by James Devine
The G-G finally spoke: “No, Frank, John C. Calhoun is playing the highest-stakes poker game this town has ever seen. He’s flushing the other sections out; after today, they’ve no choice but to put their cards on the table. If he’s right and the West and the Middle States---New York, Pennsylvania---don’t see emancipation as something worth fighting for, then he’s won: Wellington will have to compromise…or risk reigniting that ‘unpleasantness!’
“If the West and the damn Yankees up above us do come down in support of London’s interpretation of the Compact and our Constitution, then he’s demonstrated to the South he’s been right all this time and that it might be better off going its own way.”
Jackson had been fingering his cane with his right hand while sipping from the decanter in his left. Now he put the drink on the sill and began to tap the cane thoughtfully against the carpet before looking up at Blair.
“He knows that’s impossible---the South going its own way---without a fight, though. One even he isn’t fool enough to think it could win single-handedly. So that means he’s got an ace up his sleeve. Or two or three!”
The tapping became more forceful and the forehead began to darken through the range of reds. Blair recognized the telltale signs and knew a volcanic explosion was shortly due.
“By the Eternal! What does he know that I don’t? What ace-in-the-hole is he relying on? Why does he believe I’ll tilt toward his position when I haven’t yet made my own mind up? Even though I do like your idea of a defined, short-term exemption? And what makes him so certain that Wellington will throw in his cards?”
The cane was now rapidly bouncing up-and-down on the carpet. “Frank, something’s happening here that we aren’t aware of; something that’s key to this whole game. And I can’t figure out what it is! Damn it, how can I address Congress---and the people---until I do?”
___________
Monticello Tavern
June 5, 1833
7 pm:
Tousaint Numidia was, of course, too smart to think the New England Abolition Society would outright sanction the armed capture and holding of any white man, much less the world-famous Duke of Wellington.
The role he actually had in mind for the Society was that of a post-snatch intermediary, a negotiator of sorts between his band and the authorities. Intent on the particulars of Wellington’s capture and secreting away, he had developed only vague plans for notifying the Society, through Moses, that it was being called in as a go-between to whom the prisoner would be turned over after London’s acceptance of the terms Tousaint demanded and the Society would arrange.
The capture itself didn’t appear to be particularly difficult. Wellington, like all influential men in Georgetown’s power elite, moved around the city and surrounding countryside in a remarkably laisse-faire manner. Like Jackson, the Duke seemed to utilize bodyguards, in his case the Royal Marines, primarily on ceremonial occasions. The great majority of the time, he traveled by coach, with only a driver up front and a few Liaison aides possibly inside; or on horseback with one or two other Brits. Tousaint himself had seen Wellington emerge from The Residency and simply stroll over to the Liaison Office or elsewhere in the immediate vicinity.
“The key’s to grab him and be gone before anyone realizes it, much less can respond,” he told his band of followers on this night. Even Donfield, who had remained skeptical that emancipation was to be announced at all, had reconsidered after hearing the details of Wellington’s speech as it was discussed and debated throughout Georgetown. But the Spanish Consulate maintenance man still hadn’t committed to the capture.
“Okay, Simba. You were right about Wellington and this Parliament’s plan. And I agree he moves around the city pretty much unprotected. So maybe we could snatch him. And maybe we could get the authorities---I’m not sure who, the Brits or the old man in The Residency---word of our demands. But where’s safe to hold him? And how do we get word to the Society that we expect them to make the deal?
“We can’t tell them before we grab the old Brit! If I’m in this, I want a sportin’ chance to get out alive. And that don’t mean telling no white folk ahead of time what we’re planning… So where we gonna hold him? And for how long? And who's gonna guard him while we be working? And how we get the Society involved after the snatch?”
Tousaint grinned as Doby and Motley nodded their heads in Donfield’s support. “All good points and questions, Crispus. But I’m miles ahead of you. I’ve got it all worked out…”
Donfield rolled his eyes. “O Lordy, didn’t I know you would… Okay, Simba. Let’s hear how we gonna grab this Duke and hold him till all our maumba be freed.”
