by James Devine
Though the sky, once the feeble sun came up, stayed a dull gray, the weather held off and the riders made the South Jersey coast of the Bay before noon, leaving them time to feed and water their mounts before boarding the cross-Bay ferry for the short trip into Delaware. The ride through southern Jersey had given each man time to size the other up. Bratton, impressed with the Russian’s horsemanship, wondered how a self-styled ‘intellectual’ had learned to ride so well. Ignatieff, for his part, had determined to play his role and not pepper the Englishman with questions that a Russian ‘dissident’ would never have known to ask.
“So what are your plans once you’ve checked in with your Consulate, Andre? I’d suggest you go South first, as winter is almost over in the Carolinas and Georgia.” They were waiting for the ferry to dock on the Bay’s southern Jersey shore.
“Yes Captain, a good point. I’ll mention it at the Consulate. However, my direction will be dictated by whatever plans the Consulate officials draw up. You see, even when we travel outside Mother Russia, it is the government which determines when and where…” That should sound passive enough to discredit me as any kind of man of action.
Bratton’s look of pitied disgust seemed confirmation. But then, the Count was unaware that his dagger had slid up his boot-top. The handle had become clearly visible when Harry had glanced down while feeding his Royal Marine horse its mid-day oats.
A man who carries a dagger in his boot---and God knows what other weapons concealed elsewhere---isn’t about to let some Consulate paper-pushers determine his itinerary. I bloody well better keep a good eye on this one, especially after we get to Georgetown…
The two dined that evening near the Delaware-Maryland border at an inn with the remarkable name of ‘Cormack’s Roadhouse.’ Despite the Irish-sounding name---Bratton was beginning to wonder if the bloody Micks had an exclusive franchise for running Mid-Atlantic inns---it was owned by, of all things, a Greek. “Cormack’s has been here since the turn of the century,” Bill Albanis explained in answer to Harry’s question. “The original owner was an Irishman named Cormack Flood. I was his manager and bought the place about 15 years ago.”
Despite his obvious distaste for the clientele, Andre was able to identify a porterhouse steak on the menu. Bratton, whose stomach tended to act up during extended rides, settled for shepherd’s pie. Knowing that vodka was his Achilles Heel, the Count started with locally-brewed beer, then had Claret with the meal, while Bratton, who thought the American tradition of cold beer barbaric, had several Ports.
Continuing to build his identity as an intellectual, Ignatieff praised the British system of parliamentary government, while allowing, gradually, his ‘opposition’ to the Czar’s autocratic reign to be noted. While sipping a final after-meal Claret, he finally ‘admitted’ that his ‘tour’ was not completely a voluntary one.
Bratton said little, taking the measure of his new acquaintance, while wondering simultaneously how much to believe and whether their meeting at the Burlington inn had been merely coincidental. The thought of a third straight day of 6 a.m. departure followed by 10 or more hours in the saddle had both Bratton and Ignatieff looking forward to sleep. They turned in fairly early.
The following day passed uneventfully, though Ignatieff began a gentle probing of Bratton’s career and position in Georgetown over supper at Brady’s Fox Hunt Inn. Harry, who remembered the Duke’s satisfaction with the house prime rib, finally gave in and ordered a big meal, knowing they were less than a half-day’s ride from the capitol. At his suggestion, Andre had the sizzling steak.
The Captain deflected most of the Russian ‘intellectual’s’ seemingly innocuous questioning. He seized on Andre’s confusion over the Liaison Office and its role at Georgetown to deliver a lengthy briefing on the USBA’s political structure that lasted for most of the meal. The maneuver cut off the Russian’s probing of a more personal nature and served as a test of his level of interest in the Dominion’s political atmosphere. Andre’s questions, Harry observed, showed a remarkable interest in Dominion affairs for someone so recently arrived.
