by James Devine
McDuffie seldom contradicted Calhoun, but he did so now. “Rubber stamp as far as Congress is concerned, quite possibly, John. But in the eyes of the British: an imprimatur. It’s obvious now that Wellington came here with the authority, under that damn Compact, to relieve Jackson, if necessary.
“He’ll think twice about that, however, once he sees that the Congress---and the various sections other than New England---are lined up in step with that old man.”
Calhoun paused midway up the Capitol Building’s steps and smiled his dark smile at the panting McDuffie. “You must get more physical exercise, Mac. The South can’t afford to lose the brand of political acumen you occasionally dispense...” His smile broadened slightly to soften the sarcasm.
“I agree, Jackson is key in dealing with London…
“But all in good time, gentlemen. For now, let’s concentrate on getting the exemption---sunsetted, not capped---through both Houses. Then, we’ll deal with the Duke.
“By the way, have there been any late dispatches from London? Or Syria…?”
His co-conspirators laughed as they parted in the Rotunda and Calhoun made his way to the Senate portion of the Building.
___________
The Golden Eagle Tavern
June 10, 1833, 4 p.m.:
Count Ignatieff had not revealed the details of his “covert intervention” to the nominal Russian C-G at their brief 11 a.m. meeting (to which Caroline, to her relief, was not summoned).
Ignatieff had instead simply informed Renkowiitz that he had determined on a possible course of action, based on the outcome of the Congressional debate; meanwhile, the C-G was to make arrangements for ‘Karlhamanov’s’ sudden---if necessary---disappearance. After some brainstorming---mostly on Nicholas’ part---it was decided to utilize the services of the New York-based merchant, Tretiak.
Nicholas vaguely recalled the merchant bragging about his wide-ranging enterprises (all Imperial-backed) in such cities as Boston, Baltimore and Charleston. After a quick check, they determined that Tretiak also maintained an office and warehouses in Richmond, 90 miles to the southwest. If his cover was blown and the British began a search for him, they agreed, that search would most likely center on Baltimore as the nearest port of embarkation to Europe. The small Tretiak operation in Richmond would not attract attention, yet was both far enough away to hide him and close enough to allow him to slip back into Georgetown, if the need arose.
Ignatieff gave the order to inform Richmond to be alert. He then departed for Capitol Hill, where Senator Clay was scheduled to present his compromise resolutions at 1 p.m.
Now, alarmed by the conciliatory tenor of the proceedings (even the Southern hotheads had seemingly received the Clay proposals calmly, if not enthusiastically), Nicholas had decided on his course of covert intervention.
“Ah, ‘King Richard,’” he greeted the morose bartender, who was just beginning his daily shift. “It’s a shame we couldn’t practice because of the rain yesterday. Were you able to fire off a few rounds in my absence today?”
Lawrence nodded his head, a bleak smile breaking out at the sight of the one person to befriend him in this city of strangers. “Yes, Andre, I went across Rock Creek and practiced with all the weapons: pistol, derringer and musket. Just as you have taught me.”
“And you were not disturbed?” Ignatieff’s only concern when suggesting the previous evening that Richard practice today was that he would be observed and reported to the authorities (whoever they might be in this disorganized hamlet!).
Lawrence was shaking his peculiar long, lean, angular face: “There was no one in the woods. And, I took care to keep the weapons out-of-sight in their canvas bag.”
The sound of footsteps clearly identified the approach of the proprietress. “Andre, darling, back from the Capitol, so soon? I didn’t expect you for another hour or more.” She lowered her eyes in that false modest look that had bedazzled so many customers (and clients): “Perhaps we have time for ourselves, after all…”
Ignatieff shook his head. “Later, my sweet. Just now, I believe we should have a conference…just the three of us.” He looked at the bartender. “Why not pour us all a drink, Richard, yourself included.”
