by James Devine
A crude five-column illustration of the assassination depicted Richard Lawrence in a whaler’s hat and overcoat. Smaller headlines on either side bellowed:
“Abolitionists Cheer V-B’s Speech Fraud”
“Why Congress Won’t Investigate”
“Jackson’s Anger at London Ultimatum”
“Secretary McLane is reading Monday’s Richmond Examiner,” Harps said. “The headlines may be a little different, but the message seems about the same: ‘The abolitionists had Jackson killed to stop him from denouncing the emancipation bill. Then Matty Van substituted a pro-emancipation speech and tried to pass it off as Jackson’s original.’”
Tom shook his head in disbelief. “But this is all ridiculous. You and I met Lawrence enough times to know the man couldn’t spell emancipation. He had more than one screw loose; the damn fool thought he was entitled to be King of England…”
“That’s apparently beside the point, Lieutenant…”
“No sirs, it is the whole point.” Beaufort interrupted in a hard, low tone. “As you say, this fellow was some sort of cretin; incapable of planning, let alone carrying out, the assassination of the Governor-General of the United States of British America.”
A small crowd of enlisted Department clerks had begun gathering around Wilder’s desk. They were listening intently as Beaufort continued: “Cast Lawrence’s delusions aside momentarily. The cretin was merely the instrument utilized by a group of well-organized fanatics to subvert the Administration’s to-be-announced response to Parliament’s illegal attempt to override our property rights.”
Beaufort looked around at the clerks, a few of whom were beginning to nod their heads in agreement. Others were tight-lipped, some staring at Lieutenant Wilder as if expecting him to rebut.
“The G-G was returned to office last fall in a landside; he carried all sections of the Dominion. He would have rallied opposition everywhere. So, he had to be eliminated. Enter this bartender with his delusions of glory. A handy weapon to replace a defiant leader with a puppet Wellington and the abolitionists could control…”
The ensuing silence was broken by a deep growl from the rear of the circle: “Quite a theory, Lieutenant. Based on what evidence…”
“Atten-hut.” Wilder, rising to his feet, joined the others in coming to attention. Even Harper stiffened as the commanding general moved through the parting ranks and glanced down at the Mercury. Still reading, he barked: “I believe you men have duties to perform this morning…” The crowd of clerks evaporated.
Picking up the paper he seemed to notice Harper for the first time. “Am I to understand that this newspaper is the property of the Interior Department? Then tell Mr. McLane I shall return it to him shortly.”
Harps nodded and quickly turned and left as Scott ordered the two aides into his office, handing the Mercury to Beaufort as they crossed the threshold.
Closing the door behind him, Scott moved towards the coffee pot on the credenza before turning to address the two Lieutenants now standing at attention in front of his desk.
“I’ll take that paper, Lieutenant.” Scott sat and, sipping his coffee, read for several minutes; the aides still at attention before him. He finally looked up.
“Gentlemen, I swore an oath to defend the Constitution and the flag of this Dominion almost 30 years ago. The day you two entered West Point, you did the same. For as long as you wear that uniform, I’ll expect you to uphold that oath. The moment you no longer feel you can, I’ll expect your resignation.” He paused.
“A crisis of unparalleled magnitude is evidently approaching. The Dominion needs both you men; we shall need every man.”
He paused and stared from one to the other, from Mississippi to New York. “I’ll require you both to refrain from further political discussion in the Department proper; and to see that the men go about their normal business.”
My secretary’s already made up his mind, Scott thought. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s composed his resignation letter, at least in his mind. He opened the newspaper to an inner page. More of the same!
Dear God, is it starting already?
“Dismissed!”
___________
Latoure Townhouse
July 5, 1833:
Robert Lee had wrangled leave and was home for 10 days, so Lucille had thought to throw a small dinner party in his honor. Despite the brutal Georgetown weather---high heat, unbearable humidity and scalding rain during the daily thunderstorms---no one of importance had left the capital. No one, that is, as of yet: the Southern Congressional delegation was scheduled to leave en mass for Richmond tomorrow to prepare for the “caucus” scheduled to open on Monday.
