by James Devine
___________
The Capitol Building
12:00 noon:
The United States Capitol Police, formed just five years earlier, were nominally in charge of ‘security’ on the grounds. As on every other major occasion since 1828, ‘security’ in this case had been defined as ‘crowd control.’ With just 18 members and a chief, that function itself had exhausted the force in the 10 days since the special session had convened; still, all but the four who had served the overnight shift were on hand.
They were hardly augmented by the District’s token force: Georgetown employed a force of 24 ‘watchmen’ headed by their own chief, to keep order. That had been defined, for the most part, as keeping an eye on the taverns, back allys and places of lesser repute. Just six were arrayed around the city this day.
The remaining members of the Marine ceremonial detachment---the ones originally posted outside with the carriage---actually kept things under control, once Scott had ordered them up the steps. The General had also dispatched a bystander back to the War Department. Lieutenant Wilder and most of the staff were now also on the grounds.
Not that there was any rioting; everyone---from the Congress through the citizenry at large---was in a state of shock. Mostly, the uniformed men slowly and sadly moved the crowds out of the Building and off the Hill. The Congress adjourned to its cloakrooms; the diplomatic corps to the French Consulate and the guests to various townhouses and hotel lobbies. The threatened thunderstorm materialized, aiding in forcing everyone else in off Pennsylvania Avenue.
While doctors were summoned to assist the wounded---Captain Goodwin had suffered a concussion and Cass’ knee required attention, while the others had minor bruises---the G-G’s body had been temporarily removed to Van Buren’s office. Two of the Marines stood guard over the covered remains of the assassin, who still lay beneath the Rotunda column.
If not peace and tranquility, at least a sorrowful silence descended on dark Georgetown, only to be shattered by the increasingly powerful thunder that shook down from the sky, punctuated by violent bolts of lightening.
By early afternoon, however, the tragedy’s impact began to ripple across the city like a series of waves. If the tsunami concept had then been understood, perhaps Georgetown would have been better prepared for what was to come…
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Capitol Building Rotunda
Capitol Hill
12:30 p.m.:
Captain Bratton had positioned himself near the main entrance to the House Chamber and so had heard, not seen, the assassination.
Harry immediately recognized that his role must be strictly that of an observer; this was an American crisis, for better or worse. So he had thought until he managed a look at the assassin’s dead body. Despite the massacre to the face, he recognized the prone figure as The Golden Eagle’s bartender. Instantly he realized the implication: My God, what will the Duke say? Now we know why Ignatieff is here!
Sir John was suddenly at his elbow. “I say old chap. This is shaping up badly! Without Jackson, all hell could burst loose!”
Burrell glanced quickly at the assassin’s crushed face with distaste. “Didn’t get far, did he? Can’t think he expected to escape…” He was now looking at Bratton with a dawning sense of astonished horror. “Good God, man, you…know this chap…don’t you? To identify, at least…”
Harry took his colleague by the arm and walked to a deserted spot. “Without going into the details, Sir John, this has Ignatieff’s signature all over it. No, no, don’t ask me how. Just be assured it does. You’ve got to get back to the Liaison Office and brief the Duke. I’ll be along shortly, once I pass on a few details to General Scott.”
Burrell’s eyes were still wide: “What will you tell him…them…the American authorities?”
Bratton smiled though his eyes were grim. “Simply that this man has served me at a local tavern and that they perhaps should send someone over there… Not that they’ll find what we’re looking for, however…”
Sir John was now thoroughly confused. “And what does that mean…?”
“Simply, Sir John, that the instigator of this hellacious crime, I imagine, is no longer within the Georgetown city limits…”
___________
Senate President’s Office
Capitol Building
12:50 p.m.:
The hushed crowd---Harry recognized several Senators and Congressmen---was out the office door and spilled into the hallway. He could see General Scott’s head towering above the tightly-packed bodies in the office, though little else.
