by James Devine
“Same with me. And I doubt General Scott was too concerned. Henry Clay wasn’t about to dismiss him. Let me ask you, though: Does your Department have much communication with London? Or do they leave you pretty much alone?”
Harper nearly choked on his newly-arrived chicken vegetable soup. “Much communication? Hardly. We hear from the American Office every so often, but it’s all routine. We send in reports regularly; whether they’re even read over there is anyone’s guess. Mine is that there aren’t enough people in that so-called ‘Office’ to study half of what we send them. Then again, the more they leave us alone, the better it is for us.” Harper paused and looked thoughtful. “Did have a rather unusual communication last spring, but it didn’t come from the American Office. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, if you can believe it.”
“Exchequer?” asked Wilder, the surprise apparent in his voice. “That’s a new one on me. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anything at either The Residency or the Department from them. I imagine the Treasury Department does correspond regularly, though. What did they want?”
“A breakdown on slavery, of all things. How many slave states, how many free? Percentage of slaves in the overall population of each state, that sort of information.”
“How did you respond?”
“Oh, we used the census. Spent several days copying it all out, but it seemed to satisfy them. Haven’t heard a word since.”
An idea was forming in Wilder’s brain, but he pressed ahead as if still baffled by the response. “The census? I didn’t realize the census results had been finalized, yet alone published.”
“Approved last May. That Tennessee protégé of the G-G’s, Polk, pushed it through the House. They’ve ordered up 10,000 copies, though that sluggardly printing house the State Department uses hasn’t gotten around to publishing them all yet. The census is pretty impressive, or alarming, depending on your point of view. Did you know there are just over 2,000,000 slaves, mostly in the 10 states and two territories south of the Mason-Dixon Line? They constitute less than 15% of the USBA’s overall population, but anywhere from 20% to more than 50% in the Southern states. No wonder Nat Turner had the planters in such an uproar.”
On August 21, 1831 a slave named Nat Turner had instigated an uprising of some 30 fellow-slaves in Southampton County,Va. In a single night of indiscriminate slaughter, some 70 white men, women and children, mostly small farming families, died before Turner and his band fled into the forests. The Virginia state government had hunted the rebels down ruthlessly; Turner himself was caught alive and subsequently hanged on November 11, 1831. The aftershocks were still being felt throughout the South: in Richmond the House of Burgesses in midyear had come stunningly close---seven votes---to abolishing the institution altogether. (Incongruously, it had then reversed itself and tightened the terms of bondage outright.)
“Well, Harps, this is all very interesting, but if I don’t soon come up with the information General Scott wants, I may be back in Arkansas with the Dragoons. I better get back to the Department.” He drained his beer. “Coming?”
Harper, too, rose from the table. “Hate going back out in this weather, but I suppose I’m due back, too. By the way, tell me about the guest list for the G-G’s reception. I’ve copped an invitation.”
_______________
As expected, Lieutenant Wilder found nothing in his review of recent War Department correspondence with their London superiors that would explain the Irresistible’s mysterious departure. Harper’s offhand remark about Exchequer’s unexpected request was the only ‘odd or different’ information Wilder had been able to unearth in more than three full days of searching.
Now he was seated outside the General’s office, awaiting Scott’s arrival. Although Lewis Cass of Michigan, as Secretary of War, was Scott’s nominal boss, there was little doubt who really ran the Department. Cass was a politician, one of the G-G’s closest advisors. It was the morning of December 21st and Georgetown was blanketed by the first real snow of the season as the General’s carriage pulled up to the Department. ‘Old Fuss and Feathers’ wore a long blue and tan military great cloak as he stomped down the hall towards his office. “Come in Lieutenant. What have you got for me this God-awful morning?”
Well, thought Wilder, here goes. He better like this, or I could be headed south by New Year’s. “General, my review of The Residency’s correspondence with London failed to reveal anything ‘odd or different.’ Likewise, this Department’s correspondence with both the Royal Army and the Admiralty failed to produce anything significant. Nor did a review of recent requests both here and at The Residency from the Liaison Office turn up anything unusual.
