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

by James Devine

  “Well General, we’ve had problems with the Indians, particularly the Sioux, ever since my day. In fact, the Rebellion might have been over a lot sooner if General Scott hadn’t been forced to detail so many troops out west…”

  “Didn’t know you’d been out that way, Colonel…”

  “Wasn’t, really. Did spend time in Arkansas Territory. But then I came back East as General Scott’s so-called ‘intelligence aide.’ Saw the whole damn Rebellion unfold.”

  Tom looked up at the dreary sky. Rain, or maybe sleet, was beginning to fall.

  “Right from the day the General found out that the Royal Navy had turned the Atlantic Squadron's most powerful fighting ship into a mail packet…”

  ___________

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  June 17, 1776:

  “I don’t care what agreements Franklin has worked out with Burke, Pitt or any of the King’s other puppets.” John Adams was roaring, his words rattling off the ceiling of Carpenter’s Hall and bouncing back into the open galley housing the daily session of the Continental Congress. “We’ve come too far to back down one inch. To do so now would convince London that we’re not united, not serious about self-government and not capable of implementing our words with deeds.

  “To accept this compromise would place ourselves forever at the mercy of the King, the Prime Minister and Parliament. We’ve gone beyond that. They’re 3000 miles away. It is time for these united colonies to become united states!”

  Edward Rutledge of South Carolina looked around at his fellow delegates from 13 diverse colonies: from Samuel Chase of Virginia to John Jay of New York to Pennsylvania’s John Dickinson. Some were Southerners to whom maintaining their own ‘peculiar institution’ was as important as possible independence. Some were radicals like the Adams cousins. Others were moderates like Maryland’s Charles Carroll. Still others were as conservative as Dickinson.

  As he finished counting heads, Rutledge shook his own. “You don’t have the votes, my Massachusetts friends. This Congress wants self-government, free trade and a say in the imposition of taxation. A few skirmishes don’t make a war. Who’s to say Washington can defeat entire British armies…to say nothing of their overwhelming naval support? No, this compromise proposal Franklin has received from London is a Godsend. Let’s approve this ‘Colonial Compact’ and end this turmoil and divisiveness before more blood is needlessly shed!”

  There was a general murmur of agreement in the well of the Congress. Hearing and accepting it, John Adams knew that his final plea for a declaration of independence from the British Empire had failed. “Though I am firm in my belief that the King and his government think of us as little more than ignorant colonials...The Almighty’s---and this Congress’---wills be done.

  “I pray future correspondence and communication with London will bring the peace, stability and justice this correspondence promises. Though I doubt such a thing is…”

  Rutledge smiled. “Now John, don’t take it all back.”

  But for 56 years, much to the amazement of Adams, his contemporaries and later Americans, the Colonial Compact had provided precisely the peace and stability British America craved.

  Then...

  ___________

  London, England

  January 4, 1833:

  The icy rain which had been pelting central London when Harry Bratton’s carriage left the Colonial Office had changed to snow by the time he arrived at the remote dock chosen by the Admiralty to receive HMS Irresistible at the conclusion of its record-setting 19-plus day run from Baltimore.

  You’d think the bloody Royal Navy would schedule these things for a more civilized hour, Bratton thought as he stepped from the carriage. Two o’clock in the morning is no time to be waiting for a damn ship to show up from British America, no matter how important the dispatches it is carrying. And why did His Lordship insist that I come down here in the middle of this miserable January night to take possession? Surely the Colonial Office could wait until 8 a.m. to see if Andrew Jackson has won the plebiscite for a second term as British America’s Governor-General! Or if this chap Clay has unseated him in the non-binding popular vote. (Not that any plebiscite winner had ever been denied appointment by the King under the system hammered out by Edmund Burke and Franklin fifty years before.)

  No, thought Bratton as he pulled his cloak tightly around his neck, Earl Goderich not only wants the results immediately, but has convened some sort of meeting for 5 a.m.--five o’clock in the bloody morning!--to review them. Bratton shook his head, as much in wonderment as to dislodge the snow that was now blowing horizontally and sticking to his face below the protection available from his hat’s brim. As he peered down the dock towards the River, he began to make out a lamp and the vague outline of a figure holding it. Captain James Akkridge of the Admiralty, no doubt. I wonder how long he’s been standing out there in this atrocious weather? Well, that’s the Royal Navy for you. Chaps don’t know when to come in out of the rain…or in this case, snow.

