by James Devine
Calhoun, his dark smile in place, was evidently allowing the boys to blow off steam. He sipped from a small glass and look expectantly at the newcomer. “Well, James, back from The Residency. So what is the mood over there on Pennsylvania Avenue?”
Polk looked around the room. “Shock, depression, confusion. What you would expect. Some barely-concealed glee, too, in my opinion, from some of those damn Yankees, Webster and the lot…”
North Carolina’s Brown stood. “What news? When’s the funeral? When will Van Buren address the Congress? Have they discovered this fiend’s identity yet? Or his motive?”
Polk raised his hand. “Slow down, Bedford, all in good time.” The others chuckled and someone handed Polk his own mug. He sipped shortly and began again:
“The funeral is foremost on their minds, along with securing the city’s stability. Though, if this had been a coordinated insurrection of sorts, any hell would already have broken loose. Looks like this may have been a single madman, who, by the way, apparently butchered his landlady before going to the Hill…”
He cut off the instant buzz. “Later. More importantly, Van Buren doesn’t seem to have focused on the crisis yet. I’d say emancipation’s off the table for a few weeks.” No reason to confess just yet that I’ve been cut off from power over there, he thought. Who knows what tomorrow may bring…
“Now, I’m anxious to hear this group’s thinking regarding this damnable speech the Old Man was about to make…”
___________
The Residency
11:45 p.m.:
The crowd had dwindled to the five of them now: the new G-G, Scott, Wellington, Blair and Colonel Burr.
Men and women had continued to come and go throughout the evening:
General Gaines reporting that, in part thanks to the arrival of elements of the 4th Artillery from their post outside the city, Georgetown was quiet; the 10 p.m. curfew was being observed. A delegation of New England Congressmen to urge the new G-G to announce his unequivocal support for emancipation as early as tomorrow. Ewing, Benton and some other Westerners to offer support and urge caution. Candice Samples, among other women, to console Emily Donelson. Finally, some 45 minutes ago, Donelson and Wilder with detailed plans for the funeral.
Now, formal attire loosened or shed---including a decoration-littered commanding general’s tunic---the group was scattered around the room, sipping their own beverages of choice as they planned a course of action.
“Put off your speech until next week, three or four days after the funeral,” Blair advised. “Let things calm down a bit before the people have to look emancipation in the eye again. A brief respite will do us all good…”
Burr poured himself a cup of tea; despite the mugginess of the night, he apparently felt his habitual chill. “I believe Frank’s correct, Matty. Let the people concentrate on their grief; if nothing else, it unites them. There’s plenty of time to return to this Parliamentary hot potato.” He grinned: “Serve Congress right if you keep ‘em here all summer…”
Blair again: “What worries me is the disappearance of that folder. Mark my words, Calhoun has already read it. And begun making his plans…”
Wellington cleared his throat. “Since this is late at night and off-the-record, Mr. Governor, I must say I share Mr. Blair’s concern. That folder did not simply blow away in the storm. Someone snatched it; someone with impressive presence of mind, considering the circumstances.”
The discussion continued nearly till dawn. Among other things, the new G-G was astonished to learn contingency plans had been drafted to field a Southern-less army…
___________
Indian Queen Hotel Taproom
June 18, 1833, 7:00 p.m.:
In the blur of events since the previous Wednesday, Tom Wilder was sure he had spent at least a few minutes with his friend Dave Harper. He just couldn’t remember when; or where.
Possibly it had been after the joint War-Interior Department briefing last Thursday when the Liaison Office spelled out its theory on the assassination. Or, more accurately, its theories considering the escape and/or hiding plans of this Russian agent, Ignatieff.
Or, it could have been during or after the Saturday funeral procession to the Capitol, where Andrew Jackson had been laid in state in the Rotunda, at the exact spot of the assassination. Estimates were that more than 50,000 had passed through in the next 24 hours, though General Scott had scoffed. “Use your head, Lieutenant. There aren’t half that many people within 100 miles of Georgetown. Where did they all come from?”