“A personnel review also determined that no Royal officer or key Liaison staff has recently been ordered back to London. And Baltimore reports that Irresistible sailed immediately upon receiving a dispatch sent directly from the Liaison Office.”
The Lieutenant could feel the drill starting up as the stone-cold blue eyes stared directly at him.
“I did discover one thread that winds through almost all our communication with London, however, Sir.”
“Yes Lieutenant?”
“Finances, Sir. In one way or another, virtually all the communication between London and Georgetown centers on money: whether its taxes, tariffs or fighting the Indians, finance is the key. How much revenue will be generated; how much revenue will be spent. That’s the constant.”
The fingers began drumming their tattoo on the desktop. “That’s all, Lieutenant? You think the Irresistible stripped down and upped anchor to let London know who Jackson’s new Treasury Secretary will be?”
In spite of himself, Wilder smiled at the sarcasm. “Not exactly, Sir. You see, I did come across one piece of information that seems out-of-the-ordinary. But it came from the Interior Department. Last May, the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s Office in London requested a breakdown on slavery in the USBA. Total number of slaves; their percentage of the overall population; the states where slavery is a major economic factor; that sort of thing.”
The drill dug deeper. “Go on, Lieutenant. How does this fit into your stunning discovery of the Empire’s abiding economic interest in this Dominion? And, more importantly, how does it fit into the Irresistible mystery?”
“Sir, am I correct in thinking that any and all taxation legislation set before the British Parliament by the Prime Minister initially is drafted by the Chancellor of the Exchequer? In the manner that the Treasury Department here has initiated taxation proposals in this and previous Administrations?”
The drill began to slow down. “That’s pretty much correct, Lieutenant. So what’s your conclusion?”
Wilder took a deep breath. “Sir, I believe the Crown is about to seek a tax on all slaves held in this Dominion. There’s no other reason for the Exchequer’s interest in the slave numbers. And I believe that proposed tax will be significant. So significant that the Crown believes it will have a major impact on the USBA during the next Administration.”
A slight smile played at the corners of Scott’s mouth. “And why might that be, Lieutenant?”
“Because, Sir, while both---all four, including Wirt and Floyd---of the plebiscite candidates own slaves, the winner is a planter. Who may be considered unlikely to support or enforce a significant tax on his own property, now that he has been declared the electorate’s choice for another term. Mr. Clay, on the other hand, does own a handful of slaves, but is also a leader in the movement to gradually free all the slaves and send them to Liberia. Governor Floyd wants a quick end to slavery, while old Wirt is, well, old…if I may be so bold, Sir.”
“No Lieutenant, Andrew Jackson is not likely to support or gather a tax on himself and his fellow planters even if it comes with a companion tax on Northern manufactories.” Scott paused, drumming his fingers while looking toward the ceiling.
“A Governor-General who won’t support or implement Crown policies…
“That could be why London wants t
he results as quickly as possible. They presuppose Jackson’s opposition.” The General leaned back in his oversized chair and appeared to again contemplate the ceiling. Several minutes---they seemed unending to the Lieutenant---passed in silence. Then:
“The question is: how far are they willing to go in dealing with it? If you’re right, Lieutenant Wilder---and its one theory that makes sense---we are in for a constitutional crisis the likes of which this Dominion---and this Empire---hasn’t seen since 1775.
“It may not make for such a Happy New Year!”
___________
Georgetown, D.C.
December 23, 1833:
Lieutenant Wilder gazed at his image in the full-length mirror late that following Sunday afternoon in something close to disgust. No matter how becoming his dark blue full dress uniform with the bold gold stripe down each leg, he simply didn’t do it justice. Harps could carry this off, he thought; not as well as my polished classmate, Joe Johnston, and certainly not as well as Bobby Lee. But Robert is down on the Virginia Peninsula single-handedly, if you believe General Scott, turning Fortress Monroe into the ‘Gibraltar of Chesapeake Bay.’