  Apparently hearing the approaching footsteps, Captain Akkridge turned suddenly toward him. “Ah, Harry, good of you to come. Can’t make out the Irresistible yet, but she’s bound to be close. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

  “Careful how quickly you move about there, James, or they’ll be fishing your frozen corpse out of the Thames at first light. This dock is getting somewhat slippery.” As Bratton got closer, he could see that Akkridge was holding a large lantern in his gloved right hand. “Is that to guide the Irresistible in, James? I’d think they’d have some better navigational aids on the Thames than that.”

  “Heavens no, old chap. Simply to provide us some light. So what is this all about, eh, Harry? My orders were simply to meet you here, see you were handed over a dispatch from the colonies and then conduct HMS Irresistible’s captain immediately to the Admiralty. Strange bit of work, don’t you think?”

  Bratton smiled into his cloak as he fought off a shiver. “Don’t know myself what’s in the dispatch box, Captain Akkridge,” he blandly lied. “I’m only the postman, you see. And I’d be careful how you refer to the semi-autonomous, self-governing dominion formally named the United States of British America, if I were you. Quincy Adams and the rest of the British American delegates to Parliament will have you assigned to a very different sort of colony---Australia, perhaps---if they hear you refer to their native shore like that!”

  Akkridge snorted as the outline of the frigate, one of the first of the new screw-designs, began to emerge through the snow and fog. “Yes and isn’t that the damnedest thing? Half of Britain had no real representation in Parliament until last year and here these damn colonials have, what, 23 or 24 delegates now? No wonder the resentment and calls for Parliamentary reform kept growing. Harry, without reform there would have been blood in the streets within months!”

  James Akkridge has to be the most liberal Royal Naval officer I’ve ever met, Bratton thought. He could now see the bulk of the Irresistible as it closed the dock. “I’ll leave reform to the politicians…and public safety to the Home Office. I’ve got enough to handle at the Colonial Office as it is.”

  “There, you’ve proven my point,” Akkridge said with a laugh. “If British America isn’t a colony, why is its administration overseen from the War & Colonial Office? Come, old chap, tell me how I’m wrong.”

  “Technically, Captain Akkridge, as you well know,” Bratton began in a formal tone before breaking into a grin, “I am employed by the American Office…”

  “Which itself is simply a desk in the Colonial Office. Though, for the sake of the USBA delegates to Parliament and others who revere the fine print in the Colonial Compact, it is called a Cabinet-level office. How can that be when the ‘American’ Secretary is also the Colonial Secretary? Simply a ruse to keep the simple-minded Americans happy, lest they rise in revolt once again.”

  “The Compact, Captain, saved the Empire from a bloody and costly war, which we could very possibly have lost.”
>
  Akkridge snorted again. “Why, just because Washington and that rabble he called an army managed to drag enough artillery onto the hills overlooking Boston that Lord Howe decided to evacuate the town? His Lordship was massing his forces in Nova Scotia for an invasion of New York when word of the Compact came down. He’d have gone through the colonies like a hot knife through butter. The rebellion would have been crushed in a matter of months.”

  “I’m not so certain of that, and remember: I’m the one who graduated from Sandhurst. Even before Washington arrived, ‘that rabble’ bloodied our collective noses at Lexington, Concord and Breed’s Hill. When you allow the Americans to fight in their own manner, that is to say, as light infantry, Indian-style, they are very effective. Certainly they demonstrated that in their conquest of the Louisiana Territory and over here in the Boney wars. To say nothing of the way their General Scott put down the French Canadian insurrection 20 years ago. Anyway, it appears Irresistible has finished laying its gangplank. Shall we proceed aboard?”

