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

by James Devine

  Ignatieff tried to hide his distaste of both bartender and barmaid and wondered if he should simply about-face and find a more ‘select’ establishment. But Bratton’s enthusiasm for the Eagle had led him to surmise that this place could be an intelligence gold mine. He decided to swallow the bile already rising in his throat and at least sample the tavern’s wares.

  “A bottle of your finest vodka, if you please. And be good enough to see that both bottle and glass are well-dusted.”

  “As his lordship insists.” The sickly-looking bartender was sarcastic. “And would you like a second glass in the event the Duke of Wellington joins you?”

  Ignatieff stifled the immediate reflex to throttle the impertinent servant. “No my good man, neither the Duke nor any one else will be joining me. I simply don’t want to catch any of your diseases…”

  The bartender snorted bitterly. “Hear that Kathy? This gentleman has concerns as to the healthfulness of our operation… What will the propratess herself think?”

  Kathy, who had been observing Karlhamonov from several feet away, expanded on her earlier, unanswered, question: “And what brings so illustrious a gentleman to our humble establishment on such a quiet night, when all the rest of the bluebloods are kissing Andy’s Scotch-Irish ass? As well as that of our most distinguished Limey visitor?”

  Ignatieff was still formulating a reply designed to demonstrate his social superiority, while maintaining his anonymity, when the sudden silence was broken by a different female voice. While far from cultured, this one lacked the recognizable lower class bitterness inherent in Kathy’s tone while also reflecting a practiced air of command:

  “Perhaps our guest has had his fill of our local aristocracy. Or, perhaps, he is lately arrived in our burgeoning metropolis. At any rate, your jobs as servers are to fill his glass and to make him otherwise at ease. And to refrain from asking him impudent questions whose answers don’t concern you…”

  Ignatieff/Karlhamanov slowly spun around to eyeball the slight, black-haired woman standing in the doorway of the backroom. The woman’s features included wide dark eyes and high cheekbones with the facial skin pulled gauntly across them. Less than 5-foot-2, she flaunted an impressive pair of firm breasts barely covered by her low-cut blouse. Her skirt emphasized her lower curves, and her lower legs were encompassed in dark stockings that ended in sandals laced provocatively up her shapely calves.

  In the name of Holy Mother Russia, this is more like it. Nicholas’ face broke out in its wolf’s head grin. This one will be mine tonight. Renkowiitz can have charge of the Consulate until at least noon tomorrow…

  For Joanne, the effect of the lopsided smile of unmitigated lust (when he was smiling, Ignatieff’s eye patch unintentionally made him look more merry than menacing) was instantly intoxicating. Her resignation at the thought of, for once, sleeping alone vanished as she contemplated her newest potential partner. He’s not as big as Harry, nor as handsome as David, but he’ll certainly do for tonight…

  She strutted across the room, never taking her eyes from the stranger’s face. “Open my private stock,” she commanded Richard, while ordering Kathy to “set a private table in the rear. Tell Joseph to prepare the finest meal available.”

  She knew instinctively that this man would see through her usual false-innocence routine and so made no attempt to hide her hunger. The well-built but wiry one-eyed stranger continued to focus his sea-blue left eye on her as he grabbed the new bottle pulled by Richard from behind the bar. Motioning for a corkscrew, he quickly popped it, continuing to stare at the dark-haired woman. Their glasses, quickly filled, clanked together and were equally quickly emptied. Only then did they address each other.

  “My name is Andre. I’m newly arrived in your city and country. However, I begin to feel at home.”

  Joanne, despite imbibing only the one drink, felt her head spinning. “My name is Joanne. I am the owner of the Golden Eagle. Please consider this your new home.”

  Kathy, returning after arranging for the private dinner, shook her head in disgust. The damn slut leads a charmed life. That big Brit, the young kid from the Interior Department, all these other Congressmen and government officials. How does the skinny little bitch do it? I just don’t see it…though this one-eyed Don Juan certainly seems to find her irresistible.

  She watched in envy as the newly matched pair moved into the almost empty backroom.

  Well, if that kid from Interior shows up tonight, I’ll just head him off at the pass. Though the big Brit is more to my liking…

  ___________

  Monticello Tavern

  9pm

  Tousaint L’Overture Numidia was frustrated. Angry, rebellious, but, more than anything else, frustrated. Tousaint, at 23, had grown accustomed to the degree of freedoms---expression, thought, movement, opportunity---open even to the freeborn son of a former slave in rural Williamstown, MA.

  Tousaint had joined the New England Abolitionist Society with the intention of moving up the ranks into a position of authority. Not the kind of authority exercised by an Exodus station chief, but the real authority of determining the Society’s movement toward the ultimate goal.

  But the Society was run in Tousaint’s view by stiff-backed Puritan elders who might want the slaves freed…but did not consider blacks the white man’s equal.They had, after training in Boston, sent the young Williams College graduate back to Georgetown and the arranged cover position with Senator Webster.

