by James Devine
“Very good, Jeff. Yes, that professor is without question an agent of the Czar. I recall McDuffie questioning his bona fides that night at the French Consulate. Thought the Russian C-G deferred a bit too much to a mere ‘professor’…
“That’s not the telling point, however. I’ve observed these foreigners in action over the years. Never once has a private visitor so bluntly raised the issues this Russian did last evening. More importantly, no private visitor---especially from an autocratic state---would ever dare, on his own, initiate the possibility, however remote, of his country’s intervening in the affairs of the Empire.
“No, gentlemen. That was an official contact last evening by a duly-appointed representative of Czar Nicholas.”
Munroe shook his head in disbelief: “But what would the Russians have to gain by intervening in our domestic affair? Surely the Czar isn’t so altruistic that he would risk London’s wrath in a show of sympathy for our somewhat similar institutions of labor?”
Calhoun nodded his head, the long hair jostling his shoulders. “That, of course is the question, Jefferson. I understood this Russian to be on his way today to visit Congressman Polk in Columbia. Perhaps he will reveal more to James.”
The Senator looked over at the now-gagging Congressman. “I see however, that conversation concerning such global diplomacy is inflicting considerable pain on my honorable colleague. We will leave the matter in abeyance for now.”
He looked out the window at the planted roadside acres being tended by dark-skinned field hands. “I have arranged to meet with this ‘Andre’ once back in Georgetown. Perhaps by then the Czar’s motives will be more apparent.”
The Senator turned and flashed his trademark dark smile at the aide. “Perhaps by then it will also be apparent if the British realize there is a Russian agent on the loose here in our midst.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Cranford Plantation
Alexandria, Virginia
April 7, 1833:
Lucille Latoure wasn’t formally educated in the sense that her sister, Jaine--who had attended a private institution of higher learning for young women called a ‘female seminary’--was. She did, of course, hold advanced ‘degrees’ in the arts and sciences for which Southern belles were noted: coquettishness; insincere flattery; manipulation of the other sex, as well as dancing, side-saddle riding (though she actually could ride a horse in the regular manner as well as most men) and a more subtle projection of her sexuality than her ‘rival’, Candice Samples, preferred.
In the month since the tumultuous weekend in which emancipation had been transformed from an epithet to a very-real possibility, however, Lucille had sought and absorbed a multi-faceted education in politics, military science and sociology.
Despite her angry outburst at Lieutenant Wilder the day he had broken the news, Lucille hadn’t really comprehended the crisis he had come to warn of: the retort had been personal in view of his ‘misconduct’ viz-a-vie broken dinner-engagements; that bitch Mrs. Samples; and his general ‘inattentiveness.’ It was actually the casual off-hand comments of Sir John Burrell the next evening during the party at the Vice G-G’s that had radicalized her.
Sir John---who danced superbly (Tom exhibited the grace of a Cranford plow horse on the dance floor); projected what she imagined a sophisticated European air, complete with a darling thin, drooping mustache (the Lieutenant‘s proverbial “map of Ireland” face came complete with freckles); and was, after all, the King’s top resident political representative in the Dominion (not some sort of military messenger boy)---had been among her Georgetown beaus since arriving in the capitol two years before.
Though he was a bit old---closer to 40 than 30, she’d guess---with Joe Johnston gone off God-knows-where with a ‘real’ Army unit, he had begun to look more appealing. He had offered tickets to the Duke’s speech; learning that she was already in possession of some but free that evening, he had offered to escort the Latoures to Van Buren’s dinner party.
In conversation over cocktails with a group that included Senator Clay and the new Interior Secretary, Mr. MacLane, Sir John had expressed the opinion that the seven-year phase-in plan was “extremely liberal, wouldn’t you say?” The “Government,” he continued---with an emphasis that left no doubt that he was referring to London---had obviously drawn up a “careful, meticulous and generous” plan that looked out for the interests of all concerned: planters and their soon-to-be-former slaves alike.
