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

by James Devine

  “The pleasure is mine, I’m sure, Count. So, I understand the meetings in St. Petersburg went well?” Let’s get right to business before this wolf gets any ideas. “The note I received from the Ambassador simply stated that you have been ordered here as the initial step of a possible diplomatic mission of great potential to our motherland.” And the note from Count Nesselrode said to brief you on the emancipation issue and to assist you in any way possible in determining whether you’ll go on to the USBA as quickly and quietly as can be arranged. “Shall we have dinner?”

  Ignatieff’s smile faded as the Princess withdrew her hand from his and walked over to the table, sitting down at the head in a chair pulled back by a waiting servant. Well, if its business first, so be it, he thought. I’ll melt the ice right off you yet, Princess, but that can wait.

  The Princess seemed to have assembled a cast of servants more suited for a state banquet than a private dinner. Ignatieff became increasingly privately agitated as the servants continued to hover as the courses were duly served. He drank more than he normally allowed himself under such circumstances as he and the Princess calmly--and passionlessly--discussed how to turn the emancipation issue to Russia’s advantage. Course followed course, fish, foul and beef, which she partook of sparingly, while wine and vodka glasses were emptied and refilled immediately. Yet the Princess kept the conversation strictly--and importantly--professional.

  “So, my dear Count,” Dorothea said as dessert was served, “you now are aware of all the ramifications of the situation.

  “I suggest you book passage to British America as soon as possible. Under an alias, of course. Undoubtedly the British ‘diplomatics,’ as they style themselves, are aware by now that you are in London. You must vanish before they can ascertain the reason for your visit. And before they can learn where you’re headed next.”

  She suddenly rose from her chair. “Speaking of soon, I am due at Buckingham Palace in less than an hour for a long-anticipated reception. Send me word of the details of your voyage,” she added, turning to the door.

  With the outer haughtiness that only an Empress’ lady-in-waiting could project, while inwardly trembling with fear that the wolf would pounce, the Princess walked quickly out without another word, uttering an audible sigh of relief only when a servant closed the door behind her. The Foreign Minister was correct to warn me of him. I’d rather be alone with a drunken Cossack!

  ______________

  It took the Count another hour of solitary vodka drinking at the long table to work into the condition that would haunt the Embassy for years to come. How dare that icy bitch walk out on me, leaving all those servants to laugh behind their hands at Count Nicholas Ignatieff!

  He finally stumbled from the dining room, yet another vodka bottle in hand, and staggered toward the luxurious bedroom he had been assigned. His previous desire for the Princess had now morphed into an alcohol-fueled rage of lust and hatred. The snickers he had previously imagined emanating from the servants were now howls of laughter ringing through his addled brain, becoming louder and more dismissive as he bounced off corridor walls and into terrified servants and the guards who attempted to gently ease him to his room. Loudest were the peals of laughing contempt he could hear in the pearly, arched tones of the Princess herself. So she has not left the Embassy after all. I’ll yet turn that laughter into screaming pleas for more pleasure. Now he could see Dorothea standing in the doorway of his room, though she had changed from her gown of brown into the uniform of a maid. Her dark hair also had brightened dramatically and now hung down her neck.

  “My Lord, don’t you think it is time for you to sleep? We don’t have to replay last evening just yet. There is always tomorrow…”

  He pushed her into the room and slammed the door. She was beginning to look at him with the mixture of fear and desire that always acted as a tonic on him. Holding the neck of the vodka bottle in one hand, he ripped at the front of her dress before pushing her to the floor. No soft bed for you tonight, Princess. I’m going to take you right on the floor. He swigged from the bottle with his left hand while ripping open his pants with his right. Now he was descending on her with a force that splintered the glass as the bottle hit the floor. She screamed as he lifted the back of her head into an almost upright position with his right hand, and then quickly pulled it away to fondle a firm young breast, allowing the head and neck to drop backwards with a crash.

  The back of the servant girl’s neck was impaled on the raggedly broken neck of the vodka bottle. Shivers of glass penetrated into the back of her brain. Almost instantly, her bright blond hair turned a deep, almost blackish red. Already brain-dead, she quickly bled to death even as the drunken Count continued to ravage her beautiful young body.