Lee, Tom knew, was expected back across the Potomac at Arlington for the holidays, though not until late tomorrow.
Mary was kind enough to invite me over to Arlington House for Christmas Eve and Christmas dinner, even though she hasn’t seen Robert since the baby’s christening last fall. Johnston and Harper, though, are here in Georgetown and will be at The Residency tonight…as will Lucille Latoure.
Wilder had long ago conceded that ‘Black Irish’ he was not. No, he was a typical ‘Mick’---short, stocky and blond-haired---with freckles to boot! Even if his grandfather had left Cork back in the ‘60s and had made his fortune as a shipping magnate in the fledging port of New York. No matter; Wilder knew he still looked as if he was just off the boat.
Lucille Latoure wasn’t beautiful in any classical sense; but men forgot that when she favored them with that singular smile which made them feel like world conquerors. Unfortunately, she was also an incurable flirt, a classic “belle” who possessed---and flaunted---a remarkable body. The total package had ninety-percent of the eligible (and many seemingly ineligible) males in the District of Columbia in a state of perpetual excitement whenever she appeared in town.
Wilder had become fatally infatuated---there was no other operative phrase---with Miss Latoure, the elder daughter of a deceased planter and merchant from nearby Alexandria, at his first Residency reception the previous January. He had come upon her talking with a CG officer and made a bold misogynistic remark. She had shot him a look that electrified him---feigned outrage that camouflaged enjoyment---that had addicted him immediately and permanently.
Satisfied with her conquest, Lucille had proceeded to make his life miserable on those occasions when they were together. Planters, other officers, senior government officials: she encouraged them all. And left Lieutenant Wilder wondering why he banged his head against this stonewall of feminine arrogance.
Well, if Lucille is in the mood to run roughshod over me again tonight---or simply doesn’t make an appearance---there is always Candice Samples.
Mrs. Samples, the big, blond and brassy widow of one of Maryland’s most successful planters, was the proud processor of the most spectacular chest in Georgetown. Wilder had met her at a dinner-party hosted by Mrs. Scott the previous summer. They had left together in the Widow Samples’ carriage; by the time an exhausted Thomas had stumbled from her townhouse late the next morning he had absorbed intensive instruction in techniques new and thrilling.
The ample Mrs. Samples was ever-eager, and ever-available, but the Lieutenant, who estimated her age to be at least 15 years older than his somewhat-worldly 26, simply had no interest in Candice once the initial animalistic struggling was finished.
She’s a nice person, ungodly rich and insatiable in the bedroom, but I’m not looking to nurse some old lady into the grave. At least, not while Lucille is available! Still, the Samples’ townhouse is a lot more appealing than my room at the Indian Queen Hotel. Why is it that Candice Samples won’t let me alone; yet Lucille Latoure doesn’t seem to care less? I’d like to see ‘Old Fuss and Feathers’ explain that one…
CHAPTER FOUR
London, England
January 4, 1833:
Visibility had dropped to near zero in central London as Harry Bratton’s carriage made its way back from the Thames docks. As the carriage groped slowly through the near white-out, Bratton was deep in thought. The Liaison Office in Georgetown has been predicting a Jackson victory for months, so it’s not only the idea that he’ll be in The Residency for four more years that has His Lordship concerned. Even though I know the entire Grey cabinet would have preferred Clay or one of the other candidates. Jackson’s behavior when he was here in Parliament offended almost all proper London society, I’m told. After a while, even the Duke had apparently had enough…
Still, there has to be more to this than social contempt. I know Lord Grey wasn’t happy last year with Jackson’s speech hinting that taking Texas from the Mexicans should be a primary goal of the Empire.
Lord Palmerston himself had fired off a sharp note reminding ‘Old Hickory’ that foreign policy for the Empire, including the USBA, is determined only in London!
