by James Devine
There were some murmuring and low whistles among the boys, at least the ones with good eyes, as the blue snake slithered closer. When the Lieutenant continued to stare, as if transfixed, on the snake, the Sergeant put up his own hand to quiet them.
“What do you make of it, Sergeant?”
“I reckon it’s what they sent us to find, Sir.”
“Agreed, Sergeant. But we need to get closer. Can’t tell from this distance how many there are.”
The Sergeant shook his head in disagreement. This is what ol’ Ike meant. Impulsive. Reckless of his command. “No need, Lieutenant. We stay put here a few hours, out of sight, we’ll see the whole parade come by. Close enough to make a fine report.”
“Hell no, Sergeant. We stay here and the head of the column’ll be five miles down the road in a few hours. Some other patrol will run into them and get their report in first. No. We saw ‘em, we count ‘em and we get back to Turner’s Gap. I’m filing the first sighting of the damn Yankees. After all, we’re the ones who penetrated damn near into Pennsylvania.”
A more experienced sergeant would know how to talk this boy around, the Sergeant thought. My inclination is to cold-cock him with my Kentuck rifle butt. That won’t do, though… “Well Lieutenant, maybe if we proceed kind of along side them a ways, we can get the information we need.” Without getting our asses shot off moving down into open country…
“Parallel ‘em, you mean? Not a bad idea, Sergeant. We can get a better idea of their strength and destination and then head back over the Mountain to Headquarters at the Gap.”
They moved out in single file, heading south along the road, a path, actually, that ran the length of Catoctin. An experienced commander---or an experienced sergeant---would have put someone “riding point”---out front a hundred yards---to scout the terrain immediately ahead for sign of the enemy. The Lieutenant, however, was engrossed in estimating the size and composition of the blue snake that moved slowly but relentlessly down the road. The Sergeant had dropped back to make sure the boys---there were 12 riders in all---didn’t straggle or make themselves visible to the blue infantry.
The Lieutenant, virtually born in the saddle, was casually riding first, the reins in his left hand and his right holding the saddle horn lightly, body shifted at a 45-degree angle to the left as he studied the column coming down the Emmitsburg Road. The first shot blew him into the tall grass lining the path, the bullet penetrating the breastbone to the right of the neck and exiting from under the left shoulder blade.
The fire of the USBAA Regulars converged on the patrol from the woods on the flank and rear. Two more troopers dropped immediately, while a third was thrown clear of his terrified, bucking horse. The Sergeant’s own horse reared, but he regained control while simultaneously drawing his pistol, the rifle dropped when the animal jerked his front legs skyward. It was that bucking and lurching that saved him and kept him in action momentarily. He fired wildly into the brush, all the while knowing the futility of the effort.
Damn, so soon?
The shot that knocked him off the horse got him on the right shoulder. His pistol went flying into the air as he tumbled backward. It was the rock that did the most damage. His head caught it squarely and blood and brains emptied out backward to form a dark, spreading pool. He never knew the Lieutenant had somehow staggered up, impossibly reaching for his own pistol, when a Dominion corporal old enough to be his father, coming up from behind, terminated with a close-range pistol shot through the throat.
After the initial blast from their muskets, the dismounted Regulars, who had been tracking this particular CSA patrol since late yesterday afternoon, finished off the firefight with their pistols. Then they grabbed the fallen muskets, equipped with ugly-looking bayonets that made them resemble short lances, and charged. The few Confederates on their feet---the entire patrol had dismounted, some more voluntarily than others---threw up their arms and begged to surrender.
It was over in less than a minute. The Regulars unveiled the Stars and Stripes and waved the flag toward the column now halted in the road. The distant cheers and huzzahs were dimly audible…
___________
Camp Washington
October 18, 1833:
“Thanks to the transfer of Fortress Monroe, I believe we can safely rule out an invasion from the Peninsula. And assume that the Dominion invasion will come somewhere along this route.” Zach Taylor traced a route due west from Georgetown.
President Calhoun stared down at the map but made no comment. It was Secretary Gratiot who posed the question. “Will you utilize the natural defenses of Bull Run, or do you want to take them on in the open?” He was careful to avoid indicating his own preference, which, as an engineer, was to take advantage of the natural defenses afforded by the long, winding stream.