The Liaison officer’s attitude, to a thunder-struck Lucille, breached her defenses as she later imagined a backhanded slap across the face might: condescending, parental and infuriating. Do they actually consider us the equivalent of misbehaving children who can be bribed to end their embarrassing conduct much as a parent would promise candy to a group of unruly off-spring?
Her cherished way-of-life! Subject to the whims of some faceless clerks 3000 miles away? Perhaps that is what has Mary Lee so fired up!
She had listened quietly---and for the first time ever with full attention---to the political conversation for the remainder of the evening. The education---the radicalization---of the belle began that night and continued thereafter.
___________
Lucille had come back to the capitol two days later for Jackson’s inaugural address and, escorted by Senator Webster, had attended several parties (though they had not gone to The Residency, believing the Tennesseans would be reenacting their rampage of ’28). Since then she had remained for much of the time in Georgetown, quietly observing and absorbing as the Administration tried to maintain a semblance of normality. At affairs such as Maria Scott’s monthly ladies-only luncheon, she listened carefully, not for social gossip but for any political news or opinions that might be related. She took no one into her confidence except Mary Lee.
On Easter Sunday, she had returned to Cranford. On the way, she had stopped at Arlington House to see Mary and Robert, who had wrangled leave for the holiday. She would be returning to the capital in a day or so, however, she privately informed Mary. Word that she was staying regularly in the townhouse was beginning to lead to invitations from varied social-and-political circles in Georgetown.
Both young women hoped---prayed---that a compromise would be worked out. As reports began to trickle in concerning the response in various sections of the country, however, the two had begun to fear for the worst. And to consider how they could be of service…
__________
Latakia, Syria
April 7, 1833:
General Boris Mikailov, after more than a month cramped up aboard the dilapidated flagship of the Imperial Black Sea Fleet, was happy to set foot on solid ground, even if he wasn’t quite sure where he and his disembarking command were.
According to Admiral Valeri Kharlamov, commander of the Black Sea Fleet, this sleepy port was well north of Tripoli. Advanced elements of the Egyptian army, according to questionable intelligence reports by the Ottomans, had occupied that fabulous old city in late February. The main body, however, was apparently still camped in and around Acre, even farther south along the coast.
Mikailov’s orders, which seemed even more dubious now then when he had received them two months ago, were to locate the Arabs, head off their apparent march into the Anatolian heartland of the Turks, and by a show of force, convince this Pasha Ali to turn back. If possible, this show of force was to be accomplished without firing a shot… Though how in the name of Ivan the Terrible he was supposed to pull that miracle off, he had no idea!
He and Kharlamov had picked Latakia for its spacious harbor and gentle rise to the main Syrian plain. Marines landed several days ago had reported that the Army could comfortably camp outside the town while keeping in close touch with the fleet, in case a sudden reembarkment became necessary. Water and provisions were also readily available for seizing in the surrounding area.
The cavalry would begin probing southward tomorrow, while Admiral Kharlamov had already sent his most powerful (most seaworthy, the General thought with
a snort of disgust) frigate down the coast to ascertain the situation at Tripoli.
Mikailov shook his head: some assignment! I’ve fought the French, the wild hordes in Central Asia and even the Mongolians. Each time, it was to defend or extend the motherland. What possessed St. Petersburg to land us in the middle of a Moslem civil war is beyond me! Let’s just hope that the Arabs will be as terrified of us as the Turks seemed to be…otherwise, we’ll need more reinforcements than St. Petersburg has the ability to transport to us…
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Albany, New York
April 17, 1833:
Aaron Burr had received a rude shock when he arrived here two days ago via Hudson River steamboat to organize the Albany Regency’s meetings with Wellington: William L. Marcy, Matty Van’s hand-picked new governor, was at best non-committal on the emancipation issue. There were, in fact, indications that Marcy was actually sympathetic to the slave power!