Wilder hadn’t really given it much thought: he had been too tied up with the ceremonial details. Scott himself had overseen the security preparations. Tom grinned to himself; maybe that 50,000 included all the troops. The General certainly packed Georgetown with the two services!
Some of those troops---including Bull Sumner’s dragoons---had left town Sunday afternoon, escorting the G-G’s body back to Nashville. That had meant more planning, so it was doubtful he had seen Dave over the weekend.
He had, of course seen Candice---if seeing is the correct word for it, he thought, grinning---late on several evenings. Her grief at her old friend’s demise was very real. But, she hadn’t allowed it to adversely affect her appetites.
With all preparations, security and otherwise, completed for Van Buren’s address to the Congress tomorrow---like everyone else, Tom was still having trouble thinking of Matty Van as ‘the G-G’---the Lieutenant had found he did have some free time tonight.
As Candice had decided to retreat to Twin Peaks on Monday, he had no other commitments; Lucille, he thought with a frown, had gone home to Cranford last weekend, though she was due back for the speech. He hadn’t seen her since Mrs. Latoure invited him to a small dinner-party two nights after the assassination. With the Tylers, Joe Johnston and Mary Lee also in attendance, it hadn’t been much fun…the others’ grief over Jackson’s death was more than tempered by their anger over emancipation.
Thus, with no duties or other commitments, he was free to meet Harps for a few beers. Fortunately, Dave had agreed to come over from The Deerhead, though both taprooms were now habitually extra-crowded, with The Golden Eagle still shuttered…
Harper was standing at the bar with a strange look on his face when the Lieutenant came down the stairs from his room, the mug of beer in front of him already half consumed.
“What’s the matter, Harps? Not some late-blooming grief for the unfortunate Joanne?”
“Of course not, Lieutenant. Any mourning I conducted for her---and believe me, it was strictly of a carnal nature---was over months ago. Ghastly thing, but…funny you should bring her up, though…”
“Why’s that? Nothing funny I can see about getting strangled, asleep or not…”
Harps downed the rest of his beer and whipped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around the bar suspiciously before lowering his head and voice:
“I’ve just come from the Liaison Office again, Tom. Bratton and his boys want me in touch with Caroline. Find out what she knows about Ignatieff.”
Wilder stared at his friend. “They think she was in on the plot? That’s ridiculous….”
“No, no, of course not. And, they don’t think he’s hiding out at the Consulate.
“They do think Count Renkowiitz---or someone over there---does know where he went. Or headed, at any rate.”
“So you’re to pry this international secret out of Caroline? Come on…”
Harper pulled himself into a comically erect posture. “I have been provided choice seats in the visitors’ gallery. Two of them. I am picking up the Countess at 9:45 with an Interior Department carriage. After the speech, we will proceed to visit the various receptions. At some point, hopefully she’ll let something slip. At least, that’s the idea.”
“Jaysus, Mary and Joseph…”
“Don’t worry Thomas. If-and-when we see the ‘redoubtable Miss Latoure,’ I’m sure Caroline will be happy to pass along your greetings.”
&
nbsp; ___________
Calhoun’s Residence
June 19, 1833, 8:00 p.m.:
The fire-eaters had departed the Capitol livid. Except for Calhoun. As far as the head fire-eater was concerned, things were moving along nicely.
That didn’t mean he hadn’t been shocked and shaken by the events of the previous Wednesday. Calhoun had detested Jackson and most everything he had stood for. Everything, damn it, now that the old man was on record as betraying his own planter class!
Though he certainly did not condone assassination as a political instrument, Jackson’s forcible removal from the scene, however, was a positive step toward that goal he had set, though never publicly enunciated: separation of the Dominion into free- and slave-holding entities. A Southern confederacy that might---or might not---choose to remain in the British Empire!
