happens, I’m on my way to the Liaison Office. Captain Bratton sent me a note late yesterday inviting me to breakfast to discuss, and I quote, ‘a matter of some potential importance.’ Any idea what it could be about?”
Tom shook his head. “No idea, Dave.” Bratton’s a professional, he thought to himself. He’s not calling Harps in to discuss their mutual paramour. Got to have something to do with emancipation, but God knows what.
They parted at Pennsylvania Avenue. “Let me know how it goes, Harps. Maybe we can have a few beers this evening, if you’re not already booked…”
“Sounds good, Lieutenant. By the way: what exactly are kippers?”
___________
The Residency
Georgetown, D.C.
8 a.m.
Secretary Cass’ official War Department carriage was among a handful already parked in the circular driveway fronting the Main Portico when Tom walked up the grounds. Congressman Polk was arriving on horseback and the Lieutenant could see Mr. Blair making his way across Pennsylvania Avenue from his townhouse.
Looks like the kitchen cabinet is about to convene. I wonder if they met last night or if Jackson’s going to drop Wellington’s bombshell on them now…
One look at the grim demeanor on the faces of the advisors already gathered inside awaiting Jackson’s descent from the second floor private quarters and Tom knew the answer: the G-G’s men were aware of the impending crisis.
He made his way quickly across and down the hall to his own cubbyhole office and closed the door. Let them go into their meeting; then I’ll find out what I can. The tension in here is thick enough to cut with a bayonet…
___________
After a briefing from Jackson and Blair that had been met with initial disbelief, last night’s marathon meeting had gotten down to hard cases. The kitchen cabinet, minus the flagrantly missing incoming Vice G-G, had broken down the issue into five debatable sections: constitutionality; Administration response; enforceability; immediate impact on the Dominion and long-term impact. Each section, of course, was inevitably and automatically debated in the tint of Democratic Party politics…
The meeting had finally broken up around midnight--it had started a few minutes after 6 p.m.---and the advisors were off the grounds by the time the Duke’s carriage rolled in. The plan had been for each advisor to study one or two sections he was most familiar with and come up with options this morning. The meeting was scheduled to break around 11:30 a.m., leaving all but the G-G---whom protocol discouraged from attending---time to get up to the Hill for Wellington’s 1 p.m. address.
Since Andy Donelson was taking notes of this morning’s session---as he had last night---Tom was unable to determine exactly what was being discussed inside the G-G’s office. All the few other professional aides in the building knew was that the G-G had returned from the Liaison Office in the worst mood exhibited since the height of the nullification crisis. Servants were immediately sent to fetch Cass, Polk and the others. Coffee, tea and a light supper had given way by 9 p.m. to Tennessee mash and other spirits.
The head usher had told Tom flatly that the mood had remained sober, however, despite the large quantities of liquor dispatched. “Whatever the Governor-General brought them in for was a shock to their systems,” he said. “I’d say the liquor was more medicinal than anything…”
Per General Scott’s orders, Tom left the Residency around 10:15 a.m. There was nothing more to be learned on this side of Pennsylvania Avenue and he had to arrange for that Department carriage. Anyway, he’d have plenty of time to pick up the details later, while he waited for the “elderly gentleman” to finish his interview with the G-G. The General hadn’t identified the dignitary, but Tom had an idea who he might be. He thought the odds were good he’d last seen him on the Broad Way…
___________
War Department
Georgetown, D.C.
March 2, 1833, 10:30 a.m.
The General was in conference when Tom walked into the building. A nod of the Lieutenant’s head had brought a whispered comment from the ranking non-commissioned officer on duty that the General had arrived some 40 minutes ago. “And ran right into a stone-faced lieutenant named Lee, Sir. They went inside and have been closeted ever since.”
So Robert knows what’s up; and he isn’t happy about it. Well, what do you expect? He’s sworn an oath to uphold a flag and government that now seeks to devalue his family’s wealth by at least a third… If the government tried to nationalize---imperialize---Shamrock Shipbuilding, I might have second thoughts about my oath myself! Well, better see about that carriage. If the General wants me, he’ll know how to find me!
