by James Devine
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A sudden shrill whistle, a bird call they had used while hunting ducks in Foggy Bottom, alerted Tousaint that he and Ugene had arrived at the rendezvous. Motley and Donfield emerged out of the growing dusk. Instantly taking command, Numidia quieted the mutual greetings and sent Motley and Doby back to the east side of the road. Donfield, who had the best eyes of the foursome, was ordered up a tree to keep watch on the road north from Cranford. It was 6:35 p.m. by the Williams College class watch Tousaint glanced at before replacing in his vest pocket. He pulled his horse off the road, dismounted and sat leaning against a tree to wait.
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And wait. The time dragged on so slowly, but surely, that Numidia began to consider the chances that the Cranford conference had dissolved into a liquor-soaked supper that would keep the participants at the plantation overnight. (The possibility that he had misinterpreted Sebastian’s report to Moses of course never occurred to Tousaint.)
Just as he had begun to consider that the snatch might have to be called off for the night, Donfield was suddenly back.
“Two riders coming up the road. One’s big enough to be that Brit aide of Wellington’s…”
And the other?”
“Hard to tell. But they’re both ridin’ real easy.”
Tousaint cursed. “Can’t spring a trap on that. Is it Wellington or not?”
Donfield spit. “See for yourself. They’ll be along any minute…”
___________
Arthur Goodwin closed his telescope and turned to his second-in-command. “Damn good thing there’s a full moon tonight. Makes things easier when you can see your prey…”
“How about the bait?”
“Can’t see anyone coming up that road, but our friends down there are getting into the saddle. They must think its Wellington…”
Goodwin and his troop had worked their way to a hill northwest of the rendezvous point after tracking Numidia and Doby from the Long Bridge. Rather than risk detection by dividing his command and sending half east of the road, Goodwin was counting on split-second timing and surprise to overwhelm the blacks before they realized a trap had been sprung. The Captain knew an Army unit under Wilder was following Wellington up the road. That cut off the escape route south. But he had no intention of requiring the Army’s assistance. The Marines would take care of this little chore themselves. Piece of cake…
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An avid fox hunter, His Grace Sir Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, now found that he rather enjoyed the role of the fox. Of course, knowing half the colonials under official arms in the District of Columbia, directed by his trusted old comrade Winfield Scott, were lurking in the area made playing the role somewhat less tense. Even though he could hear Harry’s muttering that they would have been better off with a full contingent of Royal Marines surrounding them…
Despite Bratton’s being an accomplished ‘diplomatic,’ Wellington knew Harry considered himself above all a bodyguard. So even though the Captain, on an intellectual level, knew security in this case must be left to the USBA authorities, it was only human of him to want the best security available. And, as an Englishman, that meant the Royal Marines.
But the Duke had ruled that all out. He had had no choice, really, once Scott had proposed and outlined the plan, but to let the Americans handle things their way. Even though he had a sneaky feeling Scott had enjoyed turning the hunter into the hunted…
Well, one trap or more to be sprung, it wouldn’t be much longer.
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Law-abiding young men that they had always been, neither Tousaint nor his followers had ever been in a confrontation like this, much alone a potential firefight. He had instructed Doby and Motley to simply ride up out of the east woods, while he and Donfield came in from the northwest. Neglecting even to disguise themselves with handkerchiefs over their faces, the foursome suddenly materialized around Wellington.
Bratton’s roar of rage was real, giving Tousaint an undeserved sense of security---the man was obviously shocked---even as the roar seemed to unnerve Doby’s horse. The animal reared and whined, giving Ugene the opportunity he was seeking to drop out of the fight. He slipped off the horse, and pretended that the fall had knocked him unconscious.
Numidia, meanwhile, had grabbed the reins of Wellington’s horse and began to turn the animal around. That’s when he disbelievingly began to discern shapes emerging from the darkness onto the road. As he looked back, he saw Donfield, who had never fired a pistol---neither had Motley---nonetheless aiming one at Bratton, who had pulled out his own gun.
Tousaint, who had planned for Motley to dispose of the aide by knocking him out and tying him to a tree, now saw the big man reach over and pull Bratton from his saddle. As he did, the Brit’s pistol went off and they both fell to the ground: Bratton with the wind knocked out from the force of Motley’s initial yank; Motley from the bullet that blasted into his stomach.
Another shot rang out virtually simultaneously. Donfield had fired his weapon into the space Bratton had occupied just seconds before. But now a terrible cry of pain rang out as, from the darkness of the woods suddenly, three, four, five shapes materialized from the same spot and, waving their swords, hacked at Crispus and pulled the reins of his horse. Blood flew into Tousaint’s astonished face as an object, later identified as Crispus’ right ear, went sailing by.
Numidia never knew what that object was. A shocking, searing pain exploded on his left side and he crumbled from his horse. Dead before he hit the ground, nor did he ever know that a Marine’s bayonet had penetrated below his third rib and traveled up to the heart. It was a classic Roman legionary thrust. This night, it claimed another Numidian…
Regaining control of his horse, Wellington, the lifelong soldier, still looked around at the carnage in amazement. No more than 60 seconds had passed since he and Bratton had been surrounded. Now two blacks lay prone with multiple Marine bayonets pressed to their throats and chests, one bleeding and moaning profusely, the other strangely shouting out a name he claimed as his own. Another, huge, black had regressed to a fetal position, holding his belly and groaning softly. The final conspirator, the one who had grabbed Wellington’s own horse, was also lying on the ground, silent, but with still more Marine swords and bayonets hovering above his still, bleeding body.