Despite her newly minted political awareness, Lucille retained her social and entertaining skills: the food excellent, the service impeccable and the wines outstanding. A cross-section of Georgetown’s young elite, in terms of status, profession, nationality and gender, had been invited. Stimulating conversation would be a given…
Yet the dinner party was an unmitigated disaster.
Senator Brown was tight-lipped; his wife’s gaiety forced. Mary Lee pointedly refused to speak to Tom or any of the other “damn Yankees,” who included, apparently, Countess Caroline Renkowiitz, as she had come with Dave Harper. Robert had been embarrassed; both at his wife’s blatant hostility and his own unexpected awkwardness with his old classmate Tom. Judith Walker Rives, the vibrant young wife of Virginia’s junior Senator, had become a mentor of sorts to Lucille. Yet, neither she nor her intellectual husband---at 39 the oldest in the group---could rally the conversation. Even Jaine Latoure, accompanied by her longtime beau, Lt. Luke Beaufort, seemed to find the landscape studded by crisis landmines.
“I’m afraid it is hopeless,” Jaine confessed to Major Layne, who had come with a daughter of Senator Frelinghuysen, an old classmate of Jaine’s from the ‘Female Seminary.’
“This crisis is like an earthquake. It has opened a gulf between the South and the other sections. Neither side trusts the other to be truthful or honorable any more. It’s like we’ve already divided into two separate peoples…”
Layne, not used to playing the diplomat---and equally unfamiliar with Southern belles of Jaine’s obvious breeding---tried the gallant approach: “Gulfs can be bridged. Surely the chasm can not have become so wide due to the one issue alone that it will affect all other relationships?”
Jaine smiled sadly at the Major and Abigail Frelinghuysen. Perhaps my sister is right; perhaps these English do consider us unruly children. “I grow afraid, Major, that all the bridges have been burned. And that the assassination was the torch…”
___________
Numidia Stables
July 6, 1833
9 am:
General Scott’s one-on-one interview with Jurgurtha Numidia had, at the direction of the G-G on the advice of his Attorney General, been postponed.
Free blacks, Taney determined, had the same rights per habeas corpus as white citizens. And since there was no evidence Jurgurtha had been involved in the botched Wellington seizure, the man must be allowed to go free.
Which was just as well, Scott thought in retrospect. With everything else going on around here, I might not have gotten around to him for days. And the man was entitled to the opportunity to bury his only son…
The Tousaint funeral took place two days after the G-G’s aborted speech to Congress. And in the uproar that had followed Jackson's assssination, little, if any, attention had been paid it outside of black Georgetown. Except by Scott, who had a report from his own butler, Ronaldo, who had attended. And according to him, the service, while boisterous and grief-stricken, had been uneventful…
Now, with the capitol pausing to catch its breath after the reaction to the G-G's death, and before the Southern "caucus" began, Scott himself stood in the double doorway that opened Numidia’s stable to the street.
The blacksmith was pulling a carriage from the rear of the building when he caught sight of the Ge
neral. Jurgurtha merely grunted and continued through the stable until Scott realized he had no choice but to step aside or be run down.
Smiling inwardly at Jurgurtha’s opening gambit, the General turned and followed a short distance into the driveway, where Numidia had been forced to stop, due to the phalanx of Scott’s horsed bodyguard.
“All right, General Scott. Can see I won’t get any work done till your visit is over. So what is it this time?” Jurgurtha shook his head in apparent resigned disgust.
Scott motioned to the tiny stable office and the two went in and closed the door, leaving the Army guard to dismount and rest their animals.
As usual, Scott was direct, launching his steely-eyed drill-glare at the blacksmith: “The fact that the whole town---Dominion---now knows about emancipation doesn’t mean the government has any less interest in finding out how your son knew, Mr. Numidia. And, whether you cooperate or not, I will find that out, eventually. But I didn’t come down here to reiterate that.