  Captain Akkridge nodded and began to walk briskly toward and up the gangplank, shifting the lantern to his left hand as he accepted and returned salutes from half-frozen sailors now on the dock. The Colonial Office man moved more gingerly. This whole damn dock is turning into one bloody sheet of ice. I’ll be lucky if they don’t have to fish me out of the Thames at dawn…

  The snow was falling harder than before but the Royal Navy proprieties had to be observed. After being properly piped aboard, Captain Akkridge saluted another officer who had materialized on the main deck. “Welcome back to Blighty, Sir Stephen. Made it in record time. No mid-Winter North Atlantic storms, I gather?”

  Sir Stephen---Captain Sir Stephen Richards, master of HMS Irresistible---returned the salute. “Hardly, Captain Akkridge. The North Atlantic was its usual nasty self. The gales pushed us along nicely, however. So did stripping the ship to its essentials. Did make for a bit of a rocky crossing at times, though.” Sir Stephen glanced at the tall civilian and back at his fellow RN colleague.

  “Forgot my manners, Sir Stephen. This is Harry Bratton of the Colonial, excuse me, ‘American’ Office. He’s here to collect that diplomatic pouch you brought with you from Baltimore.” Turning to Bratton, he added: “Harry, Sir Stephen Richards, commander of the fastest warship in the King’s Navy, as Irresistible has demonstrated on this crossing.”

  Bratton nodded. “My pleasure, Sir Stephen. What news have you brought us from the USBA? Any tidbits I can feed Lord Goderich?”

  Sir Stephen smiled. “Our American cousins are busy in their usual pursuits: making money, fighting Indians and arguing colonial, or should I say, dominion politics. On the fringes, both the Creoles and the French Canadians seem resigned to the fact that Napoleon isn’t rising from his grave, or from that tomb the Frogs are building for him in Paris…

  “But if you’re the man I’m to give this pouch that I risked my men and ship to bring across the North Atlantic in dead of winter, I’d better retrieve it for you now.” Sir Stephen nodded to a waiting aide, who hurried off into a cabin with keys the Captain handed him.

  “Any news of the Governor-General plebiscite,” Bratton asked nonchalantly, “before you pulled anchor?”

  The warship’s captain nodded. “Yes, unofficial, of course, but it seems old Jackson is again the electorate’s choice. He seems to have defeated his opponent, …”

  “Clay. Henry Clay of Kentucky.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s the fellow. Seems to have beaten him rather conclusively. Not that it will do Jackson much good. From the looks of him at a dinner I attended in Georgetown last month, he may not last long enough to accept His Majesty’s reappointment. Poor old man looked ghastly.”

  Akkridge chuckled. “So this Clay chap may get the prize after all, what? All good things come to he who waits, eh?”

  Bratton shook his head. “No, James. If Governor-General Jackson dies or is incapacitated---assuming King William reappoints him for another four-year term---his new Vice Governor-General would step in.” Knowing the answer full well, he asked Sir Stephen, anyway: “Which would be who? I seem to have forgotten.”

  “I don’t recall the chap’s name, but he has served regularly in their government. A Dutch name, Van something...”

  “Oh yes that’s right. Van Buren. Martin Van Buren, formerly a Senator from New York and their Secretary of the Interior.”

  Shaking his head, Captain Akkridge asked the Colonial Office man how he remembered “all these colonial politicians? I suppose it is your job and all, but….”

  Having obtained with causal banter the information he knew was contained in the dispatch pouch, Bratton was now anxious to speed the news to the Secretary before the damn 5 a.m. meeting. He noted with relief the approaching return of the subaltern and changed the subject.

  “Did I hear you mention, Sir Stephen, that you crossed the North Atlantic with only limited ammunition? Rather sporting of you, wasn't it?”

  The two Naval men glanced at each other and managed, with simple facial twinges, to look quite amused. Eyes twinkling, Sir Stephen drawled: “So who would we have likely met in a North Atlantic battle, Mr. Bratton? A Viking ship, perhaps? The Frog Navy is limiting its voyages to Algiers these days and I’m quite certain the Hapsburgs haven’t found their way out of the Mediterranean yet. China perhaps? And Czar Nicholas’ Navy is mostly iced-in this time of year. Yes, I guess we can consider ourselves fortunate to have escaped the wrath of a latter day Eric the Red!”