  Count Ignatieff had passed out on top of the still-bleeding body when guards, alerted by servants seeing a blackish red mixture of blood and vodka flowing out into the hallway, broke down the door.

  The Count had never even learned her name…

  CHAPTER NINE

  Somewhere in the MidAtlantic

  January 19, 1833:

  The Duke might be casual in regard to the powers inherent in the Colonial Compact, thought Captain Bratton, but he is anything but causal in his approach to the impending crisis that may arise from any application of those powers.

  At dinner the preceding day (the first full meal Bratton had been able to keep down since the Irresistible pulled anchor 10 days before), Sir Arthur had requested a thorough briefing on John C. Calhoun, the fallen Vice G-G, who (as yet unbeknownst to either Bratton or Wellington) had been elected to the USBA Senate from South Carolina.

  Apparently, Quincy Adams had advised the Duke before Irresistible sailed that, of all the fire-eaters in the South, Calhoun was the most dangerous. Not that such men as Troup and Gilmour of Georgia (Troup was known as the ‘Hercules of States Rights’) and fellow South Carolinians like Robert Hayne and George McDuffie weren’t vigorous, outspoken proponents of slavery. Calhoun, however, displayed that intangible combination of intelligence, eloquence, leadership and forcefulness that set him apart

  “He broke with Jackson over the ‘nullification’ issue last year and lost,” the Duke had noted. “A man like that is not used to losing and will learn from it. Even if Jackson agrees to enforce emancipation, Calhoun will be its foremost opponent. And if a defense of slavery causes their reconciliation, Calhoun may emerge as the real leader of a rebellious South if only due to Jackson’s age and health.”

  Today, another (thank God, thought Bratton) sunny-though-freezing, clear, relatively calm day, Wellington’s mind had shifted from the political to the military. As they stood on the main deck, enjoying the fresh air, the Duke wished to review the military leadership in the USBA, with an eye toward identifying those who potentially could lead rival forces in the field.

  “Scott I am of course familiar with,” Wellington was saying as the ship for once was pushed along by the strong breeze, instead of fighting through it. “General Scott was born in Virginia, but unless he’s changed dramatically---and Scott is not a man to tilt with the political winds---he is a staunch adherent of the USBA. If, God forbid, fighting does break out, I expect Scott to be in command of the USBA forces. I plan to meet with him immediately once we’re in Georgetown. I haven’t kept up on the other USBAA leaders, however. What can you tell me?”

  By now Bratton was used to the Duke’s modus operandi and thus had prepared notes on the USBA Army’s senior officers.

  “Well Sir, there are six senior officers behind Scott who have fought the French and the various Indian wars for 25 years or more. Three are Northerners, Wool, Thayer and Worth. Col. John E. Wool is from Newburgh, N.Y. and is the Army’s Inspector General. He’s traveled extensively in Europe, observing military organizations and operations…”

  “Yes, I recall Wool’s role in the French Canadian insurrection campaign under Scott. He should be an asset, though more confrontational than cunning.”

  Bra
tton glanced down at his notes. Dark clouds began to become visible in the distance, heralding an end to the outdoor conferencing that Wellington apparently preferred. “William Worth is also from New York and has commanded men ever since the French wars. Another Northerner of distinction is Col. Sylvanus Thayer. Originally from Massachusetts, Thayer is more an engineer than a fighter, chiefly known for developing the USBA Military Academy at West Point, where he is superintendent.”

  “From what I understand, West Point has become a first-rate engineering and officer training institution,” Wellington said. “Not Sandhurst, mind you, but well on its way to distinguishing itself. There are three Southerners, you say. What about them?” The Duke was also eyeing the approaching storm with a bit of apprehension, pulling his cloak more tightly around him.

