by James Devine
The three Englishmen suddenly jumped to their feet as a hook-nosed old gentleman opened the conference room door and quietly walked in. Oh my God, it’s Wellington! Harper thought, looking over his left shoulder before scrambling to rise himself.
“At ease, gentlemen.” The Duke eyeballed Harper as he had a thousand young subalterns. “Young Mr. Harper of the Interior Department. I’m told you’re our ticket inside the Russian Consulate…”
Harry Bratton, busy pulling out a conference table chair for Sir Arthur, quickly recapped: “Mr. Harper doesn’t believe our friend ‘Andre’ is quite the ‘Russian dissident’ he has claimed to be. Says the Countess was…unconvincing…in so describing him.”
The Duke returned his icy gaze to David: “Is that so. Hmm. Was she…unconvincing…in anything else she said?”
“Yes Your Grace,” David’s head was now bobbing up and down like a bouncing ball: “Carol…the Countess…also claimed she had no idea where he might have gone or who he might have seen during his time away from Georgetown. ‘No interest’ was the way she put it. She seemed rather upset…and insisted we end our picnic and resume riding…
“I think I know her well enough to detect when she’s not herself. And my questions definitely flustered her. So, I have to think she knows quite a bit about his travels and, as she put it, ‘his American acquaintances…”
With an embarrassed look at the Duke---I thought he’d have more than this---Bratton quickly, almost pleadingly, asked: “Anything else, Mr. Harper? Surely more talk than that on a long Sunday afternoon together?”
Awed by Wellington’s presence, Harps took a minute to reply. “Well Captain, she was definitely surprised to know of the man’s relationship with Mrs. Casgrave…”
Bratton’s forehead and cheeks suddenly matched the red of the Imperial flag displayed across the room. A sudden spasm of coughing simultaneously erupted from the Major, while Sir John’s lips puckered in a strange way. Even the Duke took a moment to clear his throat.
“…but overall, it was her nervousness in even talking about him--and the Cossacks were far enough away that our conversation was strictly private---that most impressed me. Why, she even became confused…”
“To what extent, Mr. Harper?” Bratton’s tone was interrogational, almost desperate.
“At one point, while we were discussing his absence from Georgetown, she even began to mix him up with her father.”
“What? With her father…?” Sir John looked skeptically at the young American. “I say, in what earthly way?”
“She started to refer to him as ‘the Count.’ Only, she caught herself about halfway through. Then called him ‘M. Karlhamanov.’”
Three heads stared momentarily at Harper before reflexively turning to look at their chief. The Duke of Wellington reached across the table and offered David his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Harper, you’ve been very helpful. I will send an appropriate note to Mr. MacLane for your permanent file. Major, if you will show Mr. Harper out…” Harry and Sir John were talking at once almost before the door closed behind the stunned Harper. “”By George, we’ve pegged him at last, Sir!” mixed with “We’ve got him this time. That’s confirmation!”
The Duke, however, quickly held up his hand for silence. He waited till Robert Layne returned to the table before speaking in a quiet but forceful tone.
“’Pegged him,’ Harry? Perhaps. ‘Confirmation’ though? Not yet. All we have is an apparent slip of the tongue by a Russian noblewoman speaking in a language not native to her.”
He smiled softly as Bratton and Burrell fell back in their chairs, their excitement visibly fading. “Now gentlemen, no long faces. I daresay, I haven’t said I disagree with your conclusion. It’s simply a rather long leap of faith on very little tangible evidence.” He turned to look at the now-seated Layne. “Major, what is your opinion?”
Layne licked his lower lip and paused for a long second: “Your Grace, I agree that the evidence at face value is flimsy. Until you recall something Mr. Harper told us the last time he was here.” He paused again and looked at Bratton.
“You will recall, won’t you, Harry, that young Mr. Harper told us over lunch that day that the Countess was so proficient in the English language that she was conducting classes at the Consulate several days a week?”