Tom returned through a rear door from the adjacent stables a quarter hour later to see Scott’s bulk literally barricading the main doorway. The look of sadness on the General’s face when he pivoted to return to his office imparted on Thomas a sense of inevitable, uncontrollable catastrophe he would remember all his days.
The Capitol
12:50 p.m.
The few stony-faced members of Jackson’s kitchen cabinet were swallowed up in the overflow crowd of Congressmen, Court, diplomatic corps, other high-ranking dignitaries both civil and military, as well as civilians lucky enough to have bagged tickets for the Duke’s speech.
The crowd was in a holiday mood as they moved across the grounds and into the Capitol itself; a major speech of any sort made interesting any given day in dreary Georgetown. Today’s speech by the highest-ranking Empire statesman to ever appear at the unfinished brownish structure---though not expected to be particularly newsworthy---was excuse enough to schedule parties and receptions. The major topic among the ladies, in fact, was which and how many appearances the Duke would make this afternoon and evening; a tweaking or even reordering of the social strata might even occur, depending on the Duke’s visitation whims…
So the sight of the Duke’s carriage and his honor guard---an uneasily-mixed detachment of Royal and USBA Marines---brought cheers from the privileged as well as Georgetown’s ordinary citizens. The throngs lined Pennsylvania Avenue as the procession came out The Residency’s gates and moved towards the Hill.
Inside, Wellington’s air of supreme confidence was not matched by the tenseness emanating from his three aides. Major Layne was chiefly concerned with the Duke’s safety; not so much now, but what about after the conclusion of the speech? He had been in Georgetown last year when some Western Congressman had pulled a pistol on one of Jackson’s protégées; fortunately for both, the gun had misfired. What--who--could stop some enraged Southerner from whipping out a handgun and taking a shot at the Duke?
As the Liaison’s top political hand, Sir John Burrell was more concerned with The Residency’s reaction, not to the speech itself---Jackson already knew what would be said---but to its mandate. There had not been a word from the Governor-General since leaving yesterday’s Liaison Office meeting.
Harry Bratton, too, was concerned about the upcoming response by the G-G. But he was more concerned by Congress’ reaction to the emancipation news. Nothing he had seen nor heard since arriving on Irresistible had changed the opinion he had offered Palmerston’s committee back home: in the end, Jackson and the Southerners would fight to the last man to save their cherished way-of-life.
As the carriage halted at the foot of the Capitol, Burrell was identifying for the Duke members of the joint Congressional leadership chosen to escort His Grace into the building and to the podium. Bratton looked at his pocket watch and back at the smiling Duke. It was 1:20 p.m.
___________
Aaron Burr did not recognize Tom, but the accent and name rang bells. “You wouldn’t be related to old Jack Wilder, now would you, Lieutenant?” The elegant little man glanced over as they walked to the carriage. At Tom’s affirmative reply, the Colonel’s eyes twinkled: “Ge
orge or young Jack’s boy? George’s, eh! So, yours is the branch with the priest in the family…”
Burr reminisced for most of the trip, as if he had no cares in the world, Tom observed. Though he did ask several shrewd questions concerning Tom’s duties in Georgetown, particularly as an aide to General Scott. “Then we’ll be seeing you tonight, Lieutenant?” he said as the carriage pulled onto The Residency grounds. “I’m dining later at the General’s, along with the Duke. Not sure who else will be there…” It was news to Tom, whose orders apparently ended with the delivery of the old man back to the Van Buren house.
Burr stepped down from the carriage with the grace of an athlete, and then bounded up the steps ahead of the Lieutenant. There was no one to meet them at the door, so Tom ushered the Colonel in and down the hall toward the G-G’s office.
“By the Eternal!”