At the close of the evening, Harry was still undecided: Karlhamanov was either an intellectual with a scholar’s ability to grasp, digest, filter and store information; or he had been through a Czarist version of the training Bratton himself had absorbed in becoming a ‘diplomatic.’ And while he was now satisfied that their initial meeting had indeed been coincidental, he was beginning to suspect Andre was here on something more than a university ‘sabbatical.’
They crossed the Silver Spring road late the next morning in a misting rain. Harry pulled up to enjoy the Russian’s initial reaction to the Dominion capital. There was nothing contrived about ‘Karlhamanov’s’ reaction: he was plainly, Europeanly, appalled. “My family, Captain, has a country estate in what was once Poland. The estate contains two or three separate villages that each resemble what I see in the distance.
“What in God’s name have they been doing here all these years? At least New York is a real city, though too Dutch for my own taste, from what little I saw…”
Bratton laughed. “You’ll find, Andre, that the Americans are rather, shall we say, ‘different’ from Europeans. They’re not even much like Britons. In fact, I once had an upper class American lady, the wife of a well-to-do plantation owner, tell me that the British and the British Americans are ‘two peoples separated by a common language.’”
They rode on into Georgetown and Bratton showed Andre the way to the Russian Consulate. For their own reasons, each wanted to keep in touch, so they agreed tentatively to meet Thursday evening at 6 p.m. at the Golden Eagle.
As they departed, Karlhamanov still looked somewhat baffled. Two peoples separated by a common language? He shook his head as he reined his horse in the direction of the Consulate.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Georgetown, D.C.
February 12, 1833:
Captain Bratton reported immediately to the Duke upon arriving back at The Residency. Wellington himself had reached Georgetown late the previous afternoon, after spending an enlightening weekend with the Virginia leadership: Governor Floyd and the two Senators, Tyler and Rives.
The entire party, in fact, left Richmond Sunday afternoon, as the Duke had invited the powerful trio to attend Wednesday’s state dinner. As Scott had predicted, the Governor came at the slavery issue from a different perspective from the others. While all three were staunch states rights men who bristled at the idea of Dominion interference with the peculiar institution---no one as yet dreamed that London might intervene---Floyd alone wanted a quick end to slavery.
“It just makes no economic sense!” he had cried out Saturday evening during an elaborate dinner he had thrown in Wellington’s honor. “There is no incentive for those who know they are being fed, housed and clothed to work any harder than the bare minimum demanded by the overseer. But make the same individuals aware that their welfare depends entirely on the fruits of their labors and we would see a massive increase in productivity.”
Tyler had smiled at the Governor’s tirade. “You’ll have to forgive John,” he had said to the Duke. “His interesting economic theories appear sound, appear progressive. Yet, simply allow the darkies to go their own way? The blacks need the discipline inherent in our system. If, in 50 years or so, the blacks of that age have demonstrated an ability to function under less direction, then perhaps it will be time for each state, individually, to reconsider the issue of their freedom. To free them now or in the near future---let them loose to work or not work at will---would cause both economic and social chaos in the South. No, Sir Arthur, the Governor is wrong. The South simply won’t have it!”
Wellington was shaking his head as he described his conversations to Bratton. “And these are the more progressive Southerners, according to General Scott. God help us! What must Calhoun and the others be like?”
The Duke had been fascinated to hear that Aaron Burr was alert and eager to play a role, however as yet un
defined, in the upcoming months. With the weather improving by the week, Burr had told Bratton, he would take a boat to Georgetown and could arrive within 48 hours of notification. “I took the liberty of telling him we’d provide transportation via the Royal Navy, Sir. The idea of, as he put it, “hopping off the King’s sloop and onto Andy’s dock,” tickled him.”
The Duke had roared, but quickly sobered when Harry related the reserved manner in which the old man had reacted to any mention of Van Buren. “He’ll not do anything that might hurt Van Buren’s chances of eventually occupying The Residency, that’s clear,” the Duke observed. “And why not? Every man wants his son to do better than he did. In this case, as a former Vice G-G, with a son who will be inaugurated in the same post next month, there’s simply one more step to go.