A dirty-faced Marine with captain’s bars finished touring the scene, walked up to Wellington and saluted.
“Good evening, Your Grace. I trust you are unhurt? The USBA Marines have the situation under control, Sir!”
Wellington shook his head dazedly and smiled. “Indeed it would seem so, Captain…?”
“Arthur Goodwin, Your Grace. Georgetown Ceremonial Detachment, USBA Marines.”
“Ceremonial, ay?” Wellington grunted and stroked his famous nose as he watched the road suddenly flood with armed men in USBA military uniforms. “If you chaps are the ceremonial detachment, I bloody well wouldn’t want to face the fighting men…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Georgetown, D.C.
June 9, 1833:
It rained heavily all that Sunday but few of the participants in the crisis used the weather as an excuse for a day of rest.
The Kitchen Cabinet met to debate the Clay compromise; state-sponsored education of the slaves was the major point of contention. In the end, the G-G decided to reserve judgment until later in the week. After all, his speech was now rescheduled for Wednesday, the 12th.
Calhoun and Webster received, separately, the Centrist Committee. Calhoun demanded two additional concessions: the 25-year ‘cap’ on the exemption must be extended and the Texas commitment must be changed to include “the entire Southwest.” (Exactly how “the entire Southwest” was to be defined was not made clear.) While Calhoun remarked while showing his guests the door that he was “off to a diplomatic function, something at the Prussian Consulate,” he did not tell them of another conference planned for that evening, one arranged in the morning w
ith a civilian representative of the Russian government…
The foiled Wellington snatch was still a closely guarded secret, known to only a few at The Residency, the War Department and the Liaison Office.
Webster and two of his fellow New Englanders, the veteran Rhode Island Dominion-Republican Nehemiah R. Knight and New Hampshire’s first-term Democrat, Isaac Hill, reacted in a predictably enraged fashion to the very idea of an exemption, to say nothing of the expansion commitments. The patrician Frelinghuysen alone saw through Daniel’s act: Webster, to maintain his prestige among the abolitionists, had to initially howl. By not rejecting the compromise outright, however, he was signaling his willingness to work behind-the-scenes, however, to support a compromise of some kind…
It was not the rain that had forced cancellation of Dave Harper’s weekly riding date with Countess Caroline. The Countess had reluctantly been forced to call off their date in order to prepare for the late afternoon reception at the Prussian Consulate honoring some half-forgotten Napoleonic Wars general who had just arrived for a tour of America. Apparently, he and the Duke of Wellington were old comrades; Wellington had agreed to attend. As for the current men-of-the-hour in Georgetown, Von Benes had also invited Calhoun, Ewing and Benton. So she was now discussing the protocol with her father…and Count Nicholas.
Harper’s gloom over the cancelled riding date was short-lived: the spectacular Madame Jean-Claude, who had rented a summer cottage on the Latoure plantation as a get-away, summoned him for a 2 p.m. rendezvous. Jacques, if all went as planned, might even cross paths with David on the Long Bridge…
Count Ignatieff was intent on discovering Calhoun’s estimate of the situation: did the Southern leader expect this Jackson to side with the South? Were the other sections indeed ready to enforce the emancipation bill? Ignatieff felt it imperative to gauge Calhoun’s true feelings…and to remind him that Russia stood by its commitment to aid an independent South.
Aaron Burr was scheduled to dine privately with Jackson tonight. It would be their first meeting since that memorable one in March. Georgetown’s cooler senior heads---Marshall, Scott and the Duke---were anxious to know where Jackson currently stood. Especially since Ewing had announced last evening the Centrist proposal at a Van Buren-hosted dinner…
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Numidia Stables/War Department
June 9, 1833
10 a.m.:
Jurgurtha Numidia was lifting a horse’s right rear leg when a shadow appeared in the stable stall. Without looking up, the massive blacksmith/preacher ordered: “Get out of my light, you damn fool. Can’t you see I’m trying to shoe this animal? Don’t need him getting skittish and kicking me in the chin…”
Lt. Tom Wilder automatically moved to one side and then stared as Jurgurtha finished hammering the shoe in, dropped the horse’s leg and unfolded to reveal his full height. Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, this one’s bigger than the General… I didn’t think that was possible…
The huge black man took in the stubby young Army officer at a glance and, showing no sign of deference to race or rank, growled. “So? State your business. Got a lot to do this day. With summer coming, the white folk all be hiring horses and carriages for their picnics in the countryside, once this storm blows out.”
Tom took a deep breath. Damn, sometimes I wish I was back chasing Comanche… “Jurgurtha Numidia, if, as I have been informed, you are he, by order of the Governor-General, I am to escort you to the War Department… Immediately.”