Encouraged by a nod from Wellington, as well as quick agreement from the Captain, Layne plunged ahead: “So this is more likely a slip of the tongue than a confusion of language.” He stopped again before picking up a report that had been in a stack in front of him:
“After our initial, ah, ‘mishap’ concerning this Russki’s whereabouts, I had a tail placed on ‘Andre’ until he left town; then resumed it when he reappeared. But I also have had the Consulate under 24-hour surveillance since March. Twice in the last,” he looked down at the report, “30 days, one Captain Drago---whom we have long-since identified as the, shall we say, ‘man of action’ over there---has left town. As of this morning, he had not returned from the second jaunt.”
Sir John shrugged his skinny shoulders in puzzlement. “So these Russkiis like to ride through Virginia…I fail to see what that…”
Layne paid his civilian counterpart no apparent mind: “I submit, Your Grace, that the two situations tie together: Captain Drago is being utilized by Count Ignatieff---as I believe the Countess inadvertently but correctly identified him---as the postman to deliver news to this Mr. Calhoun. News contained in letters or reports that the Countess has had a hand in preparing, under Ignatieff’s direction.”
Bratton and Burrell were silenced by pure shock, but Wellington smiled and nodded his head at the Major. “Well Major Layne, indeed. There may be a future for you after all, above and beyond this…hamlet. Good work.”
He turned to the others: “However, gentlemen, even if accepting the Major’s deductive reasoning as correct, we still do not have the grounds, the proof actually, to move in on our friend. And certainly not to invoke the Extremity Provisions…
“At this juncture, all we can do is continue to keep a close watch on the Consulate…and all its inhabitants.”
He nodded grimly: “It may also be time to bring certain of our American political allies up-to-date on the Syrian adventure. And how Calhoun may be about to use it to his diabolical political advantage when their Congress meets.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Charleston, South Carolina, Harbor
May 28, 1833, 7:00 a.m.:
John C. Calhoun had been firm with the sloop’s captain. If Congressman McDuffie wasn’t aboard by this hour, the anchor was to be pulled anyway.
“Mac will just have to catch the next available boat,” the Senator told Floride. “It’s essential that I get to Georgetown as soon as practically possible. I’ll not wait for McDuffie nor anyone else…”
To Floride’s relief, and Calhoun’s pleasure, as he often used the Congressman as a personal sounding board, McDuffie’s hired hack came racing up to the dock before the gangplank was raised. “Better late than never,” Calhoun grumbled as his House of Representatives’ point man dashed on board. “Congressman McDuffie, Sir. This is no time to initiate a habit of tardiness…”
The winded McDuffie shook his head in disgust. “Damn hotel clerk forgot to waken me as ordered. I’d have skinned his hide, if there were time. Shows what happens when these transplanted Yankees are put in positions of responsibility. A proper darkie clerk would have had me up with time to spare…”
Laughing, the trio went below to breakfast privately in the Calhouns’ stateroom. Once the fresh fruit was served and they were momentarily alone, Calhoun began to brief McDuffie on the Syrian situation, including the newest information delivered by Captain Drago: the Russians were landed and in search of the Arab army.
It took till the ruins of breakfast had been collected and carried away before the Congressman fully grasped the implications.
“If I understand you correctly, John, you intend to utilize the specter of insurrectio
n here in the South as the weapon of choice to force the exemption concession from Wellington, based on the assumption that the Empire can not risk major conflicts in two places. But how can you be so sure the British are responding to the Syrian adventure? Seems to me, you have only the information this ‘correspondent’ of yours---who obviously is this Russian professor, or whatever his rank really is---has supplied you.”
Calhoun’s smile bordered on the patronizing: “Not quite, George. I’ve yet to tell you of my encounter with His Grace, the Duke of Wellington himself, earlier this month in Raleigh…”
The surprised expression on the Congressman’s face at this news gradually turned to comprehension as he listened to Calhoun’s version of the private session in the North Carolina governor’s mansion.