Joanne’s eyes narrowed at this break in strict Eagle procedure, but Andre’s glance---as always---melted her annoyance. “Yes, Richard, why not join us in a drink.” She turned to Ignatieff. “But what, darling, is the occasion?”
Ignatieff waited till the round---beer for himself; Madeira for the others---had been set on the bar. “Simply to announce, my darling, I have become convinced that Richard has been correct in his complaint.” He stared up and into the bartender’s dull grey eyes.
“After much study, it is obvious to me that this Andy Jackson is the culprit: he is the impediment to Richard rising to his rightful place as King of England.” He raised his glass in salute before quickly downing half the mug. At his direct glance, a baffled Joanne---who was too astonished to laugh---likewise raised her glass, though she simply sipped her wine.
Lawrence was staring back at the Russian, immediate shock turning to glee: his claims were not so far-fetched, it seemed! Andre, his friend, now accepted them. He raised his own glass and finished off the Madeira in one long gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he finished.
Ignatieff indicated for another round, smiling archly at the still-stunned but now-frowning Joanne. After Lawrence put the Madeira bottle, now almost empty, back behind the bar, he finally spoke:
“The question now, Your Majesty, is how we remove this impediment to allow you to assume your rightful place?”
___________
The Residency
June 11, 1833, 6 p.m.:
The depleted Kitchen Cabinet was at this hour deep in session with Jackson to polish his speech.
Van Buren’s absence was no longer noted by Blair and Cass: Matty Van’s singular situation eliminated him as an advisor; at least until this crisis passed, if not forever…
Cass had remarked, as the meeting was starting, on Polk’s non-appearance; Jackson had looked grim. Later, when the G-G hobbled out to briefly meet with Donelson and Wilder concerning the ceremonial aspects of tomorrow’s trip up Pennsylvania Avenue, Blair filled him in:
“Andy is suspicious of James’ true loyalties in this. He’s become concerned Congressman Polk has become a mole of sorts, relaying what goes on here to the fire-eaters.”
Cass was startled: “Does he have evidence, or is this just one of Andy’s ‘gut feelings?’”
“Well, that outburst the other night when I brought up beating Clay to the punch with a compromise sort of confirmed some earlier suspicions in Andy’s mind. Seems he’s also gotten word from Tennessee that Calhoun was at Polk’s plantation last month…”
Blair looked hard at the Secretary of War: “Think back to Wellington’s little bombshell the other evening, Lewis. Took you by surprise, didn’t it? Shocked the hell out of me…and the G-G. But James never blinked an eye. Like it was old news or something…”
___________
The Golden Eagle Tavern
June 11, 1833, 11 p.m.:
Joanne Casgrave was furious.
After the tavern closed last night at 2 a.m. (the brothel business, as per a Monday, had died off around 11 p.m.), Andre had plied the idiot bartender with still more drinks, while continuing this ridiculous “King Richard” talk. Joanne didn’t know whether to be more professionally or personally offended: A drunken Lawrence might fly off the handle in any direction; while she, herself, required Andre’s consummate attentions…
When Andre had finally put the drunken Richard to bed on his basement cot and entered her ’boudoir,’ he had been curt---and, she reflected ruefully, unnecessarily rough---before falling quickly asleep.
This morning, she had awoken to find Andre already gone; only when she descended for breakfast did she discover that Lawrence was also out of the building. The bartender had returned in early afternoon, carryin
g that ominous sack which she knew contained weapons; Andre had not appeared unto early evening.
She intended to have it out with her lover tonight: exactly what was going on? She saw no reason to get Lawrence all excited; the key to keeping him under control was to dampen his spirits. And, if truth be told---though Joanne was constitutionally incapable of telling the truth, even to herself---she was becoming alarmed at Andre’s increasing aloofness. She longed for the early days of their relationship, before he had traveled…wherever. The Russian simply fulfilled her as no other man---Casgrave, Bratton, even young Harper or any of dozens of others---ever had. And she was sure he loved her…hadn’t he admitted as much on his return? So why was he ignoring her…and spending so much time with this village idiot?
