The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America

by James Devine

  As Harps had been dimly aware, he had had a rival all these months since they had first met at The Residency Christmas party. As infatuated as Caroline was with him, she had also developed strong feelings elsewhere: for the USBA itself.

  “I have grown to love this place, this Dominion of your’s,” she said in starting the conversation. “I cannot, somehow, see myself going back to Russia or following my father to another post in some petty dictatorship or fossilized autocracy.”

  She took his hand across the table gently, though her eyes were blazing: “Whether or not our relationship succeeds, dear David, I will not leave America! That is why I am now betraying Russia with the information I give you.”

  It took almost two hours for the story to play out, for she began with the sudden apparition of Ignatieff the previous winter. When she finally revealed her secret information, David was aghast that so much time had been wasted. He hurried her outside and packed her back in her carriage. Climbing in next to her, he yelled down at the outraged tavern owner, Steve, to send the bill---“with a big tip”---to The Residency. The carriage spun away, adding dusty insult to the man’s injury.

  Two minutes after jumping off at The Residency gates, he was relaying the news to Bratton and Burr…

  ___________

  By 5 a.m. it was obvious that Ignatieff had eluded them yet again.

  “So where will he make the attempt? Where can he hide until daybreak?” Colonel Burr banged his walking stick in the dust in front of the Ille. “Damn it, he’s a foreigner. How many hiding spots in Georgetown can he have?”

  Harry, David and the Colonel looked at each other in growing frustration.

  “Chap’s been here a considerable while, you’ll agree. Appears he made use of his time…”

  “Damn it, Captain Bratton. This is no time to get philosophical.” Colonel Burr was as close to losing his composure as he himself could recall. “What time is the escort forming up?”

  “There’s no chance of dissuading him?”

  “Captain Bratton, he just hit me with that stare.” Burr shook his head. “Felt like a drill going through me. ‘I’m due in Alexandria for reveille,’ he says. As if the army will oversleep unless he’s there to wake them up!”

  Harps was silent. Some things the others had said were bouncing around in his brain. ‘How many hiding places…’ ‘He’s been here a considerable…’

  “My God, I think I know!”

  Bratton and Burr spun to look at him.

  “If the escort proceeds normally, it’ll pass by the War Department on the way to the Long Bridge…”

  Bratton smile of condescension was barely visible in the predawn. “Come, my dear fellow. The fiend isn’t likely to gain access to your own building…”

  “Of course not, but what’s just a block away? Right on the way, with second floor windows opening onto the street…”

  “The Eagle! Of course! And God knows, he’s familiar with its every nook-and-cranny.” Bratton was calling for his horse. “The escort in all likelihood is already in motion. There’s no time to spare. Tell Captain Goodwin to gather his men and meet me there!”

  Before Burr and Harper could react, Harry was mounted and halfway down the street.

  ___________

  His eyes had always been very sensitive to light. Whether there was any correlation to the telltale two-color oddity, he didn’t know nor care.

  In any event, Nicholas snapped awake as the first dim glimmerings appeared in the dark sky. He remained motionless for a moment; although confident he would have heard anyone entering or moving around in the building, his training had taught him to be cautious. Convinced he was safely alone, Nicholas rechecked his weapons: the French rifle, his pistol and the dagger he always carried in his boot. The trusty two-shot derringer remained in the coat he had carefully placed next to him, along with his hat.

  Ignatieff was counting on the inevitable commotion---shock, disorientation, aid to the victim---to ease his getaway from the building. Once in the street he would easily blend into the crowd. Just another Georgetown resident on his way to work…and yes, what was that noise over on Grant Street anyway? The Americans would soon blanket the area with troops but he was betting they’d concentrate their search in a northerly direction into Maryland (after having closed the Potomac bridges to all traffic, of course). To go south of the city would apparently trap him in a dead end peninsula…

  With luck, though, he could make his way southwest of The Residency through Foggy Bottom to the banks of the Potomac. The same French security man who had met him at the Ille had been instructed to wait there with a small boat. He’d land somewhere south of Alexandria and make his way back to the Confederate lines and safety…

  The sky was brightening. Did he chance opening the window and looking up the street? No need: from the sound of the hoofs, a considerable party of horsemen was approaching from the northeast.

  ___________

  Bratton started quickly but almost immediately became ensnared by the very troops he had ordered onto the streets. He was reduced to a slow trot even before he reached New York Avenue and continually forced to identify himself as he pushed on in the direction of The Eagle. He quickly considered and discarded the idea of abandoning the horse and continuing on foot; riding gave him stature, he looked more authoritative on the horse.