So Van Buren’s speech today, infuriating the fire-eaters by revealing and endorsing the old man’s ridiculous plan to call a special Dominion convention to deal with the emancipation issue, didn’t bother him. A reaction that startled and baffled his associates until he carefully explained his reasoning.
“By all accounts, the entire Dominion is shocked by the assassination. There is an excess of emotion: grief, outrage and yes, a feeling, somehow, of guilt, on the part of the people. Understandable, actually. The people are, in the end, simply a mob. Their reaction is thus predictable to anyone who has dealt with mobs.
“Van Buren wants to harness that grief and guilt to ram emancipation through. A monument to the slain hero, so to speak, completed while the guilt is still strong.”
He looked at the others, whose facial expressions now ranged from outright confusion to sly understanding.
“We must divert that grief and guilt. How? By denying, plausibly and continually, that the emancipation convention was Jackson’s answer to the crisis. By charging that the whole thing is a fraud…an abolitionist plot; a scurrilous attempt by unscrupulous men to transform a tragedy into a travesty.”
He smiled his dark smile: “After all, Andrew Jackson, the master of The Hermitage, suddenly calling for abolition? How ludicrous the very idea; how bizarre the concept! How dare they think the British American electorate could be so naive?”
Chuckles of understanding and admiration rippled through the room. George Troup raised his whisky glass and called for a toast. Others followed until Calhoun smilingly cut them off.
“Gentlemen, please. We’ve much planning yet this night. A coordinated effort will be required, starting with the opening gavels tomorrow.”
Senator Tyler had occasionally quietly sipped his own glass of Claret while refraining from commenting throughout the evening. Now he rose and addressed Calhoun:
“What, sir, do you propose if the Yankees do manage to call this damnable extra-constitutional convention, eh? Suppose, despite our best efforts to discredit this, the Westerners, the Border State people and the others go along with Van Buren. Agree to a convention. What do you propose then?”
The dark smile had vanished, the face now dominated by a sudden glowing of the eyes. The confident politician replaced by the Old Testament prophet:
“In that case, John, I believe we’ll have grounds to call a convention of our own. A Southern convention. To discuss not just our peculiar institution, but the future of the South itself.
“Frankly, I believe we’d be left no alternative…”
___________
The Residency
June 21, 1833, 5 p.m.:
“There’s no hope then? No chance that they’ll compromise? Even with a Supreme Court ruling in our favor?”
The G-G looked at his Congressional visitors sadly. “Calhoun is that sure of his position? That we’ll back down rather than risk a secession crisis?” Van Buren got up from behind the desk and, shaking his head, walked over to the window with its view of the Potomac and the Virginia hills.
Ewing was the first to break the silence: “Calhoun is so far along in this I’m not sure he’ll even accept a damn exemption. The man’s got most of the Southern delegation believing these scurrilous claims that you replaced Jackson’s speech with one Webster wrote up for you…”
Colonel Burr, sitting on a couch off to the side, chuckled. “Only half? You listen to reports in your Capitol Hill cloakrooms and you get the distinct impression the South is already solidly arming to the proverbial teeth. With the Québécois clamoring for ammunition to join them…”
Henry Clay was in no mood for levity: “This is serious, Colonel. Have you heard about McDuffie’s speech today? Wants an investigation of the assassination by a Congressional committee. ‘The Executive Branch can not be expected to investigate itself.’ Says such an investigation must be completed before any consideration of Matty’s emancipation convention proposal can even begin.”
The G-G turned and stared at Frank Blair, who was sitting with the Colonel. “We’ll put a stop to that. For a variety of reasons, gentlemen, including embarrassment to the Crown itself, there’ll be no formal investigation of any kind, though I’d certainly like to know how Calhoun got his hands on Jackson’s speech…”
The G-G’s attempt to divert attention to the theft of the folder was only partially successful. Benton and Ewing picked up on the reference to the British immediately, though the ploy apparently got the Kentuckian’s mind centered.