The Regency itself was Van Buren’s creation (with the Colonel’s sage backstage help) and had ruled the state for over a decade through strict adherence to a mutually agreeable and beneficial agenda. While neither the Vice G-G nor any of the other power brokers could be called outright abolitionists, no one had suspected that Marcy harbored Southern sympathies!
It will hurt Matty in the long run---to say nothing of the personal embarrassment to me---if Wellington sees we can not control our own state, the Colonel thought with dismay as he prepared to dine with several Regency stalwarts at the Quackenbush House, reputedly the city’s oldest building.
___________
Albany, New York
April 19, 1833:
The Colonel had worked feverishly to convince Marcy to see the light, cashing in many of the Vice G-G’s political chips in the process. The canny old political boss had even promised the Governor a leading place in any Van Buren cabinet once Matty Van took possession of The Residency.
Well, Matty can deal with the outrage later, if he is ever forced to deliver on the promise: four years is a long time in politics. Who can say what the situation will be then? Or who will be around to say it?
The meetings with the Duke should now go well, the Colonel thought with satisfaction as he left a tense meeting in the Governor’s mansion on Eagle Street. As long as that fool Marcy keeps his mouth shut… How can a politician from Troy, New York, support the continuance of slavery? And what was Matty Van thinking to put such an idiot in the Governor’s chair?
Burr would keep a low profile during the official events of Wellington’s visit, especially the reception tonight co-hosted by Marcy and Mayor Corning at the Schuyler Mansion, of course. While the Regency crowd was well aware of his influence, to most New Yorkers---as well as the rest of British America---he was virtually forgotten; recalled if at all as an unwholesome relic of a bygone era. When he occasionally made news---in his recent unfortunate divorce, his wife, the former Eliza Bowen, was represented by Alexander Hamilton, Jr.---it was as a curiosity.
___________
Albany-Hartford Road
April 22, 1833:
The Duke of Wellington was in a jubilant mood as he rode toward what he had been informed would be an enthusiastic reception in the abolitionist-stronghold Connecticut capitol. The key Northern states were falling in line to support, if not emancipation, the Colonial Compact with a quiet determination he had, at first glance, doubted they possessed.
“The Compact, as we had always hoped, is the key,” he told Captain Bratton as they headed southeast through western Massachusetts on a lovely spring morning. “There’s no great love for the blacks in either the West or these last two states we’ve visited. And no great guilt over slavery, either. They’d allow the institution to whither on the vine, given their druthers, if that was all that is at stake.
“But the Dominion, now, that’s an entirely different cup of tea. They’re damned if they’ll allow the Southerners to destroy it…over slavery or anything else.”
Bratton was troubled, however. “This exemption, Sir Arthur. We keep hearing reports that Calhoun is making it the centerpiece of his resistance. And you’ll recall this chap Wolf broached it back in Harrisburg…”
The Duke shook his head forcefully. “There will be no exemption, Captain Bratton. London sent us here to announce emancipation, not compromise with the slaveholders. Wolf was just--how do the Americans say it--testing the waters. Why, it never came up in Albany at all.”
For the Duke, who loved new gadgets and inventions, the highlight of the visit had actually been the exciting round trip on the new Mohawk & Hudson Railroad to the nearby town of Schenectady. Albany’s mayor, an industrialist named Erastus Corning, was the driving force behind the road. “Our state will soon be entirely linked by track as well as these new canals to Lake Erie and Lake Champlain,” he predicted as they rode at the breathtaking speed of just under 15 miles per hour. “Together, they will make our boast of being the ‘Empire State’ an uncontestable fact.”
The Mayor had turned sober as he continued. “Those damn planters down South! They’re stuck in the 18th, if not 17th, century, progress-wise. Machinery is the key to the 19th century…not human bondage!”
Wellington chuckled now, thinking back on his visit. “I say: that Colonel Burr of yours is first rate. Had that Regency crowd all lined up before we ever arrived. Why, their Governor even took me aside to privately reassure me of their support, politically and otherwise.”