___________
Streets of Georgetown
June 5, 1833
11 pm:
Lawrence Eugene Doby was indeed the best-educated of Tousaint Numidia’s band. And Ugene knew a good thing when he had it: a clerkship at the Interior Department, which promised lifelong employment and a pension to keep him going in his declining years.
So Doby, though he like to flirt with the concept of uhura, wasn’t at all sure he wanted to risk everything on Simba’s daydream…especially when full and complete emancipation was apparently less than a decade away. I have my uhura now, he thought, and the maumba will have theirs by ’41. Did it make sense to get involved in a conspiracy in which the personal risk so outsized the personal reward?
Doby had considered this point from all angles in the days before and after after Tousaint laid out his plans. The snatch itself was relatively easy, they had all agreed: grab the old man somewhere outside Georgetown when he was un- or under-guarded. But stashing, guarding and feeding him during the talks? Tousaint says he’s confident…but some might call that confidence arrogance…
Simba’s plan was to stick Wellington under the white folks’ noses in Fairfax County, since that was where the snatch-and-grab would take place. Numidia had chosen the location for the hideaway: Huntley, a half-built secondary residence of Thomson F. Mason, Alexandria’s mayor. It was located a few miles due south of the town, down the Gravel Road, and a part of Hunting Creek Farm. The farm was actually a plantation adjacent to the Potomac where Mason experimented by utilizing both slave and black tenant labor.
Since the plantation was not Mason’s primary residence---Colross, a huge mansion in Alexandria was---there was actually less white oversight than even at Cranford. Mason rode down most days and the overseer was strict but fair, as overseers went, the word from the maumba was. As well as overworked himself. But with the free tenant labor, comings and goings were more relaxed. Once they got Wellington to Huntley, the prospects were fair that he could be successfully hidden. But for how long? Overworked or not, chances were the overseer would stumble on the hiding spot at some point. And Mason could always decide to check on Huntley’s cellar if-and-when he decided to resume construction.
Simba had chosen Huntley primarily because Marion Motley’s family was among the tenant laborers. He had eyeballed the place only from the Gravel Road and that just once. And he chose Fairfax simply on the general knowledge that Wellington liked to ride there. I’m not sure I want to risk my neck on that kind of inspection. And the fact that Motley is in charge of making the arrangements over there doesn’t exactly give me confidence.
Doby knew it was time to fish or cut bait. Simba had announced that the snatch would go off Friday night. Wellington apparently was having dinner at Cranford with the Governor of Virginia in an attempt to line up his support for emancipation. Or so the Cranford butler, according to Simba, had informed Moses. Numidia wants to grab him on the way back to Georgetown and have the old man in Huntley by midnight. Well Ugene, whats you gonna do?
___________
The Golden Eagle
June 5, 1833, 10 p.m.:
Count Nicholas was angry as he walked the distance from the French Consulate to the Inn. The consensus among the diplomatic corps gathered around the Jean-Claudes’ dinner table was that the brilliant Russian initia
tive in Asia Minor---for word of the Black Sea Fleet’s passing of Constantinople to the salute and cheers of the Ottomans and their subjects had filtered first to the various capitols and now, some three months later, to Georgetown---had tied the Lion’s paws. From Prussia’s Von Benes to Portugal’s DeGama, the European C-Gs were unanimous in believing that the planting of the Double Eagle in Syria---which they anticipated to have automatically followed---had accidentally and coincidentally won the Dominion chess game for the South.
(The C-Gs, of course, had buzzed on this amongst themselves since word had begun to come in late the previous month. Closemouthed and condescending to their host government, they had kept the secret at their level. Today’s entertaining tirade by the wild orator from South Carolina had thus been viewed from a different prospective in the diplomatic seats.)
Ignatieff’s anger arose from this consensus: Czarist interests would not be served if Wellington caved in to Calhoun’s threats!