  The three men laughed and Bratton turned to glance at the gangplank. “Can I offer you gentlemen a ride? We go close by the Admiralty on the way to the Office.”

  “Thank you, Harry, but I have a carriage waiting. Sir Stephen doesn’t know it yet, but he’s to accompany me back. Seems the First Lord is anxious to wish him a belated Merry Christmas! Be careful on that dock. Wouldn’t want that dispatch Irresistible brought so far so quickly to end up water-logged…”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Georgetown, D.C.

  December 17, 1832:

  Lt. Thomas Wilder had a love-hate relationship with his assgnment. Both parts of it. He loved the access to power that being an aide to the Governor-General provided. He also loved the access to information that aided him in his other role as an aide to the commanding general of the USBA Army. His ear for languages---he spoke French and Spanish fluently and knew enough German, Russian and Dutch to understand and be understood---made him invaluable at those Residency social situations involving the diplomatic corps.

  Wilder hated, however, his function of formally introducing at such receptions foreign diplomats who undoubtedly knew each other better than he knew any of them. M. Jean-Claude, the French counsel-general, for example, had probably served with his Prussian counterpart, Von Benes, at one or another European court. And the chances were good they might have run across each other on some European battlefield, too.

  Mending the social fences damaged by the increasingly-cantankerous Governor-General could also be a difficult chore. Although the G-G could demonstrate, when the mood struck him, social skills that any London hostess might approve, he seldom displayed them. ‘Old Hickory’ treated the diplomatic corps generally as if it was a regiment of raw Tennessee recruits. The atmosphere was somewhat better when the G-G’s niece was in Georgetown, but Emily Jackson Donelson had returned to The Hermitage, Jackson’s plantation outside Nashville, last summer. So far, there was no word of her return. That meant that Sunday’s Christmas reception for the capital’s elite would probably be short…if not sweet.

  The Residency post provided a good cover for Wilder’s real job, gathering and analyzing information for the commander of the USBA Army. While the Lieutenant loved fitting together seemingly unrelated pieces of information to help develop a theory or to make clearer the bigger picture, he did not always relish presenting his analysis to the commanding general. Winfield Scott dominated any room he entered with a physical presence even more commanding than Jackson’s. At
6-foot-7 and at least 275 pounds, Scott towered over virtually everyone. His piercing blue eyed-stare seemed to drill a hole completely through anyone he fixed it upon and was, actually, more effective than any of Jackson’s profanity-laced outbursts.

  The Lieutenant was equally grateful to and intimidated by Scott: grateful that the General had rescued him from service with the Dragoons in Arkansas and intimidated by this legendary soldier whose record dated back to frontier firefights against the French and their Indian allies at the turn of the century. Scott had in fact conquered more of the Louisiana Territory than Jackson had, though there was no major city in the Northwest to provide the lasting fame that Jackson’s capture of New Orleans had brought. Along with Jackson, Scott had served in the Peninsula Campaign in Spain under the Duke of Wellington but had hurriedly returned to the USBA to command the forces that put down the French Canadian insurrection of 1811. While Jackson had entered politics after the conclusion of the Napoleonic Wars, serving as Tennessee governor and later USBA Senator---along with a brief, unfortunate stint as the state’s delegate to Parliament---Scott had remained in the Army, rising to become its commanding officer.

  In that capacity, the General personally approved the commissioning of each West Point cadet as an officer in the USBA Army. Wilder had graduated precisely in the middle of his class of 46, due to a lack of aptitude for math and engineering equally as obvious as his ear for languages. In fact, if not for the intervention and late night tutoring of his friend and classmate Robert Lee, Wilder might not have graduated at all. His deficiencies in the two subjects that formed the core of the Point’s curriculum had ruled him out of the choice post-graduation assignments to the Engineers or the Artillery. Scott had approved his assignment to the Dragoons mostly because he was considered the Point’s best horseman…at least among cadets from states above the Mason-Dixon Line. Three years later, however, the General had called him to Georgetown and offered the dual posts at The Residency and the War Department.