“We could bring Andy Donelson up to the Hill and question him under oath, I suppose. At least that might put a stop to these outrageous fraud claims…”
Benton shook his head violently: “No Senator. That’s playing into John C.’s hands. This session was called specifically to deal with the emancipation issue. Nothing else matters. Start investigating the disappearance of the folder and you’ve opened Pandora’s Box: Did this Lawrence character actually act alone? What possible motive could he have had? Did someone in high places put him up to it? If so, why? Did he also kill that woman, or was that strictly coincidental, as unlikely as that might seem…”
The Missourian looked around. “Personally, I’ve got some questions myself. Don’t think you fellows have shared everything about this business with us up on the Hill.” He paused and shrugged. “Well, maybe you have your reasons, Mr. Governor. They’d better be good ones, ‘cause this will come out, in the end. But for now, with all due respect to poor Andy, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
Ewing let the silence in the room linger for 30 long seconds before getting back to the proposal the Senators had come to The Residency to discuss. “Mr. Governor, we’ve spoken with members from both parties and all sections. Even these New England radicals are willing to have your right to call a special convention placed before the Court. We think the Attorney-General should proceed, forthwith.”
Frank Blair was on his feet: “But wouldn’t that play into Calhoun’s hand, in terms of dragging this out? As it is, Wellington still expects the Parliamentary legislation to pass by August. That’s getting closer by the day.”
Clay had apparently refocused on the main issue. “We’ve spoken with Marshall, as I’m sure you have. He’s agreeable to hear arguments next Monday, as the entire Court is in town. Apparently, he foresaw there might be Constitutional questions during this special session and arranged the circuit schedules accordingly. Says the actual arguments won’t take long, no matter whom Calhoun sends over to make them. Can render a decision by the 28th.”
Blair was counting heads and thinking fast. “As you are no doubt aware, old Johnson is the only diehard Southerner on the Court. Even if Gabriel Duval from Maryland joins him, we should have a majority decision of no less than 5-2. Assuming Marshall himself votes affirmatively, of course…”
The Colonel also stood up, though, to Benton’s thinking, there was little change in height. First time I’ve ever seen him and Matty Van together. So the rumors really are true…
Burr was reassuring. “I believe my old friend Justice Marshall will join the majority opinion, if not write it himself. As a matter of fact, I would not be
surprised if he’s drafted a tentative opinion already.”
Van Buren had returned to his seat behind the desk. “Well, gentlemen, let’s get the Attorney-General in here and proceed.”
___________
Calhoun Residence
June 22, 1833, 7 p.m.:
The Calhouns were dining with John Tyler and his wife when Congressmen Polk and McDuffie arrived from the Hill after a bumpy carriage ride over Georgetown’s rutted roads.
“So, gentlemen, the Administration has in fact gone ahead and submitted the convention proposal to the Court, I take it?” Calhoun was serene in the face of his two associates’ breathless announcement.
“Well then. We shall see them in court on Monday. However…” He turned and looked pointedly at Tyler. “I see no reason to postpone or cancel our plans for a Southern caucus in Richmond next month. As Senator Tyler and I were discussing, July 8th looks a good date for the South to begin discussing this among ourselves. I understand Governor Floyd has already begun making the physical preparations…”
___________
War Department
July 3, 1833, 8:30 a.m.:
Lieutenant Wilder kept looking up from the copy of the Charleston Mercury on his desk to the grim faces of Lieutenant Beaufort and David Harper.
It had been Harper who had rushed into the Department from Interior’s adjoining space in the building, clutching the newspaper in his hand. Coming out of General Gaines’ office---the USBAA vice-commander had begun appearing more regularly since Jackson’s assassination---seconds later, Luke Beaufort had paused at Tom’s desk for a look.
Dated June 27th---the same day the Supreme Court had ruled against the South on the emancipation convention issue---a huge eight-column headline screamed out from the Mercury’s black-bordered front page:
“OLD HICKORY: A MARTYR TO STATES RIGHTS”