  Maybe the bloody Russki’s given up; maybe this show of force will convince him he can’t get away with this…

  No, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Ignatieff is that he’ll allow nothing to stop him. Ruthless bastard! But good, very good! He’s weighed the odds and thinks he can pull this off. Just didn’t count on the Countess’s conscience. He’ll try it! Must get there in time…

  ___________

  Ignatieff saw the escort come down Grant Street, the point rider carrying the stanchion with the flag fluttering in the wind. Two riders in file on each side of the target, one bringing up the rear. Perfect! The Frenchman had informed him this was the formation they had utilized all week and he had made his plans accordingly. The rifle slid under the window that he now adjusted to allow enough room to maneuver without banging the barrel. His only concern was the recoil; he regretted he’d not had time to test-fire the weapon. But he’d been firing muskets and rifles all his life; he was used to having a weapon’s butt crash back against his shoulder. He’d make the necessary allowances…

  The target grew ridiculously big as the escort came into focus; the man was the size of a Siberian bear! His finger tightened around the trigger…

  The first shot caused much of the havoc that followed: purposefully, Nicholas took out the horse of the lead rider nearest him. The animal collapsed in a heap, pinning the trooper under it as it trashed about. The second horse whined and reared, instinctively attempting to sidestep the tangle, its rider desperately struggling to maintain control. The primary target, visible momentary confusion turning almost instantly to outrage, now was in unobstructed view.

  The shot should have knocked the General completely off his horse. But the massive Scott grabbed on to the saddle horn with his huge left paw and instead slid slowly off the right side of the saddle as the horse pulled up, incredibly without rearing up on its back legs.

  Ignatieff wasn’t watching; he turned slightly to get off a final shot at the back point rider, who was beginning to look up in his general direction. But by now the adrenalin was pumping too fast, even for Nicholas. Though he aimed for the chest, the shot went high. It blew a chunk of the regular’s skull and brain all the way onto the wooden sidewalk. The trooper spun out of the saddle and collapsed into the street, rolling over onto his back close to the spot where his brains had landed.

  Nicholas didn’t wait to assess the damages. He pulled the rifle back in and dropped it on the floor, grabbing his coat and hat in the same motion. He strode quickly toward the hallway, pulling both on as he moved.

  ___________

  Harry heard three incredibly quick successi
ve bangs before he rounded the corner from 17th Street onto Grant. Three shots that close together? By God, has he recruited a bloody team of assassins? He spurred toward the chaos. The carnage was evident: one soldier lying outstretched on his back; horses shying and shoving. Two troopers covering Scott, who leaned unsteadily against his horse; at least he was still standing. A horse down and another trooper attempting to drag a body from underneath it. Yet another soldier, this one holding a flag-attached stanchion, pointing to The Eagle and shouting for assistance.

  Harry jumped off his horse and ran toward the side alley adjacent to the Eagle.

  ___________

  The Count raced through the hallway and down the stairs. No one was even banging at the front doors yet; with luck he’d be out the kitchen door and down the back alley before they even broke in. He sprinted through the kitchen, knocking over china and pots as he slid on floor grease and grabbed a carving table to catch himself. Damn, could have turned an ankle! ебать этих поваров! (Fucking cooks!) Joanne at least always insisted the kitchen be spotless before they left for the night…

  Now he unlocked the door and took two steps down into the alley. Less than a hundred feet to the right a connecting side alley would lead him out to 18th Street. He sprinted toward it.

  Captain Bratton pulled his pistol from his waistband as he ran up the side alley. He heard a door slam even as he skidded to a stop at the corner of the building and peered cautiously around. A man in a wide brim hat and coat was running toward the far end of the back alley, no more than 60 feet away. It has to be Ignatieff or one of his team of assassins! He stepped out, knelt and fired, using his left hand to steady the right.

  The man glanced back over his shoulder and stumbled but regained his balance. He was closing in on the corner… Bloody hell, Harry swore, reaching into the waistband for his second pistol. The bastard’s going to make it! He fired anyway…and the figure crumpled to the ground, rolling over into the connecting alley.

  ___________

  Both shots had missed but the Count had instantly realized at the sound of the first shot that he could not expect to lose himself on 18th Street if someone was chasing him.

  He resolved to play possum---though he had never heard the maneuver so termed, of course---if his pursuer got off another shot. Otherwise, he’d wait for him at the corner of the two alleys. At the second shot he dived onto his left shoulder and rolled into the shadows extending from the back of the building facing 18th. And waited…

  ___________

  Harry reloaded as he walked cautiously up the alley. He doubted he could have more than winged the assassin at such a distance. He looked quickly up at The Eagle’s kitchen door; suppose someone was hiding there in ambush? He jumped the steps and crashed through the door: no one in the kitchen. Quickly he turned and raced back outside. Maybe the lost time would aid the wounded assassin; no matter, he’d have gone free anyway if someone was waiting there to blow my head off as I passed by!

  He continued up the alley at a steady pace. Now he was approaching the corner. The west side of the alley was still shaded. Did the bastard get around the corner while I checked out the kitchen?

  ___________

  Ignatieff watched him come on. So, Captain Harry Bratton it is! We meet again…

  Nicholas stepped back and around the corner and aimed from the shadows. Bratton’s reflexes were such that he was moving at the sound of boot on gravel. But his own boot turned over a small stone and he momentarily stumbled, still peering into the darkness. In that instant, Harry Bratton knew he was a dead man.

  The Count fired, the weapon’s spark giving away his position. But it didn’t matter; what Count Ignatieff aimed for he invariably hit and he had aimed for the left side of Harry’s chest.