“You’re an interesting character, Mr. Numidia. Nice little business. Acknowledged leader of the town’s free blacks. Advisor and confessor, or so I hear, to the local slave population. Preacher capable of fiery, thunderbolt-hurling yet eloquent sermons. But something is missing, isn’t it, Mr. Numidia?” The drill was at full speed.
“Like Ah say dat last time, Ah ain’t got no idea what Massa talkin’ ‘bout…”
Scott laughed harshly. “Knock it off, Jurgurtha. You’re an educated man. Self-educated, mostly, I’d guess, but still educated. Don’t hide behind that stupid lingo.”
“Like you hide behind them stars?”
Scott laughed again. ‘Don’t think you’re going to bait me, Jurgurtha. I don’t hide behind these stars, I earned them and utilize them for the good of the USBA.”
Jurgurtha spat. “‘The good of the USBA’, huh? What’s dat got da do with me, Massa? Me and ma people?”
“You’re here aren’t you?” Scott spoke quietly. “Making a living. Preaching to your flock. Sent a boy to college. I’d say this dominion has been pretty good to you these last…what? Fifteen years or so, by our calculations?”
Numidia shook his huge cannonball head. “My boy’s in the ground. The Army camp out on my driveway much longer, I won’t have any customers left. And my…parishioners…don’t want any trouble with the authorities. So, most will stay away from the ‘Church of Jesus Christ, Liberator.’”
It was Scott’s turn to shake his head in disgust. “Come on, Numidia. Both your customers and your…parishioners…are more loyal than that. You command respect...”
The General paused for effect. “…which isn’t the only thing you’ve ever commanded, is it, Jurgurtha?”
It was hard to tell, but Scott thought he had finally made Numidia blink.
“Now who’s baiting whom, General?”
Scott gave Jurgurtha an exaggerated full length inspection. “You carry yourself with a military carriage, Numidia. And you’re comfortable and self-assured in issuing orders. I’ve been at this business a long time, Jurgurtha. Over 30 years. And at one time I believe this was your business, too, wasn’t it?
“I’d guess Haiti, based on your late son’s name. But it could have been with Bolivar in South America. Or somewhere in between. But you’ve faced fire…and you’ve led troops. Haven’t you?”
“Like Ahs keep sayin’, Massa, Ah ain’t got no idea what you be talkin’ ‘bout.”
___________
Scott sighed and walked to the door. He opened it, glanced at his escort, and turned to face the blacksmith again.
“Mr. Numidia, you’re a smart man. Smart enough to know that emancipation may blow the top right off this dominion of ours. On the one hand, we’ve got the Southern extremists, men like Calhoun and Troup, who will oppose emancipation to the last breath of the last man. On the other, we’ve got hotheads like your son---or Nat Turner---who think seven years is a century away. Your own brand of fireaters wants two million uneducated slaves turned loose immediately despite having no way to feed, cloth or house themselves or their families…in the midst of some 12 million whites who want nothing to do with them.
“This is a perfect powderkeg, Mr. Numidia. One that could blow at any time. And might be about to do so.”
Jurgurtha was staring at Scott incredulously: “Are you recruiting me, General? To fight for the government that just killed my boy?”
“The government didn’t kill Tousaint, Jurgurtha. His own recklessness caused his death. That and his naiveté…”
“Be that as it may. You expect me to help a government that holds two million of my people in chains?”
“No, Jurgurtha. I’m just suggesting that you, as an educated man, must see that Parliament’s proposal will at least offer your people some help in assimilating into our society, our Dominion… Unless you’re in favor of all two million pulling up stakes and moving to Liberia, or Central America, or wherever...”
Jurgurtha spat again. “Hell, no. Black blood’s at least as deep in this land as white blood. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Then I suggest you give some thought as to how you and your people might help the government of this Dominion…if worse comes to worse.”