I doubt Their Lordships understood the real rationale for Jackson’s hint, however. Their concern is keeping the Western Hemisphere off limits to the other European powers, especially France and Russia. Jackson’s motive is more provincial: the balance of power in the USBA Congress between the free and slave states. Simply put, the slave owners are running out of room for expansion. As the rest of the Louisiana Territory is populated and organized, and eventually, the vast Canadian West, too, the new states will come from areas where slavery is economically-unfeasible. Unless they can get their hands on all that territory from Texas to California, the slave states---and their representatives in Congress---face becoming a permanent minority. There are 26 states right now, including Ontario and Quebec. Just 10 are slave states, with the Florida and Arkansas territories likely to join them before the decade is out. As things now stand, that will be it: a block of 12 slave states plus Quebec against 15 or more free states.
Freeing the slaves is not the issue, he continued. No one’s considering that, certainly! The two blocks simply have differing goals for the Dominion. And the Southerners aren’t willing to relinquish the power they’ve wielded in Georgetown these many years. That’s where Jackson was headed with his Texas hint. Not that anyone of influence in His Majesty’s Government knows enough about USBA politics to figure it out…or allow me explain it to them.
Captain Harry Bratton, of His Majesty’s Coldstream Guards, (on half pay as a civilian official) came from an old Salisbury Plain family whose roots, if traceable, would have led back past Roman times. Brattons had fought, not always on the winning side, in virtually all of England’s wars: civil as well as overseas. Bratton’s great-great-grandfather had distinguished himself on Marlborough’s staff and his grandfather had fought beside Wolfe at Quebec. Bratton’s father had survived the worst of the Napoleonic Wars, only to die in the mopping-up operations after Waterloo.
Harry, then 15 and the second eldest of five children, had always been pointed toward a military career. He had graduated from Sandhurst in 1819. His polish and quick intelligence, as well as his reputation as a crack shot and good horseman, had been noted both there and with the Guards. He was identified as a ‘diplomatic’ and sent to India in 1823. Three years later, he joined the Liaison Office in Georgetown. There, he was credited with quietly attending to some ‘under the rose’ business in Montreal, as well as the dispatching of a French agent in New Orleans in 1828.
Dapper, an even six foot tall, he was an accomplished ladies man. Even though, much to his disgust, the traditional early-30s Bratton hairline retreat had commenced even before he had joined the Colonial Office’s American desk. Still single at 34, he wa
s considered a good catch by London society matrons despite his lack of a noble title. (Knighthood had usually been as far as Brattons rose; though Marlborough’s aide had been made a Viscount.) He enjoyed the company of cultured women, and was certainly heterosexual in his tastes, but had never found the correct circumstances for a long-term relationship. For Harry, danger was the great aphrodisiac: his only truly-memorable relationships had been with a minor Indian princess and the wife of an American politician. Yet, he could be equally happy with the occasional visit to St. John’s Wood. And there had been that Georgetown barmaid, Joanne, with the sad story of her Army officer husband, cut down by cancer, who had left her destitute.
As Bratton’s carriage pulled up at the War & Colonial Office, he was stunned to make out through the whirling snow the identifying markings on some of the other broughams parked outside the building. My God, he thought, that’s the Duke’s carriage! And who got Pammy out of bed at this hour (or did he come straight from his usual nocturnal pursuits)?
As Bratton made his way into the dark old building, he came across Frederick John Robinson, 1st Viscount Goderich himself. “Good morning, Sir,” Bratton said, shaking off the last of the snow that had clung to his cloak. “Just back from the Thames. Have the pouch you wanted….”
The Colonial Secretary quickly stuck out his hand. “Yes, Harry, hand it over. The documents inside will determine whether or not this meeting will go as planned. Bye-the-bye, don’t go far. I ‘spect we’ll have need of your counsel soon enough.”
“Yes, Sir,” Bratton managed to get out in amazement. “I’ll be right…”
“To hell with that, Bratton. Tell me: did that uncouth old man win another term? Or, as I’ve prayed these many months, did Mr. Clay oust him?”