  The bullet pierced the heart and the big Brit tumbled backward, dropping his own reloaded pistols. One went off harmlessly, the bullet ricocheting off the walls. The other simply bounced toward Nicholas, who fielded it and stuffed it in his own waistband. He turned and ran around the corner toward 18th Street.

  Pausing at the alley’s entrance, he adjusted his hat and smoothed out his coat, vest and waistband. He walked purposefully but unhurriedly down 18th and across E and C Streets towards Foggy Bottom.

  By the time a sorrowful Colonel Burr---his walking stick poking Harry’s body---stood shaking his head over the corpse, Nicholas was crossing the Foggy Bottom marshes. The French agent was waiting on the Potomac bank as planned. They pushed the small boat into the River and rowed southwest towards Virginia.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The Residency

  October 25, 1833,

  12:30 p.m.:

  “Well, Mr. Governor. It looks like he’ll make it, but he’ll be out of action for some time.”

  The Secretary of War stepped into Van Buren’s office direct from a visit to General Scott’s bedside at The Infirmary on M Street. He was sweating profusely and not simply because of exertion, shock and fat; the incredible heat wave showed no signs of abating even as November approached.

  Van Buren was in conference with Colonel Burr and a somber Duke of Wellington. Captain Bratton’s shocking death was almost as catastrophic as the attempted assassination of Scott. Van Buren had just expressed the feeling that “the veneer of civilization seems to have shattered; have there been this many successive assassination attempts in one Western city since the fall of the Roman Republic?”

  The Colonel, who had broken the difficult news of Harry’s death to the Duke himself, looked up at Cass. “How long is ‘some time,’ Mr. Secretary? When will he be able to take the field?”

  Cass hesitated. It was a delicate situation, with Wellington so obviously affected by the loss of the Captain. “Perhaps later, Colonel. The Duke…”

  Wellington shook his head, the hook nose slicing the air. “No Mr. Cass, the Colonel is right. We must put aside our grief and look to the emergency at hand.”

  “Well, he’s lost a lot of blood. Collapsed while they were awaiting the ambulance wagon, you know. Fortunately, the bullet struck him at the confluence of the chest and shoulder. But he lost more blood while they were carving it out. There’s a serious risk of infection, from what I understand. As to your specific question, he’ll not be fit for field command on the schedule as it now stands…”

  The Attorney-General came into the room as the options hung in the air unsaid: wait for Scott; postpone the campaign until spring (no one could envision a winter campaign); or place one of the corps commanders---or someone else---in field command for the duration. Unattractive options, all in all…

  “Well Mr. Butler, have we apprehended that bastard?” The G-G’s vehement---and virtually unprecedented---use of the profanity shocked even his alleged father.

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Governor, there is no sign of the…bastard. He seems to have vanished into thin air.”

  The G-G scowled and banged his tiny fist on the hard desktop. “How does he do it? How can a foreigner simply move among us so effortlessly and inconspicuously, commit his mayhem and just disappear? Does he have some sort of supernatural power?”

  “For one thing, with the help of half the diplomatic corps, it would seem.” Colonel Burr growled. “I’ll wager Jean-Claude has a hand in this. We’ve had the Russian consulate under constant surveillance. There’s no way they could have assisted him. Either the French are hiding him…or they’ve already helped him escape.”

  Wellington was as downcast as anyone had ever seen him. “I suspect the latter, gentlemen.” He turned to Van Buren. “You may as well reopen the Potomac bridges, Mr. Governor. If he chose that route, he’s long gone. And your cavalry sweeps north and south of the city, in my estimation, will also prove fruitless. As for the chances of him hiding out in Georgetown, well, I ordered the Royal Marines to a certain ‘house of discretion’ we have discovered the French maintain near 7th and M. If he was hiding there, we’d know by now…

  “No, in my judgment, Count Ignatieff is back
across the river in Virginia, well on his way to Richmond.”

  The Colonel was grave. “The Duke may well be correct, Mr. Governor. However, this Russki has outmaneuvered us at every turn. Better maintain close watch at the bridges. He may have gone underground here in Georgetown and plans to wait for the heat to die down, if you’ll excuse my choice of words. Especially since the Russians may be maintaining ‘une maison sans danger’ here in the city in addition to that damn farmhouse our people raided last weekend.

  “Now, as painful as it may be, I suggest we concentrate on who should lead the upcoming campaign. Or if we should have one at all…”

  The others deferred to the Duke, the acknowledged military man among them. “I believe, gentlemen, that the campaign must proceed as planned. Both the Compact and the Constitution require it…”

  Well now, thought the Colonel, he’s had another letter from Palmerston. The Russkiis must be setting up permanent shop in Syria…

  “The question then becomes: who shall be placed in command? That, gentlemen, I must leave to your judgment. Frankly, I have considered Winfield both invaluable and indestructible. I’ve not studied the list of possible replacements from within your ranks.

  “In any case, that is a decision for you to make. Meanwhile, I’ve duty, unpleasant as it is, at the Liaison Office. The staff will be assembling for a private memorial service. I’m overdue.”

  The others rose and, with grave faces and formal nods, again offered their sympathies. After the Duke, who seemed to have aged a decade in a day, was shown out by the A-G, they all began to talk at once: