by James Devine
Burr had smiled (how the Colonel is enjoying this!): “I have spoken with the incoming Vice G-G. He finds himself in an unusual and delicate position. He has been a key member of the Administration and expects to remain so throughout the second term. However, he fully supports the Compact…and the Constitution.”
Everyone present had immediately grasped the old man’s meaning. Cass, in particular, had seemed outraged, but I wasn’t particularly upset…or surprised:
“I understand Matty Van’s position, Colonel. In his shoes, I would probably feel and act likewise.”
Wellington has sent multiple messages tonight: the Court will rule in London’s favor, which will influence public opinion, especially in the MidAtlantic and Western states; my new Vice G-G also supports London and is thus both available and ready to replace me, unless I go along; and I have until Congress convenes to convince the South to accept emancipation.
Yes, my old commander, it looks like a rout at the moment. But you’ve had the benefit of surprise. Now it is up to me to turn that surprise to my advantage…
___________
The G-G broke his reverie and turned around at the sound of Sarah Polk’s arrival to face his guests. “Well ladies, I’m afraid we’ll be breaking my usual rule about limiting political talk at Sunday evening supper. We spent so much time this afternoon listening to Colonel Burr here tell us about his discussions last evening that we never had time to tell him what went on with the Leadership earlier today.
“It was actually quite interesting, Colonel…”
___________
The Capitol
Georgetown, D.C.
March 4, 1833, 12 p.m.:
The snow continued to fall sporadically and the heavy gray skies seemed matched by the mood of the small, tense crowd that was gathering on and in front of the steps leading to the Capitol’s main entrance. A dais and temporary seating, now being dug out by teams of civilian and USBAA workers, had been constructed on the steps of the entrance, which, illogically, faced southeast…away from the city.
There had been talk about moving the ceremonies inside but Jackson had rejected it. So a crowd limited mainly to members of Congress, high Administration figures and heartier members of the diplomatic corps, as well as the press, were on hand as Jackson’s carriage and Marine honor guard pulled up to the steps. (Wellington was seated in a place of honor among the dais’ dignitaries, to the incoming Vice Governor-General’s right.)
Assisted by the Marine officer, Goodwin, Jackson climbed carefully up to the dais, where Van Buren and Marshall greeted him. “Well Mr. Van Buren. So the rumors of your demise are unfounded. We have much to talk about. I’ll expect you in my office 10 a.m. sharp tomorrow.”
Matty Van flashed his trademark noncommittal smile and bowed his head quickly. “As you wish, Governor-General.” Marshall, looking judicially formal in his long black robe, merely shook Jackson’s hand and gestured him to his seat.
The ceremonies proceeded quickly: Marshall administered the oaths of office, first to Van Buren and then to Jackson, without placing special emphasis on any word or phrase in either oath. To the uninformed, it would have appeared an impressively solemn though less-than-dramatic performance.
That was how Count Renkowiitz, wrapped in a heavy fur great coat and standing in the crowd with Count Ignatieff, perceived the scene. Nicholas, however, studied the proceedings with a professional eye. As at the two previous Capitol Building speeches, the lack of armed soldiers surprised him. If I had been in charge of security arrangements, Jackson would have come out from the Capitol Building to a dais built on the top landing. The crowd would have been kept considerably farther away. And the steps would have been filled with troops armed to the teeth…
Now Jackson, who had stood facing the Chief Justice behind the dais’ podium for the oath, turned and looked out at the politely cheering crowd. The snow had, at least momentarily, stopped but there were no breaks in the dismal overcast. The G-G opened the folder that had been previously placed on the podium and quickly ran through the customary dignitarial acknowledgements before pausing.
“Fellow Americans…” Jackson began, and a gasp raced through the crowd.
The Duke looked up in puzzlement as the buzzing continued. Van Buren understood, but dismissed the thought to explain that Inaugural Addresses traditionally began: “Fellow citizens of His Majesty’s Dominion…”
By chance, Henry Clay stood no more than ten feet from the previous Vice G-G. The new Senator from South Carolina nodded shortly to Representative Polk, who had turned to him, as the G-G resumed his remarks.
“…my original intention was to share with you today plans for a revision in our banking system and to announce the comprehensive, systematic program for Western expansion which I will be sending to London shortly. Such issues are still of vital…”
The incoming Senator from New Jersey, Samuel Southard, nodded his own head and muttered to those around him: “Damn right the bank issue is vital. Unless the old fool wants to lead us into a crash…”
“…48 hours ago, an issue of such grave magnitude was announced to the Congress, after having been brought to my attention for the first time the previous afternoon, that all other issues must...”
Burr, standing in the rear of the crowd, turned to the attending Lieutenant Wilder. “Here it comes, with the vinegar still on, as they say out West…”
“…therefore, I will call the 23rd Congress into existence on June 3rd, 93 days from today, to deal with the emancipation issue. This timeframe will allow those members of Congress here today to travel back to their districts and consult with their constituents. It will as well allow new members to likewise consult, once the news reaches their respective districts. By the time Congress convenes, news of the progress of the legislation through Parliament…”
Along with a self-congratulatory epistle from the great Quincy himself, thought Webster.
Jackson had again paused, as the crowd’s murmurs increased and visions of a historic Congressional debate formed in most minds.
“…As I wish the citizens to carefully consider the ramifications of this issue in every possible context, I will refrain at this time from delivering myself of an opinion concerning it…”
Good, thought Frank Blair, that’s placing yourself above the fray for the time being. Wellington certainly can’t act to remove you, if you haven’t announced a position, publicly or privately. Let’s take the people’s temperature first...
“…Our Dominion, fellow Americans, was forged in the white-hot heat of 1776. The Compact written by Franklin and Burke has benefited those on both sides of the Atlantic. The Constitution our forefathers drew up has guided the Dominion to internal prosperity of a degree not conceivable 57 years ago.
“Yet these two beloved and prized documents skirt an issue that has lurked in the shadows for more than 150 years…”
Representative McDuffie looked over Floride Calhoun’s head and at her husband. A single word formed on Calhoun’s lips: “Exemption.”
“…thus, for better or for worse, the issue is placed in front of us. Even if the heat rising from it becomes itself white-hot, we---the generations of British Americans active today---must confront it.
“That process will begin as the members of the 22nd Congress arrive back in their home states. In three months, the members of the 23rd Congress will convene in the building behind me to determine the will of the people.
“Meanwhile, we will continue here in Georgetown with the business of government. God Save the King! And God Bless America!”
___________
The Residency
March 4, 1833, 8 p.m.:
This time the Tennesseans, who had mostly foregone the snow and cold of the Inaugural ceremonies for the warmth of the city’s numerous taprooms, were limited in their admittance to the mansion.
Emily Donelson had been firm with her uncle: order and decorum would be maintained during the reception. She had even commandeere
d a squad of USBA Marines to regulate entry to The Residency. Lieutenant Wilder was on duty tonight in his social aide capacity but Arthur Goodwin, after placing his Marine honor guard in ceremonial positions along the walls, had also assumed responsibility for the entrances.
So it was that the social chaos of Jackson’s first Inaugural was replaced by the quieter---though deadlier---chaos of high-stakes politics:
Despite their eagerness to depart for their various homes, most of the Congressional leadership passed through the mansion, worriedly conferring with other members of their own parties and sectional factions as well as members from other sections with whom they were personally friendly.
The Duke of Wellington, attended by Captain Bratton and Sir John Burrell, appeared cordial and remarkably serene to all factions: he chose to project an air of confident complacency that Parliament’s intentions, once announced, would thus automatically be initiated. Only the two aides were aware how deeply troubled he was, not only by Jackson’s maneuverings, but also by the overall reaction of the USBA political and economic governing classes to the emancipation concept.
Though gravely worried, General Scott utilized his tried-and-true public posture: the USBA military never commented on civilian legislative matters.
The diplomatic corps buzzed among itself. Jacques Jean-Claude expressed it best to a group including Prussia’s Van Benes and the Mexican, Valenzuela: “It is like watching a Shakespearean drama unfold in place of the comedy previously promised.”
Jackson himself was the picture of composure: he stood with his niece welcoming all his guests and accepting congratulations and good wishes, occasionally turning to whisper some comments to Blair or Cass. Only the kitchen cabinet was aware of the conflicting pressures tormenting the G-G.
The Vice G-G was also continuously circled by well-wishers; only those at the highest levels had yet thought through the crisis far enough to realize the inevitable deterioration of his relationship with Jackson.
Only Colonel Burr, standing quietly anonymous in the crowd, seemed to be truly enjoying the reception: the old adventurer was relishing his role as secret go-between and advisor. And now Lieutenant Wilder had just introduced him to a most remarkable creature: Candice Samples. Andy had it right after all, the Colonel thought with a chuckle: God Bless America!
___________
Monticello Tavern
8pm:
Even Cris Donfield made it to Monticello by the appointed hour, to find Tousaint’s group virtually the only customers in the dusky, dirty barroom. He moved toward the rear table they regularly occupied and ordered a beer.
He and the others---Ugene Doby and Marion Motley---were still stunned that a government plan to end slavery might be at hand. And they were even more stunned to find out how angrily Tousaint Numidia disapproved.
It was very simple, Tousaint explained as patiently as his fiery temper would allow: “The British Congress---what they call their Parliament and which has power over the Congress here in Georgetown---agrees that slavery is an abomination.
“But not so much of an abomination that they want to end it now. No, this Parliament wants to wait seven more years---seven more years during which our maumba will continue to suffer and die---before they do anything about it.”
Tousaint looked at his followers: “What kind of uhura is that? If Parliament can abolish slavery in seven years, why wait? Why not now!”
There was silence around the table as Tousaint, in an imitation of his father which somehow lacked the same effect, slammed his fist on the rough wood surface, rattling his own glass of rum and the beers of the others.
Ugene, whose Interior clerkship gave him a somewhat more sophisticated view of the world than that available to a hotel porter or a consulate maintenance man, shook his head.
“I don’t know, Simba. Don’t seem there’s much we can do about it. If the Brits are serious about emancipation, that’s the best news I’ve heard in years. Even though it might be sometime down the road…”
Donfield was shaking his head in agreement: “That’s right, Simba. Sure, we’d like emancipation right away, but at least we do know now when it’s coming.”
Tousaint was growing angrier by the second. “Don’t you dumb bastards understand? Seven years from now is 1840. Lot could happen by then. Just suppose that King William over there dies? Who’s to say this young girl who’s next in line for the throne will go along? Who’s to say she’ll be allowed to go along? Who’s to say she’ll even be queen?
“And these damn planters! Give them seven years to organize and who knows what will happen. Moses says the Brits are prepared to back up emancipation by force…”
“Then whats you be worried ‘bout Simba? Da Redcoats make ‘em do it at da barrel of a rifle!” Motley spoke for the first time.
Numidia looked at Motley and smiled as if about to explain something fundamental to a child. “Because, Marion, there’s no guarantee the Royal Army will be able to enforce emancipation…”
Doby laughed: “Shit, Simba, who’s gonna stop them? Not those tin soldiers over at the War Department!”
Tousaint was grim: “Those tin soldiers threw the French out of the Louisiana Territory and helped the Brits defeat Napoleon, Ugene. Don’t underestimate them. But I wasn’t talking about the USBA fighting the Brits. Europe’s gone 20 years now without a war. That’s some kind of white man’s record. By 1840, the Royal Army could be tied up anywhere from Greece to India…”
“You done lost me, Simba.” Motley was laughing. “Only grease Ah knows be on a wagon wheel. As for Injuns, ain’t that who da Dominian army be fightin’ wit’ now?”