“Marshall’s administering the Oath of Office,” Senator Webster whispered upon recognizing the Brit at his side. “With Jackson’s body cooling on the couch next to him, if you can believe it…”
Bratton was appalled: “So soon? Some decorum…”
“No, its right in our Constitution. Already been researched. Immediate transfer of power. So there’s no question and no confusion.” Webster looked quizzically at the Liaison Officer. “What’s the Duke’s reaction? Beyond damning us for being so barbaric?”
Bratton smiled shortly: “Doesn’t know yet. Burrell is on his way back to inform him…I have information that someone in authority really must hear. Can we get in?”
After a few minutes of shoving and elbowing, the duo found themselves at the room’s crowded center. The new G-G, a somewhat glazed look in his eyes, was gravely shaking hands with a seemingly endless line of self-important Congressmen and Senators. Frank Blair stood guard over the covered remains of the assassinated former G-G, his anguish plainly visible. In a corner, Scott now towered over Aaron Burr, whose habitually impish grin had been replaced by a face of sorrow.
Senator Webster quickly got the General’s attention: “Captain Bratton here says he has information for the authorities, General. As I assume martial law will be declared---if it hasn’t already---that looks to be you.”
Bratton was brief: “The assassin, despite the head and face wounds, is identifiable as the bartender at The Golden Eagle Tavern, an establishment some blocks from The Residency. At least, he was the bartender some months back.”
Scott directed his drill stare: “I’m familiar with the place. At least its location. You’re sure? Any idea of his name? There were no papers found on the body.”
“As I recall, he was referred to intermittently as ‘Richard’ or ‘Lawrence.’ No clue as to which was his surname…or even if they were truly his.” Bratton paused. “Forgive me, General, but might it not be wise to send some men over there?”
“A good suggestion, Captain.” He looked around and found the eye of one of the Marines now closely guarding the new G-G. “Lieutenant Wilder’s somewhere on the grounds. Find him and get him in here. While you’re at it, do you know Lieutenant Beaufort? Good, get him in here, too.”
His gaze returned to Bratton, who had been exchanging sympathy looks with Blair. “Would this have anything to do with your Russki agent, Captain? Do I correctly recall from your briefing that he, err, frequented the place himself?”
Bratton returned the steely look: “Possibly, General. We’ll know more after we get to The Eagle, I daresay…”
“’We,’ Captain?”
“Yes Sir. I respectfully request permission to accompany Lieutenant Wilder. Or whomever you’re sending over there.”
Scott nodded: “Permission granted. And it will be Wilder. Along with a couple Marines. I believe it will be prudent to place The Golden Eagle off-limits, at least until we get to the bottom of this. If word gets out their bartender did it, a crowd might be inclined to torch the place anyway, so…
“By the way, Captain, the new G-G will be leaving for The Residency fairly soon. Can’t run the government from this broom closet. The Duke should be made aware.”
Bratton nodded. “Sir John should be at the Liaison Office now. I suspect His Grace will be waiting when the new G-G returns to The Residency.” He glanced at Jackson’s body, which workmen were now li
fting into a casket. “And for the return of his old comrade from the Peninsula days…”
___________
The Golden Eagle Tavern
1:30 p.m.:
Tom, Harry and the two Marines who had piled onto the assassin tied up their horses outside The Eagle. Now that the storm had abated, the crowds had again surged into the streets, making their progress slow enough for Tom to review the rapidly-occurring events:
Luke Beaufort had been placed in temporary command of the War Department staff Tom had led up to the Capitol. Grudgingly, General Gaines had been assigned overall command of the cherry-picked “security forces” Scott could cobble together; the commanding general really had no other option. A rider had been dispatched to Carlisle Barracks some time after the shooting; Col. Edwin Sumner would have his Heavy Dragoons in the Capital by late tomorrow. “I don’t expect trouble,” Scott had growled to the new G-G and Interior Secretary MacLane, “but the forces we’ll have out all this night will need a break by then. Bull’s people also look the part: no rioters or insurrectionists will want any part of them.”