“Well, John, sounds as if you bested the self-righteous old Limey bastard. Knew exactly what you were referring to, eh! And realized you hold all the aces… Bet that sent him galloping back to Georgetown in a hurry. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s worked out a compromise with Jackson already…”
Calhoun smiled at his wife while holding up a hand. “Congressman, please! I’m afraid it won’t be quite this easy!”
He paused to sip some newly poured coffee before continuing: “Wellington is as astute as they come. He’s certainly had someone---probably Van Buren---counting heads. He knows it’s going to be tight in the Congress and that Jackson is key, if it gets that far.
“I agree he probably galloped back to Georgetown, but I think it was to see any late-arriving dispatches. It’s questionable as to whether Jackson---or anyone else up there outside the Liaison Office---even knows about this Russian complication.” The Senator looked fondly at his wife. “In fact, outside of this room, only Jim Polk is aware of it.”
“Polk?” McDuffie was confused. “How…”
“Met with him in Asheville last Wednesday. He should be on his way to Georgetown now. So, within 24 hours of our arrival, we should know what The Residency knows; and how the knowledge, or lack of it, is affecting Jackson’s position on emancipation itself.”
McDuffie raised his own coffee cup in salute. “Now I see why you are in such a damn hurry to get up to that god-forsaken swamp…”
Calhoun’s dark smile flashed briefly. “For this and other reasons we’ll discuss before we dock, George. This crisis is like a spilt inkwell: running in several directions at once. We’re not going up there to clean up the spill. Just to channel it in one direction: permanent exemption from emancipation for the South…and the Southwest we’ll soon be acquiring…”
___________
Van Buren Home
Georgetown, D.C.
May 28, 1833, 6:30 p.m.:
The “certain American allies” the Duke intended to update were now gathering for dinner: in addition to the Vice G-G, Chief Justice Marshall was on hand. General Scott, who had arrived back in town after the unpleasant duty of relieving a valued comrade-in-arms of the command of Fort McHenry due to chronic alcoholism, was also present.
“Well gentlemen, and ladies,” the Duke bowed formally to Maria Scott and Mrs. Marshall, “there is much to discuss this evening…and none of it is particularly pleasant. So, once we are served yet another of the Vice Governor-General’s most delectable meals, I suggest we wade into the subject…”
Two hours later, the table was ominously silent.
Each of the Americans was consumed with his or her own thoughts on the burgeoning crisis. Wellington himself, despite the stimulus of a steak dinner with roasted potatoes and several bottles of an excellent Bordeaux, was also deeply depressed.
It was the elderly Chief Justice who initially broke through the gloom that had permeated the main courses: “As I understand the situation, my dear Duke,” (Marshall was another who despised utilizing the formal English address) “it appears that Senator Calhoun believes the Crown can not afford war on two fronts. Is his estimate correct?”
Wellington reluctantly nodded.
“So I must ask Winfield,” Marshall continued, “would our own British American forces be so decimated by a Southern, I can think of no other word…desertion...that we would be unable to put down an…insurrection…without the Empire’s help?”
Scott was vigorously shaking his massive head even before the old Virginian completed his question. “On paper, very definitely not, Mr. Chief Justice. Even under the worst scenario---the mass resignation of Southern-born officers to form the basis of a rebel officer corps---we would still have any rebel forces out-manned, and, of course, out-gunned. The South is simply not equipped to wage war; they don’t have the artillery, or capability of manufacturing the artillery, for one thing, or the capability to manufacture the other items of war: ammunition, muskets and side-arms and so forth.”
The leonine head stilled as a quite different tone entered the General’s voice: “However, it remains to be seen if the other sections believe emancipation is worth fighting for. Just because we theoretically would have an insurrection out-manned and out-gunned doesn’t mean we actually would, if it comes to that. On paper, the Dominion forces would simply grind any rebel armies down. But wars aren’t fought on paper. The will to fight can not be overestimated. The South, from all reports, claims to have that will. Do the other sections?”