He had told the damned Southerner about the Syrian operation to build up his confidence for a rebellion…not for a legislative victory! And what of this damnable Jackson? After four months in this wilderness, he had to admit that he still didn’t fully comprehend how this damn government of theirs works…who is in charge here, anyway? Wellington, Jackson, Calhoun…or nobody?
He pushed open the tavern door and caught his first glimpse of the fool Lawrence behind the bar: I’ve got to disrupt this compromise, if that’s what is coming. Create enough havoc to get the Southerners boiling mad…and the others equally mad at them!
He was reminded of Frederick the Great’s dictum: “ein Kreig beginnt mit enem einzigen Schuss”: “a war begins with a single shot.” I require that single shot to be fired. So, by God, it will be…
He crossed to the bar and into the arms of the coarse slut whose bed he was tiring of sharing. “Andre darling! And where have you been? I’ve missed you so all day…and evening…”
___________
Indian Queen Hotel
Dining Room
June 5, 1833, 7 p.m.:
Housing in Georgetown was limited and expensive. Those members of Congress who, for whatever reasons, left their families home, scrambled to find lodgings wherever available. Thus, Army lieutenants stationed full-time in the capitol were apt to bump into famous Congressmen and Senators in the hallways and bars of what passed for “respectable” hotels.
If Tom Wilder had been in the Indian Queen’s dining room tonight (he was instead ecstatically having supper at the Latoure townhouse on Tenth Street), he would have recognized “Harry of the West,” the famous Henry Clay, entering from the upper hallway to sit at a quiet corner table occupied by the Ohio Senator, Thomas Ewing, and a third man.
“So Samuel, is New Jersey ready to rally to the support of one of the other “peoples” of this proud but constitutionally ‘concurrent’ Dominion in its hour of need?” Though Clay had come from his room, it was obvious he had stopped off at this or another tavern on his way from the Capitol.
Samuel Southard scowled. “No, Senator. What New Jersey is ready to rally to is the status quo: business-as-usual. We’ve as little time, or interest, for constitutional engineering as we do for social engineering. Damn Calhoun for all this pompous political theorizing! And damn Parliament for seeking to interfere in our economy! And where the hell is Jackson on this, anyway? He’s always been out front, leading the charge. Instead, he’s bunkered down in The Residency!”
Thomas Ewing was philosophical: “Well, one thing that’ll come out of this. We’ve got to stop making Parliamentary service a final reward for broken-down old American politicians who can’t get reelected to Congress. All three of our states should be ashamed of the non-entities we’ve got over there. You get one man still in his prime---with an agenda---like the redoubtable Quincy, and this is what happens…”
“Yes, Parliamentary reform---American-style---should be forthcoming, Thomas.” Clay sipped the Claret his presence at table had automatically caused to be placed in front of him. “Once this little issue is resolved.”
He turned back to Southard: “Samuel, New Jersey has quite often voted with the Southern block. As has my own state on occasion. Despite John C’s…careening…rhetoric this afternoon, its obvious we will soon be voting on an exemption resolution. How will your delegation vote?”
Southard’s scowl had not left his face. “Depends on what the Southerners introduce. And where Jackson comes down: Damn it, what about our famous leader?”
Ewing sipped his own glass of wine as he called for the waiter so that supper might be ordered. “General Jackson, according to Frank Blair---strictly off-the-record, now, gentlemen---is in something of a quandary. As a strict constitutionalist, he’s naturally opposed to this Calhoun mumble-jumbo, which of course is reheated nullificationizing.
“But as a planter, he’s plenty steamed at Wellington, Adams and Parliament. Though it doesn’t take emancipation talk to set him off on old Quincy, any more than he needs inspiration to go off about our friend Harry, here. By the Eternal!” Ewing, too, was obviously no teetotaler.
“Blair, I believe honestly, insists that the G-G wants to absorb the debate on the Hill before coming up to announce his own position. Frank thinks he’ll come down for emancipation, because he recognizes its legality. But if he sees strong Congressional opposition, reflecting the feelings in most of the various sections, he may seek some sort of compromise.”