___________
The Residency
June 11, 1833, 12:00 midnight:
The speech was now in the hands of Donelson, who would have to stay up much of the night recopying and rearranging the various fragments into a coherent, flowing address.
Stunningly, they had been joined in early evening by Aaron Burr.
That the Colonel had dined alone with Jackson two nights previously had been known to Blair. But he had not expected Burr to help put together the most important speech of Jackson’s career…yea, arguably the most important in the history of the Dominion.
Apparently, the two ancient adventurers had Sunday night concocted the unorthodox arguments Jackson would lay before Congress and the people tomorrow:
*Under the Compact and the Constitution, Parliament does have the right to mandate emancipation; however
*The Administration and Congress, as the elected representatives of the British American people, also have the right to reject financial incentives---and a fixed timeframe---in overseeing such emancipation; so long as
*A workable, functioning emancipation policy agreeable to the people of the USBA is passed into Dominion law and is implemented in a reasonable timeframe.
“In other words,” Cass had said after digesting the gist of the G-G’s plan, “you in London have the right to order us to abolish slavery; but don’t force your ideas on how to do it down our throats…”
The G-G laughed openly: “Well said Mr. Secretary. That about hits the nail on the head.”
Cass was looking doubtful. “Putting aside for the moment, General, the compensation issue, it seems to me London---Parliament or whomever---is focused on the seven-year transition period, beginning next January 1st. How can you be certain they’ll accept any delay, especially as they’ll naturally tend to believe we are simply obstuficating?”
Frank, meanwhile, was shaking his head in wry amusement: “Would you two first care to let us in on how you arrived at this position?”
Burr was also smiling, though a harder look was evident in his eyes. “As we discussed this over a particularly fine roast two nights ago, it suddenly became obvious that London’s plan is financially---not sociologically---based. We then proceeded down the logical path from there.”
The War Secretary looked confused: “I beg your pardon?”
Burr shot him a patronizing look. Scott is right: A politician…not a political scientist. Can’t imagine what Andy sees in him…
“Mr. Secretary, how do you think London arrived at the seven-year transition limitation? Or, more properly, which do you think was arrived at first, the compensation…or the transition period?”
There was a brief silence as Blair and Cass exchanged glances before Frank spoke for them both:
“Are you two implying that the transition period was determined by fiscal constraints? That London decided how much to pay…and then how much of the overall amount they could afford annually?”
Burr grinned impishly as Jackson banged his cane down on the desk.
“Frank, we’re not implying anything. It’s obvious to us---and should be to you---that London came up with a figure they could afford…”
Burr interrupted: “…were willing to cough up…”
“…at any rate, added up the cost of emancipation throughout the Empire and then determined how much they could afford…”
“…were willing…” The impish grin once more.
“…to pay annually and divided that into the overall total. That, gentlemen, is how our English masters arrived at a seven-year transition…and why it is not written in stone.”
Cass returned to the compensation issue: “Compensation as called for in the Parliamentary bill is miserly enough, I admit. But it is something. What makes you think the South will go along with your call to reject it entirely?”
Jackson and Burr exchanged looks.
“Mr. Cass, I am not rejecting compensation. Only Parliament’s conception and payment of compensation. The Congress will determine the compensation due the planters. And, working with the Administration and private interests, how best to raise and distribute it.”
That perspective once agreed to, construction of the speech, though slow, was not particularly difficult.
___________
Calhoun Residence
June 11-12, 1833, 1 a.m.:
Sleep would not come tonight.