Taylor grinned. “What do you think? Charlie… of course I’ll make use of the Run. Be a damn fool if I didn’t. The question is whether Scott’ll come west,” he pointed to Sudley Spring, “or down here by Blackburn’s Ford and this unnamed one.”
The President was confused. “You mean he won’t just come straight on? Scott is a battering ram. I’d have expected him to come right down the Warrentown Pike.”
The Secretary and the two generals---Twiggs was also hovered over the map in Taylor’s quarters---exchanged smiles. “That’s a given, Mr. President. If there’s anyone who’ll try to ram his way through, it’ll be Winfield Scott. But he’s sophisticated, too.
“He’ll attempt to stretch us thin by dividing his force. Thing is, he won’t have enough troops to come from both flanks and the center. It’ll be the Warrentown Pike plus one of the others. I’m betting he’ll go east.” Taylor’s finger moved from Blackburn. “Two short, powerful drives. Easier to hook back up once across, too. That’s from his perspective, of course. Getting across, I mean…”
The others laughed, somewhat nervously in at least one case.
___________
“Une Maison Sans Danger”
6th & G Streets
Georgetown, D.C.
October 18, 1833, 9 p.m.:
Dave Harper was unaware of the phrase “safe house.” Nevertheless, tonight he was being introduced to the concept, though his French lover referred to it as a “une maison sans danger.”
Discreet residence it apparently was; Jacqueline Jean-Claude seemed supremely unconcerned that the Counsel-General would burst through the door at an inopportune time. (This being their first rendezvous since the Army set up camp at Cranford, turning the guest cottage into a temporary headquarters building.)
“No Cheri, Jacques is out of the city…if such a term can be applied to this miserable little village.” Her smooth ageless naked olive-skinned body glowing as always after their initial mutual assault, she seemed to glide across the room, carrying a tray with a bottle of Bordeaux and two glasses. “He’ll be gone at least overnight.”
Harps quickly rose from a prone position to balance on his left elbow. “Left the city? This is a strange time for traveling…” The crisis had raised even David’s previously dormant intelligence instincts: was it possible the French C-G was secretly in cahoots with the Rebels?
“Ah Cheri.” Jacqueline fondly rubbed the back of one hand on Dave’s check while handing him a glass, which she promptly filled. “Like us, the Russians maintain une maison, as, I suspect, all the consulates do. Being Russian, of course, they probably have more than one… At any rate, Jacques and Count Karl rode out this afternoon to inspect one of their’s somewhere north of the city. The Count wants to see if perhaps it would be feasible in case of a siege.”
Harps found himself personally offended: “Do they think so little of our Army that they expect a mob of motley Rebels to come charging across Chain Bridge and overrun our own capital?”
Jacqueline sighed a smile and kissed her younger lover lightly on the lips. So unsophisticated. Except in l’amour…how exciting…how lucky…to have been the teacher of such an apt student…
&nbs
p; “We are Europeans, my darling David. We have seen all too much of war. Bonaparte burned Moscow; the Terror in Paris… These are simply precautions. And besides, the more une maison sans dangers the Russians have to inspect, the more time we have to enjoy this one… Ah, I see you’re becoming ready. So soon and so well…”
___________
Liaison Office
Pennsylvania Avenue & 21st Street
October 19, 1833, 8:30 a.m.:
“So you think Ignatieff may be hiding out at this ‘discreet residence’ somewhere north of the city, eh?”
Harper was sitting at the big conference table, sipping tea and reporting his suspicions to Major Layne, the only one of his British contacts up-and-about yet this Saturday morning.
He had left a purring Madame Jean-Claude at the side street maison and come directly here. Jacqueline said she expected the two C-Gs back in early afternoon, but would get word to The Deerhead if there was a change of plans that would leave her free again this evening…
He had performed to her satisfaction---her own responses had made that clear---after their interesting interlude conversation, but his mind was elsewhere during those periods when she drifted off to sleep (or, perhaps, passed out).