Clay was direct: “Support of the exemption?”
Ewing drained his glass and signaled the waiter for another round: “Well, with Calhoun stating the position that the slaves are so much property of their owners and thus already accounted for in the Compact, the Constitution and all the way back to English common law, the exemption does begin to look like a compromise, yes. Especially if a timeframe for later emancipation---like 50 years or so---is tacked on.” He grinned at the others: “Frank’s idea, not mine.”
Southard picked up the previously ignored menu and visibly relaxed. “Now, that’s something New Jersey can accept. Glad someone’s doing some clear thinking over at the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue…”
___________
War Department
June 7, 1833
8:15 am:
General Scott was looking at Tom Wilder with a face the Lieutenant had never seen him put on before. “Are you serious, Lieutenant? You want me to believe a gang of darkies plans to seize the former Prime Minister of the British Empire and hold him for ransom in exchange for the freedom of two million slaves? That they’ve come up with this plan since his speech to Congress? And that you’ve uncovered their diabolical design?”
In truth, Scott was employing the sarcasm to buy a minute while he considered the possibility that his aide could be correct. It’s ridiculous, but let’s not jump to the conclusion that the boy has jumped to conclusions…
The General’s gigantic right paw surrounded his cup of coffee, his first of the day and one hardly touched before Wilder had entered the office with his preposterous report. He took a sip and continued: “Okay, Lieutenant, let’s take this again, and slower, and from the top… Give me the full ‘who, what, when, where, why and how’ of this thing in the manner I have been teaching you. And which you have hopefully absorbed…”
Carefully, Tom reorganized the story he had gotten from Dave Harper over supper at the Wagon Wheel late last night in the format Scott wanted. Scott’s drill-like glare was still grinding through him when he finished, though the look of incredulousness had faded to a more frigid calculating expression.
“Hmm. Well you’ve certainly covered the intelligence basics, Lieutenant. My congratulations. A fine report. Except you left one thing out: What makes your friend Harper so sure his information is accurate? Why would a member of this gang get cold feet at the last minute? You say these other darkies practically worship this Numbia fellow…”
“Excuse me for interrupting, General. ‘Numidia. Tousaint L’Overture Numidia’, to b
e precise.”
“Yes, well. A rather unusual name, to say the least. So, why would one of this Tousaint L’Overture Numidia’s followers betray him at the last minute?”
“Dave, er Mr. Harper, says this Doby doesn’t think they can pull it off, Sir. Says Doby thinks seizing the Duke will be easy enough, but he doesn’t know if they can hide him for as long as this would take.”
Tom paused. “Doby never said this, General, but David has the impression Doby also doesn’t believe the Abolition Society will go along. That somewhere along the line, they’ll be betrayed."
“What, that the Society will let us know where Wellington is stashed? Doesn’t appear this Numidia plans to let them in on that all-important little fact…”
“Excuse my saying so, General. But Harps feels it’s more along the lines that Doby thinks the Society will renounce any emancipation deal that might be cut the moment Wellington is back in Georgetown. Fear of white treachery and solidarity, you might say…
“And General, this Doby is rather bright…”
“You mean he’s a mulatto; has a foot in both camps?”
“No Sir. This Doby---you’ve seen him in the halls, General; he’s the only black in this building day-in and day-out---is darker than your coffee, if I may make the comparison.
“It’s that Harper says Doby knows he has a good thing at Interior: a regular position and salary. And doesn’t want to risk his own comfort since he’d never get his job back, whether this succeeds or not.”
Scott rose from behind his desk and stretched, rolling his cannon ball-sized head and twisting his tree-trunk neck. Though the purpose of the exercise seemed self-evident, the Lieutenant knew Scott often practiced this routine while considering a newly-presented report.
Scott sat down again and a quill pen disappeared into his paw. After scratching out a few words on a sheet of paper, he folded and sealed the document and handed it to Wilder. “Get this up to Secretary MacLane post-haste. Then bring young Mr. Harper down here on the double.”