As Calhoun gazed out his bedroom window, he attempted to weigh the options:
The 25-year exemption---only, of course, with a sunset provision, not a cap---was the safest route. He’d presumably be in his grave by renewal time, but he owed it to the others, and the children, to fight at least for that…
No one knows, apparently, exactly what that old man in The Residency will propose tomorrow. It might be worth considering; then again, perhaps not. Jackson is, after all, a planter, but he is also, unfortunately, deep down a Dominionist…
The other option is more exciting…if also more dangerous: independence from the Dominion! A whole new Southern Dominion (including Cuba, Texas and the Mexican Southwest). With ties to London, probably---but not automatically---but free from the inexorable advance of Yankee political power fueled by immigration. And with a commitment from London of domestic freedom in the new Southern confederacy…including the right to hold slaves, for as long as it remains fiscally prudent to do so.
A third option---total independence---is the most desirable, of course; the South free of both the damn Yankees and the damn British…free to chart its own course!
Well, he thought with a yawn, tomorrow will not be just another day; it promises to be the biggest day. At least, the biggest this town has ever seen…
___________
The Golden Eagle Tavern
June 11-12, 1833,
2:30 a.m.:
“Even Joanne will be impressed, Richard. You do want that, don’t you? Most of all, in fact, as you, above all, know how hard it is to impress her.”
The standard dull, empty look in the bartender’s eyes was gradually replaced by a sparkle of childish excitement and desire. Did his friend Andre mean what he thought he meant?
“Of course, when I’m King, I kin have any wench I want.” Richard licked his lips greedily. “That’s part of bein’ King, ain’t it? Still, Joanne…”
Count Ignatieff exhibited the monumental self-control necessary to continue in a seemingly serious vein: he literally bit his tongue to keep from laughing in the fool’s face. Too much was now riding on this to act as if the premise was anything but obviously plausible:
“Once you arrive in England to be crowned, of course all Europe’s women of noble birth will be throwing themselves at your feet. But until proper accommodations can be arranged aboard the fastest Royal Navy vessel available, you’ll have time here to enjoy your new position. Joanne will have to fight the other women away…”
Richard grinned hungrily and reached for the wine bottle sitting between them. But the Count was quicker (and more sober). He grabbed the neck and poured them each a short one.
“Enough for tonight, my friend. You have much to accomplish in the day. Tomorrow night the world’s supply of vodka; of rum; yes, even of gin…” He paused as another fire li
t the benighted bartender’s eyes. “…will be yours for the taking. Best now get some sleep, however. I’ll be down to wake you at the proper time….”
Ignatieff had risen as he was finishing speaking. He now got the cadavernous drunk to his feet and pointed him toward the cellar. “Pleasant dreams, Your Majesty…”
Lawrence grunted and staggered to the door. As he turned back, Ignatieff was pointing sternly. “Tomorrow, Richard. The start of your reign!”
As the door closed behind him, Ignatieff became aware of the familiar scent. He pivoted to see his lover step out of the darkness of the back dining room.
___________
“All right, Andre. I think its time you told me what’s going on here.” Though she attempted the stone-cold look and hiss that, for whatever reason terrified her employees, Joanne’s demand actually came out as more of a desperate plea.
Nicholas/Andre stared back at her for an instant before smiling graciously and extending his hand. “Yes, my darling, I believe it is time we discussed ‘what is going on here.’ He led her back to the bar and poured them both drinks from fresh glasses. Downing fully half his drink, he lowered it onto the bar and, in the same motion, pulled her into a tight embrace, kissing her passionately. As always, she melted into his arms, her show of anger unmasked as the fraud it was.
“I assume you heard enough to know Lawrence thinks he will soon have the power to make you a queen, my sweet. That, of course, is as insane as he himself obviously is. I however, have the power to make you a countess…”
Her eyes widened from their glow of animal contentment as the words registered slowly in her brain. “Andre….”
He cut her off with another, almost savage kiss. “I understand you have had reason to question my authenticity, my darling. And you are right: ‘Andre Karlhamanov’ is an alias I assumed upon arrival in New York last winter. My real name is Count Nicholas Ignatieff, of His Imperial Majesty, Nicholas, Czar of All the Russias, personal staff. I am here at the direction of Czar Nicholas himself…”