Caroline had told him during a second dinner at the new Grant’s Street Cafe---which featured Italian food, a first for Georgetown---that Count Ignatieff had disappeared again. Her father had confessed, however, that the Count was still in the Georgetown area. His demeanor had been plain: whatever Count Nicholas was planning shocked and appalled him.
All in all, it had been a bad few days for Count Karl, his daughter sadly reported. Harper now began to tell Layne and the just-arrived Captain Bratton her indignant tale.
According to Caroline, Renkowiitz, as the British officials undoubtedly already knew, had been called to both The Residency and the Liaison Office. He had returned from the former even paler than from the latter.
Her father had endured a fierce harangue, he had told her more in dismay than anger, from the Governor-General. Van Buren read verbatim from the Richmond newspaper reports hinting at recognition and an alliance between the Double Eagle and the Rebels. A formally correct Duke of Wellington had later icily reminded the Count that as the King’s official representative in British America---and therefore responsible for foreign policy---he could justifiably ask for Renkowiitz’s credentials in light of these Richmond reports, coupled with the burgeoning Syrian crisis.
“Perhaps even worse,” Caroline had said in a shocked whisper, “was an incident after my father left the Governor-General’s office. Before he could leave The Residency, he was accosted by Mr. Frank Blair and a tiny, aged man he described as uncannily resembling the G-G. They took him into a small office---just a closet, apparently, near the Portico---and threatened him!”
David, who had listened to her tale in somber silence, weighing the possibilities, couldn’t resist a smile. “Dear Caroline,” he jumped at the opportunity to reach across the table and take her hand, “perhaps being somewhat upset, he misconstrued the conversation, overreacted to their words…”
Caroline’s eyes blazed in a way that surprised and fascinated him. “No David, Papa misconstrued nothing. This old man---Papa said he was virtually identical to Mr. Van Buren though obviously older---reached up on his toes and roughly jabbed Papa in the chest with his walking stick. Accused my father of complicity in the murder of Mr. Jackson, which they claimed Count Ignatieff arranged! As well as another American, a woman.” Tears began to surface in her eyes.
Though he had never witnessed this brand of emotion from her before, David was sure the tears were legitimate. He now pressed her hand between both of his while thinking rapidly. Of course! Lawrence didn’t necessarily strangle Joanne! Maybe Ignatieff put him up to it before he dispatched him to Capitol Hill. Or, maybe, sent the idiot bartender on his way, then killed her, himself, so there’d be no trail leading back to him, Count Ignatieff! And Bratton warned me he was dangerous! Sometimes these damn Limeys carry this understated business too far…
“I’m sure Mr. Blair and this old man didn’t speak for the G-G, dear Caroline…”
“Oh David, I’m so worried. Wasn’t all. The room was very small, you see. That horrid old man kept forcing my father back until he fell against a desk. Then he grabbed my father by the lapels of his coat. Said he and Mr. Blair had been close friends of Jackson and took his death personally. Said they intend to track down Count Ignatieff, whom they had been informed is back in Georgetown. Said my father would never see Baltimore, much less the Baltic Sea, unless he told them where Nicholas is.”
“And…”
“My father claimed diplomatic immunity and threatened to file a formal complaint with the Liaison Office. That damnable old creature told him to ‘stick his diplo…’ well, sneered at him, so to say. Reminded him they were private citizens. That his diplomatic immunity didn’t impress them.”
Despite the gravity of the situation---and Caroline’s emotional condition---Harper had all he could do to keep a solemn face. “And…”
“Mr. Blair removed that awful old man’s grip on my father’s coat and escorted Papa to the door. Told my poor father that he’d be under American surveillance---not British---from now on. That he better deliver Nicholas to them, dead or alive.”
The Captain and Major Layne kept exchanging glances as the report poured out. Harry reached across and shook Harper’s hand. “I congratulate you, Mr. Harper. Your brand of espionage is somewhat unique, but nevertheless productive. It may explain why our vigorous searches of Georgetown’s back alleys and places of lesser repute have failed to turn up evidence of this fiend…
“So the Russians maintain at least one secret location here. Interesting. Apparently, Count Karl is using M. Jean-Claude as a sort of ‘cover.’ And now we know where the French residence of discretion is…
“Well, please continue your unique work. While we continue to seek out this Russki.” Bratton glanced back at Major Layne as the trio rose from the table and walked toward the door.