Tousaint’s frustration was obvious, so Ugene, the most educated of his followers, decided to call a halt. “Okay, Simba, you ain’t happy with the wait. We get that. Is that why you wanted to meet here tonight…to let us know you’re pissed…or do you have something else to add?”
Numidia grinned. Doby was a lot smarter than he looked…or let on. “Right Ugene. I got a plan. A plan that will force the damn Brits to declare uhura. Now!”
Donfield groaned. “I was afraid of this. Okay, Simba. What you got in mind…knowing that we ain’t necessarily agreeing to follow through on whatever the hell it is…”
His leadership confirmed, Tousaint looked around the table in triumph. “What I have in mind, gentlemen, is to encourage Parliament to speed up the uhura process…”
Now it was Ugene’s turn to roll his eyes and groan. “And exactly how…”
“By taking the Duke of Wellington prisoner and holding him for ransom.”
“For ransom?” Donfield spit out the words along with a mouthful of beer. While the others sat looking at Tousaint in shock, he continued: “Why, so we can buy our maumba free ourselves?”
“Not for money. We ransom Wellington for a speed-up in uhura. A formal agreement to free all the slaves in the USBA within 12 months time.”
“Dear Lordy.” Donfield was pounding both his head and his fist against the table. “We’re dealing with a madman. Lord help us…”
Doby, however, was assessing Numidia with a sober, somber look. “I know you’ve thought this out, Simba. So tell me: how is four niggas gonna blackmail the British Parliament? What makes you think the Brits---or the USBA authorities---will keep any bargains they make with us?
“Hell, the moment we give Wellington back…and that’s saying we can snatch and hold him for as long as it takes…they’ll hunt us down like Nat Turner…”
Tousaint silently played with his rum glass long enough to let Doby’s question sink in. “I agree, no question they wouldn’t honor any agreements with us, Ugene…
“But don’t you think they would with the New England Abolitionist Society?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Constantinople, Ottoman Empire
March 10, 1833, 7 a.m.:
Sir John Ponsonby, British Ambassador to the Porte, was a student of ancient history as well as an amateur archeologist. This Sunday
morning, he was up early and had left the Embassy with an aide to explore some recently uncovered ruins just outside the city walls. Prior examination indicated the find might predate the Roman period.
So it was that he was among the first residents of Constantinople to witness the amazing sight: A rag-tag armada of warships was escorting a remarkably-diverse convoy of merchant vessels, fishing boats, pleasure craft and barges moving slowly and carefully through the Straights.
Sir John’s puzzlement at the sight---the warships’ designs were unlike any he had previously understood the Sultan’s pitiful Navy to possess and yet looked remarkably outdated to even his nonprofessional glance---grew as guns began to boom on the city walls. It soon became clear, however, that the Turks were intent on greeting, not destroying, the fleet which now moved closer to Ponsonby’s vantage point atop the shoreline ruins.
Alistair Tudsbury, the Embassy’s talkative second secretary, stood at the Ambassador’s side, his mouth open and gargling sounds alone escaping. Young Tudsbury had been as startled as Ponsonby himself when the ships had come into view and the artillery salute commenced. Now Tudsbury, who had served a four-year hitch as a junior officer in the Royal Navy and had the best eyesight at the Embassy, was pointing at the two ships-of-the-line, his hand visibly shaking.
“Sir John, do you see it? What the devil…? I say, this is most improbable!”
Ponsonby turned to his now red-faced aide: “What is it, Tudsbury? Damn it! What do you see? You know how nearsighted I am! This bloody flotilla is too far out in the Straights for me to make out anything definitive…”
The shaken Ambassador now looked up at the walls. A growing clamor rose from the throngs of merchants, workers and other city residents staring at the stunning scene. The uniformed Ottoman soldiers, however, were gazing out impassively, while the gun crews continued the salute now being answered by the ships in the Straights.