  “Brig. Gen. Edmund P. Gaines is a Virginian whose rise in the USBAA is rather mysterious. He fought the French and the Indians in the northern Louisiana campaign and somehow was credited with a key victory at Fort Erie, though the French assault had been contained by another general whose wounding left Gaines in command. A few days later, he was seriously wounded himself by French artillery fire which effectively ended his participation in that war. His post-war career seems to have been aided by political influence. He is, however, second-in-command to Scott. It is reported that they can not stand each other. On a side note, Gaines, as a young officer, commanded the troops that arrested Aaron Burr in the Mississippi Territory on Jefferson’s apparently trumped up treason charge.

  “Charles Gratiot was born in Missouri and is the USBAA’s chief engineer. If he chose, in the event, to join a Southern uprising, he’d play the key role in organizing their defenses.”

  The wind had shifted and was now coming at the Irresistible from a northwest slant. The ship began its ominous bucking. Officers and sailors ran about, while Sir Stephen Richard grinned down at Bratton from the quarterdeck. “Might be a good time for you gentlemen to go below. Might get a bit bouncy. Not enough weight with the guns gone.”

  The Duke took one look at his aide’s greening face and nodded. “Yes, let’s finish this in my cabin. It appears our reprieve is over.”

  Minutes later, in the Duke’s cabin (normally the quarters of Sir Stephen), Bratton hoped he could finish the briefing before the dreaded pressure-packed feeling took command of his body.

  “The final Southerner is Col. Zachary Taylor, Sir. Still another Virginian by birth, though he grew up in Kentucky. Colonel Taylor is known as ‘Old Rough and Ready.’ He has headed campaigns against the Seminoles in Florida; last year fought in the Black Hawk campaign and, of course, originally distinguished himself against the French and their Indian allies. In fact, he once held off a vastly superior number of Frogs and Indians under the famous chief Tecumseh. He is noted for his distaste of military uniforms and protocol. Sir, he actually favors riding side-saddle during a fight! He’s also been known to go into battle wearing a planter’s hat and an open-necked shirt…”

  “Traits which have no doubt endeared him to Winfield Scott.” Wellington was dry. “Still, he sounds more formidable than the others. If the Southerners do raise a force to resist the emancipation, he seems the logical Regular Army officer to lead it. I’ll be sure to have a word with ‘Old Fuss and Feathers’ about this ‘Old Rough and Ready.’ Isn’t it astounding the names these colonials have for their leaders?”

  So rhetorically observed the man universally known as the ‘Iron Duke.’

  ___________

  London England

  January 10, 1833:

  Count Nicholas Ignatieff, of the Imperial Russian secret intelligence services, suddenly snapped awake. He tried to raise his head, but the sudden pain in his temples and behind his eyes was matched by pains across his chest and knees, as well as in his wrists and ankles. He attempted to rise from the cot again, more slowly this time, but realized he was tightly tied down by heavy, rough roping. A bright light thrust into his face nearly blinded him until the candle was pulled back.

  “Well, Major, the rapist seems to have come to at last,” a harsh, though familiar, voice sounded in sneering tones Ignatieff was more used to issuing than hearing. “What do you suggest we do with him?” Ignatieff realized with amazement that the man looking down at him with such contempt was none other than Colonel Igor Terravenissian, his own subordinate and station chief for intelligence in England. The previous day, Ignatieff had roughly grilled Terravenissian for information on the Palmerston committee’s meeting and had mocked him for his incomplete knowledge. Whoever the ‘Major’ was, Ignatieff could not yet ascertain.

  “Untie me at once, Terravenissian, before I have your balls nailed to the wall,” Ignatieff croaked, his mouth bone-dry. “And get me some water, now!”

  The Colonel looked down and spit in the Count’s face. “Water, the Count commands, my dear Valery. Shall we oblige him?”

  The other man laughed grimly. “Of course, Colonel. May I?” The man approached the cot as Colonel Terravenissian stepped back. A sudden torrent of icy cold water slammed into Ignatieff’s face and for an instant, the Count actually though he might drown. But the bucket was finally emptied and the man stepped aside.