“Though I wouldn’t care to wager against Colonel Burr getting to him first. All in all, the fiend might well consider surrendering to His Majesty’s Government. His fate might be a bit more…civilized. Don’t you agree, hum?”
___________
Samples Townhouse
Connecticut Avenue
October 19, 1833, 10:45 p.m.:
“So you passed the head of Worth’s Corps this afternoon?” Candice and Thomas sat at a small table in her boudoir, drinking red wine and polishing off a cold buffet served earlier by grinning servants.
Thomas’ dusty, sweaty uniform and muddied boots had disappeared for cleaning and he was now clad in a dressing robe after having enjoyed a warm bath. The Captain had arrived directly after reporting in at the War Department from another reconnaissance near Centerville some three hours earlier.
Candice, meanwhile, was now dressed in a ridiculously revealing black lace nightgown. The equally ridiculously revealing dress she had momentarily worn to greet him had also vanished.
“Yes darling, the column appeared on the Taneytown Road in front of Twin Peaks Thursday morning. I set out in my carriage early this morning and cleared it finally north of Rockville. Precious, where are they headed? Surely they’re not going to camp them here in the city?”
Thomas smiled. Word of the Alexandria encampment was by now prevalent in Georgetown, but Candice had been at Twin Peaks for most of the past month. Which still can’t account for the ferocity of her hunger. As dirty, unshaven and, yes, rank as he had been, she had launched herself on him the moment he stepped through the door. Got to find a new description: ‘insatiable’ just doesn’t do her justice…
“They’re headed for Alexandria, Candice, via Chain Bridge. The whole army’s forming there. Some of the Georgetown defense force is already there and Wool’s Corps is coming down from the northwest. I understand the engineers are almost done with a new bridge at Edward’s Ferry.�
��
“Then the fight can’t be long off.” The seriousness of her tone made Tom look up from the cold chicken he was devouring; it was his first meal in two days. The frowning look on her face was also more concerned than he could ever remember, her green eyes glistening in a most unusual way.
“Well, General Scott is transferring headquarters to Alexandria on Monday. He’ll be coming back most nights, but I don’t know how much of Georgetown I’ll be seeing from then on. But, yes, the battle isn’t far off. A few weeks, at most.”
She stared at him intently as he resumed his assault on the buffet. Then:
“Eat hearty, darling. You’re going to need your strength.” The emerald eyes now began to glow as the frown dissolved in a smirk that emphasized the double entendre.
Still smirking, she rose and pranced over to the bed, before reclining onto it in a pose her beloved romance novels would inevitably have described as ‘lascivious.’
Tom regarded her over a sip of wine. We ought to send her to Richmond. She could wear out a division…if not the whole damn Reb army!
___________
Russian Une Maison Sans Danger
Maryland Countryside
October 20, 1833, 5:30 a.m.:
Capt. Arthur Goodwin glanced at the slowly brightening sky. He had arranged his platoon of 20 Marines in a circle covering the inconspicuous old farmhouse from every angle. If, as General Scott had informed him, the ‘mastermind’ of the Jackson assassination plot was indeed inside, the bastard had two choices: surrender or die…
He consulted his watch and looked over at the Dominion marshal who had apparently been out here yesterday.
On the ride up---they had left the War Department before midnight---Marshal Stubas had briefed him. Stubas had been assigned to track the Russian Consul-General’s movements anytime he left the Consulate. Friday afternoon, Count Renkowiitz had ridden over to the French Consulate. A few minutes later, he and a dapper-looking middle-aged man Stubas’ partner had identified as M. Jean-Claude, the French C-G, had emerged on horseback and ridden out of the city. Stubas and his partner had trailed them to this farm, where the C-Gs had tied up their horses and gone in. Yesterday, mid-morning, they had emerged with a third man, a wiry, black-haired man with a long, drooping mustache. Meanwhile, several farm workers and a stout woman of middle age had been in-and-out. After a set of formal European-style bows, the two C-Gs had remounted and set off back to Georgetown. The black-haired man had stood on the farmhouse porch watching until they were some distance down the road before going back inside.