“Some time in the next few days, I’m going to bring Burr’s name up to Van Buren. His reaction should be interesting…”
Wellington looked at his pocket watch. “Well now Captain. You will accompany me to the Liaison Office. I’ve scheduled a meeting with Major Layne. I think its time we advised him of the real mission here. He’s no political scientist; won’t ever replace you in the, ahem, ‘American Office,’ but we can’t afford to keep him in the dark any longer. Besides, I can’t have you going off alone for days on private missions. He and his people will have to help bear the load.”
“What about Sir John, Your Grace?”
“Briefed him already. Burrell’s a sharper tack. Picked up the gist of it immediately.”
It was on the short carriage ride to the Liaison Office that Bratton briefed the Duke on his new Russian acquaintance, Andre.
___________
As the social aide to the Governor-General, it had fallen to Lieutenant Wilder to personally deliver the Calhouns’ their last-minute invitation to the state dinner. He had done so the previous afternoon, telling the South Carolinian that The Residency had only learned over the weekend of his arrival in Georgetown. Now Tom was in Scott’s office, describing the scene to the General.
“I never met Mr. Calhoun before, Sir. Sort of reminds me of one of those Old Testament prophets, always calling fire and brimstone down on the Israelites or their enemies…”
“It’s that long hair, Lieutenant. Quite an affection, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes Sir. But he actually looked thunderstruck when I handed him the invitation. Didn’t say anything, but I got the impression he hadn’t anticipated walking up the Main Portico again any time soon.”
“No Lieutenant,” said Scott, “and it will be interesting to see the reactions when he and the G-G first meet face-to-face tomorrow night. However, I’m more interested in making sure Calhoun is properly introduced to Wellington. Damn Jackson for refusing to have a formal greeting line! If I’m not available for some reason when Calhoun arrives, you take him over to the Duke. Since you’re the one who delivered the personal invitation, it won’t seem out-of-the-ordinary. And, after all, you are The Residency social aide! Anything else to report from across the park?”
“Yes General. Captain Bratton rode in as I was leaving The Residency shortly after noon. Looked like he’d been in the saddle quite awhile. That’s eight days he was gone.”
Scott nodded but made no comment. To himself, however, he noted: eight days. Enough time to reach New York, find Burr and ride back. And it’ll be a week or more before Wilder hears from his father. Damn old Hook Nose. You’re still ahead of me on this one…
“Now Lieutenant Wilder, to the real reason the Dominion pays us so well. Get Lieutenant Beaufort in here with the Portsmouth file. We’ve got important matters to consider…”
___________
Ignatieff had known his arrival would throw the Consulate into an uproar; he had counted on it. Upon arriving at the K Street gate, he had barked clear, crisp Russian, in military tones, demanding the Cossacks admit him. Acting on instinct born of their severe training, they had immediately done so. The Count was up the steps and through the front door before the guards could turn his horse toward the stables. An indignant aide to the Consul-General was silenced by a single look from the wolf-face, the right eye still patch-covered. “I wish to see the Consul-General immediately. Is he on the premises?”
The shaking aide nodded and gulped: “And who shall I say is calling?”
“A visitor from the Court of the Czar is all you need to know. Now bring me to him!”
The Consulate was simply two homes bridged by a ground-level addition of offices. Count Renkowiitz was leaving his private quarters in the ‘western’ building when the aide escorted Ignatieff down the corridor centering the offices and leading to the private quarters.
“Excellency, we have a visitor from St. Petersburg who wishes to see you.” The white-faced aide indicated Nicholas, who pushed past him to step directly in Renkowiitz’s path.
The towering C-G looked down at the intruder, his face reddening. “What is the meaning of this? Rossevich, call for the guards!”
Ignatieff caught the aide’s arm in an iron grip of his left hand, looked up at Renkowiitz and again flashed the wolf’s leer. “A thousand pardons, my dear Count,” he said, bowing formally after pushing Rossevich against the wall as if the aide were a doll. “Did you not get the word from Nesselrode to expect me? I see that must be the case. Damn the slowness of the Imperial mail service. I see I will have to introduce myself.”