Now it was Numidia’s turn to pace the office. Scott waited patently, studying his subject thoroughly. Yes, a leader, all right. And a professional. Wonder whether he fought the Frogs or the Dons? Maybe both…
Jurgurtha finally stopped and stared at Scott. “You really think this could come to civil war? Why, the Crown will send in the Redcoats to crush it…”
“The Crown has responsibilities and commitments around the world, Jurgurtha. My feeling is, any problems over here will have to be dealt with by the available resources over here.”
He gave the big black man a hard stare. “Think about it. Maybe that’s all it will be: thought. But also think what’s in it for your people. Have you read the details of Parliament’s bill? No? Do so. Seven years isn’t really that long, when you look at it from Parliament’s perspective. Keep that in mind. Maybe we’ll talk again.”
Scott turned without offering a hand, opened the door and strode out of the stable as his escort sprang to attention.
___________
The Residency
July 13, 1833, 3 p.m.:
“A committee carrying credentials from the Southern caucus currently in session in Richmond requests an audience, Mr. Governor-General.”
Andrew Donelson’s flat and formal tones did not betray the excitement that was clearly evident in his eyes.
The G-G, in conference with the recuperating Secretary of War, Mr. MacLane of Interior and Frank Blair, was equally formal: “Show the gentlemen in, Mr. Donelson.”
Senator Brown came in, flanked by Congressmen Polk and McDuffie. The dust clinging to their riding clothes indicated the trio had not stopped since crossing the North Anna River hours before. Brown retrieved an envelope from his jacket pocket and placed it on the G-G’s desk.
“Mr. Governor-General, the document enclosed in this envelope represents the determination of the caucus of the South’s Congressional and other elected officials which has met in Richmond since Monday last. I will summarize in the interests of time:
“The series of events and actions emanating from the announcement of Parliamentary legislation to abolish slavery throughout the British Empire has convinced the elected representatives of the various states now comprising the portion of the present United States of British America in which the institution is maintained that continued participation in the Dominion is no longer viable nor desirable.
“This series of events and actions includes but is not limited, to:
*Acceptance of Parliamentary authority to impose such legislation in clear violation of the Colonial Compact’s commitment to freedom of property rights;
*Malicious misinterpretation of the USBA Constitution concerning the inherent powers of the Imperial, Dominion and State governments, as well as property rights;
and the
*Abuse of Executive Branch powers by illegal interference in the organization and operation of the Legislative Branch.
“Specific crimes include the substitution of a Gubernatorial-General address to Congress by a fictitious replacement; opposition to a Legislative investigation of the assassination of the previous Governor-General; unconstitutional removal of a Cabinet officer and replacement of same without Congressional approval; and the calling of an extra-constitutional convention without Congressional approval.”
(Attorney General Roger B. Taney, having refused to argue the Administration’s case for an emancipation convention at the Supreme Court, had been summarily fired on June 21. The G-G replaced him with New York State lawyer and legislator, Benjamin F. Butler.)
Pale and sweating under his deep tan, Senator Brown paused and looked to his companions for support. After an emphatic nod from the smirking Congressman McDuffie, he continued:
“In light of these crimes and illegalities, the Southern states listed below, as determined by their duly elected representatives, inform the Governor-General of the United States of British America that the common bonds that have tied the South to the other sections of the Dominion have been severed.
“The South wishes only to reside in peace and harmony with its neighbors to the North. However, it is determined to conduct its affairs in a manner that the South…and the South alone…determines acceptable and reasonable.”
The silence grew from seconds to minutes as the G-G daintily opened the envelope and scanned the complete document. Finally, he returned the document to its packet and placed it on the corner of his desk. Looking up at the Southerners, he said in his Dutch-tinged whispery voice:
“Thank you gentlemen. You seem to have ridden hard to deliver this document. I’m sure you are as tired as you are dusty. Good day.” He nodded to Donelson to see them out.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