The oath shattered the cathedral-like silence engulfing the seemingly empty building. “Damn it all, it is you, Colonel Burr! I’d recognize that damn strut of yours even in hell…which is where I had expected to encounter you next!” Jackson, just outside his office, stared in amazement. “And escorted by one of my own aides! What the devil is going on here, eh? Answer me Lieutenant!”
Jackson’s original astonishment was fast being replaced by a fit of temper, but Burr simply grinned and stuck out his hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again, too, Andrew.” He glanced mischievously at the paintings of Jefferson, other former G-Gs and Royal dignitaries hanging from the walls. “There seems to have been some improvements in the décor since my time. Well, if this is hell, I’ll anticipate with relish our mutual return…”
The G-G shook his head and laughed reflexively, his spat of anger overcome by the words and actions of the incorrigible New Yorker. “All right, Lieutenant. I’m sure the Colonel somehow maneuvered you into this. Go about your business.” He pivoted with the help of his cane and slapped Burr’s back. “Now see here Colonel,” he said as he escorted him into the office and shut the door. “Your showing up like this is no coincidence. How did that damn Wellington get you down here?”
___________
The Capitol
2:40 p.m.
Burrell and Bratton stood off to the far left of the Speaker’s rostrum in the House of Representatives’ chamber. Both houses of Congress were crowded into the rows of desks and on the aisles. Marshall and the Court, as well as the joint leadership, were spread out behind the Speaker’s platform. The diplomatic corps, government and military leaders and other guests overflowed the visitors’ gallery. Layne, whose first impulse had been to throw a ring of Royal Marines around the rostrum, had gone off to confer with the commander of the USBA Marines: the small Capitol Building police force was widely known to be little more than glorified ushers.
The tumultuous cheers that had greeted Wellington’s march down the aisle had barely subsided when Speaker Stevenson of Virginia brought on a second standing ovation with his flowery introduction of the Duke. By the time an equally flowery return round of acknowledgements of Congressional and Court leaders by Wellington was concluded the time had been approximately 1:40 p.m.
Now, even those so inclined to cheer were in too deep a shock to do so.
___________
The Residency
2:30 p.m.
Burr had anticipated the diatribe against London that Jackson launched immediately upon pouring them both Tennessee mash, neat. He waited patiently for the Jacksonian eruption to run its course before getting down to the serious business at hand.
The Colonel was relieved that Andrew angrily conceded that London probably had the legal authority to order emancipation, under existing terms of both the Colonial Compact and the USBA Constitution, “damn those idiots from Franklin to Madison who threw away our rights.”
Burr, however, was aghast when Jackson began to apply a disguised version of the nullification principle. “Constitutions, compacts are living things, Colonel Burr. They must have room to breathe, to grow. They must adapt to the times, the conditions prevalent in the countries or dominions to which they are applied. Otherwise, they will die and cease to be any more than antiquated scraps of paper.”
The G-G peered over his glass as he waited to see how the other trained lawyer would react.
“Bullshit, Andrew…Mr. Governor-General…
“In your own Tennessee parlance, that dog won’t hunt…and we both know it.”
The blood raced to the G-G’s face and Burr settled back to enjoy another eruption. But Jackson, staring directly into his old friend’s face, suddenly burst out in a bitter laugh.
“Of course we do, Colonel. But what about the rest of the South? What about Andrew Jackson, private citizen, who worked his way up from a dirt-floored cabin on a played-out North Carolina hillside to own The Hermitage? How is he, how are they, supposed to react to the high-and-mighty 3000-miles away Parliament and fat, dumpy little King, who if not for the luck of birth might be eating pork and cabbage in a German tavern, deciding to strip us of our hard-earned property?
“And, Colonel, spare me the righteous compensation argument. I’ve been through that with His Grace, the Duke.” Jackson spit out the title with a sneer. “We’re talking pennies on the dollar…”
“And all this time, Andrew, I thought it was we Yankees who worshipped the ‘Almighty dollar...’” Burr sipped his whisky and grinned impishly at the fired-up G-G.