A laugh that began deep in his huge chest rumbled up through the black man’s throat. “You are, huh? By order of Andy Jackson himself? What’s the matter, General Scott quit? ‘Old Hickory’ need an experienced officer to take his place?” The big man’s laugh caromed off the stall walls.
Tom found he was coming to full attention. “I am not at liberty to say, Mr. Numidia. My orders are simply to escort you to the War Department, post-haste. Now, if you would, please…” The Lieutenant motioned toward the stable door, where Jurgurtha, looking out for the first time, could now see a squad of mounted, armed and drenching wet USBA Marines.
“Well, son, seeing as I can’t hardly turn down a personally-delivered request from the Governor-General of the United States of British America---out of curiosity, if no other reason---let’s go.”
The man had a sense of dignity about him that made Tom want to blurt out a warning of what awaited him in the War Department’s cellar. Instead, he simply marched back outside and remounted, then waited for the blacksmith to bring out his own horse.
There was no talk as the squad rode through Georgetown’s muddy streets, though there were stares from the few Sunday morning passers-by at the sight of a huge black man being escorted by a contingent of armed Marines. Occasionally glancing back, Tom was struck by the black man’s calm demeanor. He’s either the coolest character I’ve ever seen, or he actually doesn’t have a clue about what happened to his son and his gang last night. I’ve got a hunch it’s the latter…
Leaving their mounts in the custody of the Marines, Tom and Jurgurtha walked up the building’s steps and down the hall toward the War Department. An enlisted man standing between two big, hard-eyed guards at the Department door quickly vanished back inside before returning with the General’s secretary. Lt. Luke Beaufort’s eyes widened slightly as he took in Jurgurtha before nodding slightly to Tom and stepping back inside, presumably to inform General Scott.
Wilder took a deep breath and motioned for the big black man to continue down the hall to a door which led to downward stairs. Jurgurtha had to lower his head as they descended, which meant an instant’s delay before he could take in the tableaux before him: two black bodies lying on parallel tables, sheets covering them from forehead to knees.
A grim USBAA officer and several enlisted men hovered over the bodies, while the room was ringed with armed soldiers. As Numidia stepped deeper into the room, into space vacated by Wilder, the grim officer---Jurgurtha had no way of knowing he was a doctor---pulled the sheet down from one man’s forehead to his chest.
A wail of anguish that the Lieutenant never forgot erupted as Jurgurtha recognized the form and features of his son.
“Dear Lordy; oh, dear Lord, oh dear Lord Jesus Christ no!” The no vibrated through the cellar as Jurgurtha collapsed onto Tousaint’s inert form and began pounding his ham-like fists against the side of the table.
None of the white men moved as Jurgurtha rocked back and forth, intoning the Lord’s name as well as that of his son. Finally, the big man rose as in a trance and stepped around and in between the tables, where he removed the covering from the other body.
“Marion, you damn fool,” he whispered, “how did you and my boy end up like this? How, Marion?”
There was a significant silence in the room before a deep voice answered. “We are hoping you can help us answer that, Mr. Numidia…”
Winfield Scott stood---or rather, filled---the stairway.
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Jurgurtha never turned to respond. Instead, he gently pulled the sheet away from Motley’s body, revealing the insultingly-large hole the point-blank shot from Captain Bratton’s pistol had blown in Marion’s stomach, the blood still encrusting the circumference of the wound.
Shaking his head sadly, Moses replaced the sheet as high as Motley’s throat before slowly turning around. As he did, Jurgurtha came into almost level eye contact with the uniformed and bemedalled Scott. The two stared at each other before Jurgurtha ripped off the sheet covering Tousaint.
Searching for evidence of gunshot wounds, Numidia at first was puzzled by the lack of evidence of what had caused his boy’s death. Looking up inquiringly, he seemed poised to ask the obvious question when the doctor lifted Tousaint’s left arm and exposed the bayonet cut beneath the third rib.
Letting out a moan, he turned and moved back toward Scott: “Why? What could they have done to deserve this? These boys ain’t never been in trouble. My boy is a college graduate. Why did you people butc
her them?”
Two soldiers leapt in between the ebony-and-ivory giants but Scott motioned them back.
“I’m truly sorry they could not be taken alive, Mr. Numidia. My men had orders not to shoot unless fired upon…and to use their swords only for protective purposes. But this man Motley was shot while attempting to dismount a Royal Army officer. And your son was stabbed while attempting to flee with a prisoner…after a third member of his…party…one Crispus Atticks Donfield, opened fire on USBA Marines who had intervened.”
Numidia’s bitterness showed through his grief. “Intervened? Intervened in what? What could three young black men who have never, ever flaunted the law do to have half the USBA Army and Marines come down on them? Waving swords and bayonets and with pistols cocked to fire?”
Numidia stepped forward. He and Scott were now chin to chin. “Tell me damn it, Massa General Winfield Scott, Sir: what could three young black men who have never owned a gun between them have done to rate this… this ambush? This massacre? Tell me!”
Scott never twitched a facial muscle and his right hand was steady as he again waved away the advancing guards.
“Mr. Numidia, your boy and three others attempted to seize His Grace Sir Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington and former prime minister of the British Empire, for ransom…”