___________
Russian Consulate
Georgetown, D.C.
April 26, 1833:
Dispatches from St. Petersburg indicating that the Syrian expedition had been ordered forward had been waiting when Count Ignatieff returned from the west. So, the great game in Asia has begun. Perhaps I should have gone there from St. Petersburg. And sent someone else to deal with these damn colonials…
His stay with Congressman Polk had not been as successful as the previous stops in the deeper south: the man had not risen to the bait even after hearing of Nicholas’ conversations in Tuscaloosa.
At first, the Count was inclined to write off the incident to a naiveté or slowness on Polk’s part. After traveling with the Congressman to several speaking engagements in the eastern half of Tennessee, though, Ignatieff had realized that he was dealing with a crafty, slippery political operator who simply refused to acknowledge that anything was afoot.
Compared, however, to his reception in Kentucky, the Polk visit had been wildly successful. Slavery was obviously a fact-of-life in Kentucky; black faces seemed almost as common as white. The gentry, however, appeared more resigned to emancipation. It had taken a chance conversation in a Louisville saloon for Ignatieff to begin to realize the reason.
A well-built smallish young man, clearly of the upper class, named Harold Reese explained: “Cotton is not king here, sir. We’ve a varied economy and more small farmers than planters. Horses, sir; that is what we grow in the bluegrass! The darkies are already a hindrance to some of our quality people. Could manumit the lot, but where would they go, what would they do? Can’t sell them south, either. No sir, after so many years that would be heartless. This plan of Wellington’s now; as some of us understand it, will be a godsend. Take ‘em off our hands, yet get something for them! Still, some folks don’t see it that way. They’re mighty comfortable bein’ waited on, hand and foot, by their ‘people.’ Some may side with the fire-eaters. Don’t think Kentucky as a whole will, though.”
He grinned at the Count, who was trying grimly to maintain a carefully neutral look. “It was only 40 years ago, you know, that this land was settled. Why, there’s many a man alive right here in Louisville who knew Daniel Boone personally. People like that who fought so hard to get into the Dominion---the Frenchies were very active here, you know---well, those people have passed on a love for the USBA to their children. London freeing the darkies---even though it does seem right high-handed---doesn’t strike me as enough of an issue to go over to Calhoun and his hotheads.”
R
iding back through Virginia had cheered Ignatieff up somewhat. Word of the emancipation had been slow in reaching into the Blue Ridge but the people---planters and small farmers alike---were outraged. Well, perhaps Calhoun changed some minds in Kentucky. He was scheduled there late last week. Meanwhile, there is work to be done here in Georgetown…
___________
Drago, the Consulate security chief, had not been the only unenthusiastic face when Nicholas had ridden up to the compound gates after some six weeks on the road. Count Renkowiitz’s easy hand was again evident throughout the Consulate as Nicholas strode imperiously into the building. An atmosphere that quickly changed once word of his unexpected arrival filtered throughout the compound.
An afternoon meeting with Renkowiitz and his daughter---brought in at Ignatieff’s express command---revealed that Georgetown was tense but quiet, as if awaiting the onslaught of a thunderstorm already visible on the horizon.
“And you, Count? Was your trip all you expected?” Renkowiitz was nervously cheerful.
“It had its moments.” Ignatieff was dry and brief. “Is the Congress still expected to meet the first Tuesday of June? And what word of Wellington? Is he still touring the North?”
Despite his best effort to conceal it, Renkowiitz’s renewed surprise at the unwanted St. Petersburg visitor’s interest in Dominion politics was clearly evident.
(Putting two and two together and coming up with five, Count Karl had decided that Ignatieff was in British America on some secret mission of assassination or abduction. Assassination or abduction of a British official, though visions of Fernando Valenzuela lying in his Consulate’s garden, or some back alley, with his throat cut had also appeared in his mind’s eye. After all, hadn’t Ignatieff mentioned Ft. Ross and the Imperial settlements flourishing in what was supposed to be Mexican California?