Jackson’s fist came crashing down on his desk, spilling his own glass and shaking every other item on it.
“Careful, Andrew. That desktop looks firm…and your hands may be a bit more brittle than you care to admit.”
A smile broke reluctantly out on the G-G’s face. “Damn you, Aaron. You always knew where and when to insert the knife. My Rachel always said: ‘Don’t ever get into a debate with Colonel Burr, General. He’s the one man you can’t intimidate…’”
Burr reached across the desk to the still rattling whisky bottle and poured them each another glass. “Well Andrew, isn’t it time we talked turkey?”
___________
The Deerhead Inn
3:10 p.m.
Dave Harper snapped awake from a short nap brought on by fully 90 minutes of as intense physical exertion as he could recall. He could hear the low, even breathing of his partner as he reached to run his hand across her smooth, olive-skinned back.
The wife of the French Counsel-General opened her eyes and stretched leisurely as she gazed at her new lover. “What time is it? I see the sunlight, so it can’t be too late.”
Harps pulled his watch from the pocket of the jacket unceremoniously discarded earlier on the floor. “A little after three. They’ll be finishing up at the Capitol soon. When do you have to get back?”
Jacqueline Jean-Claude smiled archly: “Not quite yet, Cheri. Jacques will stay for the reception, especially since he was able to use my ticket to seat his crony, Count Karl.” She moved into Harper’s arms. “A puzzling situation, that. Do you remember the stranger with the eye patch at my supper Wednesday night? Somehow, he appropriated the Count’s ticket…”
Political intrigue was normally the farthest thing from Harps’ mind--especially when he held a beautiful, naked woman in his arms---but he had rendezvoused with Jacqueline soon after returning from the Liaison Office. To his amazement, practically the sole topic of his breakfast with Captain Bratton and, unexpectedly, Major Layne, had been the wiry, eye-patched Russian: what had Countess Caroline said about this ‘Andre Karlhamanov’? He had been observed being introduced to the supposed ‘exile’ by the Countess at the French Consulate the other evening. And what, if anything, had Harper discussed with the man?
Almost nothing, really: Karlhamanov had been visibly unimpressed when he learned David worked for Interior. But yes, he had a date to go riding with the Countess tomorrow and, yes, he would attempt to casually sound her out. Right now, all he knew was that Caroline seemed uncomfortable with the fellow…
With an embarrassed look that had
surprised both Layne and Harper, Bratton had then shifted the questioning: did David recognize the Russian from anywhere else? No, not that he could recall. (The carefree Harps, when getting the signal over repeated nights that Joanne was unavailable, had simply moved on (without inquiring as to the cause). There were simply too many fish in the sea---as today was proving--to worry about one who wished to swim away. Especially a piranha like Mrs. Casgrave!)
Harps now shared a long kiss with Madame Jean-Claude and then grinned: “How could I forget him? You pointed him out as we were making our, err, ‘arrangement.’” The grin faded into a frown: “But I don’t understand. I thought Count Renkowiitz was in charge over there? How did M. Eye Patch end up with his ticket?”
Jacqueline, however, had lost interest in the inner workings of the Russian Consulate. “Enough of that, Cheri. We have two more hours. Let’s make use of them…”
Well, thought Harps, even if the Countess clams up tomorrow, I’ve already got some juicy news for Captain Bratton. But that can wait…Vive La France!
___________
The Capitol
3:30 p.m.
One newspaper account of the scene highlighted the “funereal atmosphere descending on the Chamber.” Another contrasted the ‘solemn faces” of Justice Marshall and his associate jurists with the “dark fury evident on the features of the new Senator from South Carolina.”
All written accounts of the Duke’s historic speech, however, recorded the gradual transformation from celebration to shock in both the well of the House and in the galleries. Knowing what was coming and where to look, Burrell would remember amazement turning to glee on Webster’s face, as well as the blank expression Van Buren, sitting with the Cabinet members, maintained throughout.