It was Van Buren who broke the depressing silence that followed Scott’s rhetorical question. “That, ladies and gentlemen, aptly demonstrates the political acumen of the Governor-General. Mr. Jackson, from the moment the Duke initially briefed him, saw emancipation as a test of sectional wills; the final struggle over the issue of states rights…”
“And what is the G-G’s current position?” The Chief Justice, normally the most decorous of men, broke in anxiously.
“He hasn’t revealed it, of course,” Van Buren admitted with a frown before brightening: “However, based on his record, my belief is that, after much soul-searching, he will adhere to his Dominionist principles.”
The eyebrows went up and the Vice G-G flashed a smile that could have been interpreted as shy…or sly. “I seem to have broken my own first rule: never make predictions…”
The Duke raised his glass as most other guests clapped in appreciation: “Bravo, Mr. Van Buren. I salute you. Especially as your opinion concurs with my own.”
The General, however, remained grave. “The issue here isn’t the Governor-General’s principles…whatever they may turn out to be. What matters most is the will in the North and West to fight for those, as you say, Dominionist principles. Can anyone here say with any certainty that they will?”
Wellington again raised his glass, this time to Scott. “Winfield, you always were, even on the Peninsula, the supreme realist. I salute you…”
The Duke looked around the table. “I, also, have an opinion on that subject. Based on my talks and travels, I believe the North and West will rally to the Colonial Compact, if necessary. And, if called upon, Winfield, under your banner…”
___________
The Golden Eagle Inn
Georgetown, D.C.
May 28, 1833, 9 p.m.:
Joanne Casgrave was oblivious to the gathering political storm. The fact was that she simply did not give a damn about emancipation, exemption, nullification, the Colonial Compact or politics in general. Joanne was in the midst of the most intense relationship of her extraordinarily active sexual life. She had enjoyed dozens of lovers, as well as countless clients, since fleeing her family’s small Long Island farm years before. Unlike most newcomers to Georgetown, it was lust, not politics, which had brought her here: she had come as the pampered concubine of an Army captain transferred from Fort Hamilton. One who had demonstrated the bad taste to die within months of their arrival, leaving her temporarily destitute. That’s when she had begun the climb to her present station in life: a prosperous, if disreputable, business owner with a mysterious Russian for a lover.
Bored, sullen and rebellious---yes, and of course sexually hungry, too---while he had vanished on h
is Southern ‘tour,’ she had taken on a hulking officer from the Russian Consulate one night. In part, it had been an experiment: were these Russians better lovers or was Andre simply in a class by himself? The Russian officer, she had forgotten his name, if not his disappointing brutishness, had drunkenly identified Andre as “Count Nicholas” at one point between their couplings. She had been stunned and wondered if it could be true. Confirmation of which came the following morning when she confronted the love-struck barbarian who, horrified at his blunder, had begged her to never repeat the name. Which of course she agreed to…once the brute came clean with the entire story. The Russian officer had then fled, to her relief, and had not appeared at The Eagle again. It had taken her several baths to feel clean…
So it was simply a matter of time before Andre ‘fessed up; after all, he had, since returning, finally admitted his feelings for her…
And now he was actually taking an interest in the operation of The Eagle…on both floors. He had advised the replacement of some waitresses and ‘upstairs girls,’ including fat-and-drunken Kathy, with younger, more attractive and easier-to-manage newcomers to the city. And he had taken supervision of Richard off her hands. That was a relief; while the strange man had always done whatever she had ordered, he still made her uneasy. But Andre seemed to have him completely under control…
___________
The Residency
Georgetown, D.C.
May 31, 1833, 9 a.m.:
James Polk hurried across the grounds, anxious to discover the G-G’s current position on the crisis. He had arrived back in town late yesterday afternoon, only to discover that Calhoun was still en route. Senator Tyler was already back, so he and Sarah had accepted an invitation to the Tylers’ for supper. John, however, knew less---much less---Polk now thought with a smile, than he did.