The remaining Marine guard, sans their beat-up commander, would momentarily escort, under Scott’s personal direction, the new G-G down Pennsylvania Avenue. The official carriage would follow the hearse carrying Jackson’s remains. A grief-stricken Donelson had already been sent down to make The Residency arrangements.
All were orderly and logical developments, if anything could be considered ‘orderly and logical’ at such a time, Tom thought. What baffled him was Frank Blair’s reaction to the discovery that Jackson’s speech was missing. Surely Andy Donelson had another copy? But Blair, the new G-G and the rest had been horrified. Even old Colonel Burr’s eyes had narrowed as he exchanged a seemingly-significant look with the General. Damn it, what am I missing?
Once inside The Eagle, the subject quickly slipped his mind.
___________
The Residency
5:15 p.m.:
They sent General Scott the word after discovering the body in the second floor back bedroom of The Eagle, but it had taken almost three hours to handle the situation.
It had quickly become clear that an entirely new staff had replaced the familiar faces on the tavern floor; neither Tom nor Bratton could have recognized any of the ‘upstairs’ girls in any case. While plainly shocked, no one had anything helpful. Andre and Lawrence had been drinking in the bar at the close of business, as usual. Joanne had retired to her room in an obvious bad mood. But none of the ‘girls’ had seen nor heard anything unusual, either during the night nor in the morning, other than the stranger in the big black hat who had hurried away towards the kitchen…
The kitchen and wait staffs were sent home and the ‘upstairs girls’ allowed to return to their rooms. The Marines were instructed to guard the place until some Georgetown watchmen could be detailed.
The Eagle was closed, indefinitely…
Now they were waiting to report to the General, who was coming out of a conference in the G-G’s office. It was a shock to Tom, in many ways confirmation of the passing of the guard, when he caught a glimpse of little Matty Van seated behind Jackson’s desk. Despite the bodies on the Rotunda floor and in the Eagle bedroom, the whole thing had seemed something of a dream.
But the stone-cold blue-eyed stare of Winfield Scott was certainly real enough: “Well gentlemen, apparently the carnage wasn’t limited to the Capitol. So this Casgrave woman was murdered too, eh?”
Tom delivered his report at attention: “Yes, General. Apparently, sometime after dawn, according to the coroner. No forced entry…the door was locked from the outside. And no sign of a struggle. The coroner thinks she may have been asleep.”
Bratton cleared his throat loudly. “Excuse me for interrupting, General, but in answer to your earlier question at the Capitol, no one saw our ‘friend’ leave this morning, though one of the, um, ‘ladies,’…”
“Whores, you mean, don’t you, Captain?”
“Ah, yes, General. One of the early-rising, um, ‘whores’ did see a man wearing an oversized black planter’s hat and of the approximate size descending to the first floor around 11 a.m.”
Tom was confused: “However, the assassin---the name, at least at The Eagle, was ‘Richard Lawrence’---was already at the Capitol by then…”
His commander and the British agent shared a look. “So he was, Lieutenant. While Lawrence may in fact be the real name of the assassin, it is clearly not the name of the dead woman’s murderer.” He paused. “Is it, Captain Bratton?”
“Sir, unfortunately, I believe the murderer is one Count Nicholas Ignatieff, a high officer in the Czar’s secret intelligence service. He is undoubtedly also the instigator of the plot that resulted in the death of your Governor-General.”
The Lieutenant looked from Bratton to Scott and back in open-mouthed amazement.
Scott was blunt: “Sent this fool Lawrence to kill Jackson and then disposed of the only one who might be able to tie him and Russia to the crime, eh? Where do you suppose he’s headed?”
Bratton had not expected to go into this much detail with Scott before briefing the Duke. Wellington, however, had joined the group. Apparently he had read Lieutenant Wilder’s note, which confirmed much of what Bratton had relayed via Sir John. The Duke indicated for Harry to continue.
“Well, if he believes he’s caused the maximum havoc he can, then he’d head for a port. Not necessarily directly to Europe; he’s too smart for that. Cuba, perhaps, or a Dutch or French island in the Caribbean. That way he could monitor the situation and slip back in, if needed. Mexico, even.”
Scott nodded: “I’ve already sent word to Fort McHenry and Fortress Monroe.” He paused. “Would he try to elude us by going overland first…Philadelphia or Charleston, say… Embark from there?”
Bratton was dubious: “Well, Sirs. He did come in through New York.” He grimaced. “That’s how I met him, actually, damn it all! But I don’t think he’d head north. Too far and too much chance of detection, even if he has altered his appearance again. My guess is a local port. Or he’ll simply lose himself somewhere in the South.”
The Lieutenant was having a hard time following these exchanges, but knew enough to keep quiet. Obviously, the General had a better grip on the situation. As he demonstrated momentarily:
Looking at Wellington, who had remained silent throughout, he asked Bratton bluntly: “Do you people think he’s caused maximum havoc…?”
Harry frowned and looked at his own chief. Wellington’s nod was barely perceptible.
“That would depend, General, wouldn’t it? On your people’s reaction: both to Mr. Jackson’s demise; and the speech he was stopped from giving…”
Wellington and Scott exchanged significant looks.
The General sighed: “All right, gentlemen, good work. Lieutenant, you need to get with Andy Donelson about the funeral arrangements. Looks like poor Jackson’s going to be laid out in the Rotunda before he’s shipped back to Tennessee. See to it.” Tom saluted and walked toward the secretary’s office. He could hear Scott ask Captain Bratton one last question:
“You’re absolutely sure this Russki is behind this whole thing?”
Tom slowed his way to catch Bratton’s answer: “General Scott, we have been consistently wrong, or rather, late, concerning Count Ignatieff since he arrived. However, in his arrogance, he left us his calling card, so to speak…”
As the Lieutenant turned, Captain Bratton was withdrawing a black eye patch from his coat pocket. “This was hanging from the bed post above Mrs. Casgrave’s body…”
___________
Calhoun Residence
8:45 p.m.:
James Polk had been at The Residency most of the late afternoon and early evening. After some time, however, it became clear that, while he may have been on suspension from Jackson’s Kitchen Cabinet, he was not a member of any status in Van Buren’s band of intimate advisors.
So he had finally acknowledged the ob
vious and ridden over here, where the Southern inner-circle had gathered after leaving the Capitol. I might not have much news from The Residency, but the papers I retrieved from the Rotunda floor are powerful enough intelligence for one day’s work…
Polk had briefly scanned the contents of the cream-colored folder himself, then wordlessly handed them to Calhoun before heading to the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue. By now, he surmised, the entire Southern leadership would know that Jackson had been about to betray them in the name of Dominion unity.
He shook his head as he tied up his own horse; none of the servants were visible.
That damn old man knew the Syrian thing gives the South the leverage to extract a 25-year emancipation ‘sunset’ provision…and to grab Texas and the whole Southwest before Mexico City can react. Yet Jackson intended to squander that once-in-a-century opportunity in favor of a Dominion convention to settle the slavery issue once-and-for-all. Basically, he was for trading the South’s constitutionally-guarenteed property rights for some vague domestic autonomy status in the Empire…
Polk stood on the porch and shook his head. Andrew had been a mentor to him, yes, and he felt his death greatly. A terrible shock, especially coming in the manner it did.
But for the good of the South, perhaps---no, definitely---it is better he is gone, if that speech is any indication…
___________
Alabama’s Clay had the floor, a stone mug of whisky in his hand. In fact, it appeared to Polk that virtually every member of the inner-circle had his own supply…though some supplies were more dented than others.
“…complete sellout of the South,” Clay was sputtering. “Can’t believe a planter could come up with such foul treason. I see Frank Blair’s hand in this. That damn newspaper editor…”