He raised his face to look straight up at the C-G and, with a sudden lightening movement of his right hand and arm, removed the eye patch.
The aide’s gasp of anticipated horror still echoed in the corridor as the C-G’s angry red face turned pink on its way to whiteness.
“You see now, my dear Count Karl, why I presented no formal card or credential. You do know who I am?”
Count Renkowiitz stared at his visitor for another long moment as if assessing the implications of the appearance of this apparition. Even though they had never met, like everyone else in the Czar’s diplomatic and secret services (which were, for all practical purposes, one-and-the-same) he knew of the legendary Count Nicholas Ignatieff whose right eye was half-blue and half-brown. He nodded his head affirmatively and turned slowly to the open-mouthed Rossevich.
“Escort our most distinguished visitor to the largest guest bedroom and assign servants to help him recover from his journey with a hot bath, massage, refreshments and anything else he requires.” Turning back to Ignatieff, he bowed formally.
“Welcome to the Imperial Consulate, Count Nicholas. I place the staff, our resources and myself at your service.”
The wolf’s leer was replaced by a look of Imperial formality. “Thank you Count Karl. You are most gracious. I have been in the saddle for the better part of four days. I have looked forward to a bath and shave at journey’s end. However, we have much to discuss. I wish to begin quickly.”
Renkowiitz, whose immediate thought was to ply this unwanted visitor with whatever he required and to see him on his way as quickly as possible, bowed again. “Certainly my dear Count. I will have a special dinner prepared. Would 4 p.m. give you enough time to refresh and relax? If so, the servants will escort you to the formal dining room in two hours.”
“That will be fine, Counsel-General. Restrict the place settings to two. I will divulge my rationale for being here, as well as my plans, to you alone.
“Now you,” he commanded, flicking his head imperiously at Rossevich, “you will escort me to my quarters.”
___________
The meeting at the Liaison Office with Major Layne had taken little more than an hour. Layne, a tall, lanky man whose build brought to Bratton’s mind the USBA Army captain who had met Irresistible at the Baltimore dock, had of course been stunned when the Duke outlined the true purpose of his visit. But Harry could see that the chance for action---and possible promotion---fired his enthusiasm.
At Wellington’s direction, Bratton had also briefed Layne on his encounter with Karlhamanov. The Liaison man agreed that the Russian ‘
dissident’ should be quietly followed to determine the validity of his identity. It was agreed that a Liaison agent would be at the Golden Eagle when the Captain and Andre met in two nights. An around-the-clock watch would be placed on the Consulate beginning this evening in case anyone resembling the ‘dissident’s’ description entered or left.
Wellington was dining across Pennsylvania Avenue at Frank Blair’s home this evening. Among the other guests were to be Joseph Kent, the newly-elected Senator from Maryland and Cabell Rives, the junior Senator from Virginia.
“So the menu will consist once again of tariffs, nullification, this damnable Bank business and who should pay for the ‘internal improvements’ these colonials all so incessantly demand or oppose,” the Duke had sighed on the way back to The Residency. (Jackson was dining at Congressman Polk’s home, as he apparently did at least once a week.)
“I begin to see, however, that the Southerners apparently have balled themselves into a fist on this issue of states rights. You and Quincy Adams may be correct. I question whether anything short of brute force will compel them to seriously consider emancipation now or anytime in the foreseeable future. They never mention the political consequences of emancipation in their screeches---just the economic---but its obvious: they are even more intent on retaining their power here in Georgetown than they are of retaining mastery of other human beings.
“They also apparently view the Compact in different terms than the Crown and the Northerners. They don’t seem to consider it anything more than a bloody convenience, a road map, that they can follow or ignore at will.” The Duke sighed once more. “Well, let us see if this Maryland chap, Kent, is any different. Though I would suppose, after what I’ve seen so far, that he too is a planter. By God, Bratton,” he exploded, “Southern planters and Northern lawyers! Is that all their damn bloody government is composed of?”