  “Pardon my bad manners, my dear Count. I should have introduced your waiter. This is Major Valery Brummel, chief of security here at the Embassy… Oh yes, you’re still here in London, at our Embassy, although your accommodations have changed somewhat. Neither the Major nor I could guarantee your safety in your former quarters, now that word has passed through the staff as to your despicable, inhuman actions last night. Though, if it were up to me, I’d give the servants five minutes alone with you…”

  “What, what the hell are you talking about?” Ignatieff croaked hoarsely, in a tone more wondering that demanding, as his pounding brain attempted to clear the fog of his last remembered hours. Dinner alone with Dorothea; she disappears; what else?

  “Look Major, he is confused. Our country’s most feared intelligence chief can not recall his actions of last night. Well,” Terravenissian added, his voice changing from a mocking wonderment to a snare, “perhaps another drink of water will refresh his memory, as well as his taste buds.” Again a huge tidal wave of icy water came crashing down on Ignatieff, who this time at least managed to close his eyes before the tuasimi hit.

  “Do you begin to remember, my dear Count?” Colonel Terravenissian moved in close, a long pick-like knife dangling from his right hand. “Do you remember the Princess leaving you alone in the main dining room? Do you recall guzzling half the vodka in London? Then staggering to your room, where you were met by a beautiful young servant girl?” Terravenissian’s voice was rising ominously.

  “Whose clothing you ripped off before you pushed her to the floor and raped her? And whose slender neck you impaled on the broken neck of still another vodka bottle you brought from the dining room? Continuing to utilize her body even as she slowly bled to death?” The Colonel’s voice had lowered to a dangerous icy whisper as he waved the knife closer and closer to Ignatieff’s throat.

  Out of the fog, sudden flashes of remembrance began to appear before the Count’s bloodshot eyes. Suddenly, he knew it was true. And simultaneously knew the danger he had brought on himself.

  With a sudden oath, Brummel sprung on him, wrapping thick calloused fingers around his throat, swearing as he banged Ignatieff’s head back repeatedly onto the cot. It took all of Colonel Terravenissian’s strength---at an even six foot and 200 pounds, he had two inches and some 20-plus pounds on the security chief---to pull him off. With a final yank, he thrust the sobbing Brummel back across the room.

  “That, my dear Count, is simply an indication of what everyone here at the Embassy would like to do to you. Including myself…

  “However, you are, at Princess Dorothea’s personal direction, to be given a brief reprieve. You will be kept tied up in this room until tomorrow evening when, disguised in an English workman’s clothes, you will be taken to the Thames docks, there to board a B
ritish American passenger vessel…in steerage class…for the crossing to New York City. You will then have seven days to make your way to the British American capitol at Georgetown, using money supplied by an agent whose name and address in New York will be given you upon departing.

  “I’m sorry you will have to find your own way from New York to Georgetown, but the Pride of the Hudson is the only passenger vessel scheduled to cross the Atlantic for several weeks. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the trip…”

  The Colonel smiled menacingly down at his former tormentor. “If you fail to appear at the Consulate in Georgetown within those seven days, you will be declared a traitor and subject to arrest if you ever again set foot on Russian soil.

  “Likewise, if you fail in the mission the Princess has discussed with you, you will also be declared a traitor. Succeed and you will be allowed to return in triumph, with this most unfortunate and ugly incident forgotten in the name of the greater glory of our motherland.

  “Fail and I suggest you lose yourself in the American West.”

  Terravenissian gave the Count a long last look of withering contempt. “By the way, your victim came from the same village as Major Brummel. For that reason, my people will guard you tonight.

  “And, if you have any decency at all, you’ll remember forever her name: Katrina.”

  ___________

  Georgetown, D.C.

  January 23, 1833:

  Winfield Scott was not in a good mood, which meant no one on his staff, including Lieutenant Wilder, was particularly cheerful, either.

  Scott had felt in his bones for days that the Lieutenant’s thesis concerning the sudden sprint by HMS Irresistible to England was not entirely correct. Not wrong…incomplete. The problem was that he simply could not come up with a better rationale. And the damn Georgetown weather, after a splendidly cold and snowy holiday season, had turned dismal once again: an early January thaw had turned the snow-covered streets to mush and then frozen mud when the temperature dropped to hover consistently in the low 30s.