  Such a cover, that of a low-key clerk, was, in Tousaint's view, behind and below him even if he had taken his degree from a small private college far from Harvard Yard. Georgetown, as Tousaint viewed it, was a despicable, unhealthy swamp populated by uneducated whites, bureaucrats and vulgar soldiers. When Congress was in session, it was even worse... And then there were the foreign missions, where minor European nobility and their staffs treated hired freeman and women exactly as plantation masters did, with the exception that they were forced to pay their blacks.

  In other words, Tousaint was no different than most recent college graduates of or in any age, who invariably believe minimual exposure to information and knowledge makes them superior to those who have practiced their common vocation for any number of years, with or without formal education...

  Tousaint, however, had another positive/negative which was an even bigger facor in his relationship with the world: he was a natural born leader. And, as such, he had gathered a small cadre of ultra-loyal followers, freeman sons of other Georgetown freemen and women, who looked up to him with awe because of his education.

  So, because Tousaint believed the authorities in Georgetown, the USBA and the Empire itself---a concept most of his followers could not remotely grasp---were maliciously holding them back, these young freemen believed it, too. No mind that each of them had full-time employment---one with the Interior Department, one in the Spanish Consulate and one at a local hotel---that paid salaries many of the District's poor whites envied. Tousaint said they deserved better; it was difficult for them to disagree...

  Tonight, as most nights, Tousaint and his group occupied a back table in a tavern unknown to white Georgetown. Unknown because it was located behind an unmarked door on a side street near Foggy Bottom. Run by a huge old woman who claimed to have been a concubine of former G-G Jefferson, the place, which regulars facitously called "Monticello," catered to the capital's young black freemen, black sailors off merchant ships and the occassional traveler from the West Indies.

  Lawrence Eugene Doby, the big Interior Department clerk known to his friends as Ugene, was the last to arrive. The others greeted him sarcastically but with enough wit to demonstrate they were no different than any of the District's other residents when it came to news and gossip: "Aw, look at poor Ugene. Da Secretary musta kept 'im late, discussin’ the Bank crises." (Although they were apparently unaware that Secretary McLane had yet to arrive in town.)

  "Yeah, Ugene, if dat old bastard in The Residency really wanta store da gob'ment's gold
elsewhere, tell da Secretary we be dee--lighted hold some for 'im..." Marion Motley, the Indian Queen Hotel worker, was the only one of the group Tousaint had not yet been able to cure of purposely mispronouncing the King's English regularly. But, with Motley a bruising 6-foot-4 and 230 pounds of rock hard muscle, Tousaint hadn't tried that diligently, either...

  "Well, I wish we could get our hands on some of that gold." Tousaint knocked his glass against the table in frustration. "Could buy uhura for a lot of our maumba. Depending on the amount, maybe enough for all."

  "Quit dreaming, Simba." Cris Donfield---Crispus Attucks Donfield to be precise---looked over his mug of cold beer at Tousaint. Though the foursome had no conceivable idea where in West Africa their ancestors had been snatched by rival tribesmen and sold to slavers generations ago, they like to sprinkle their conversation with a few Swahili words and phrases they had picked up from the seamen. No mind that they used the words and phrases indiscriminately and, usually, improperly...

  Though "Simba" is properly defined as "lion" or "young lion", they misused it for "chief." "Uhura" means "freedom", while "maumba" translates as “brothers and sisters" or "brothers" or "sisters."

  "There isn't enough gold in all the Treasury Department deposits to buy all our maumba uhura. Onliest way they get uhura is to run…and for us to help them whilst they're here in G-town." Doby was smug in the glory of his Interior clerkship.

  "I'm not so sure." Tousaint looked around at the surprised faces and slowly sipped another hot rum toddy. "In theory, at least, all the Dominion's funds are really part of the British Empire treasury…what they call the Exchequer." Donfield and Motley hooted at the strange term, but Doby leaned forward over his own beer. "In theory, the Brits could claim all that gold…and do what they want with it..."

  Even Doby had a smile on his face now, though it was a different kind than the smirk the others sported. "What makes you think, Simba, that London cares about our oppressed maumba down on the plantations? At least enough to do something about it?"

  Tousaint put down his drink and ran his tongue over his lips before answering. "Can't say for certain they do, Ugene. But, did you know their Congress---what they call “Parliament”---outlawed the African slave trade over 20 years ago?"

  A chuckle rippled up from deep in Motley's enormous chest. "Hell, Simba. Wez know about dat. All da people thought deliverence at hand. But like you say, dat was over 20 years ago…and slave ships still bring maumba to de wharves in Charleston and Savannah." The others nodded their agreement.

  Simba's leadership was derived mainly from his superior education. But part was also his persistence. "Only now and then, when they slip through the blockade, Marion. I think London considers abolition long-term unfinished business." He looked directly at Ugene. "I happen to know the Interior Department sent a report over there last summer on the whole USBA slave population. And it was at the request of the Exchequer..."

  "Probly don't mean nothin'." Motley was as stubborn as he was big. "An' how you know 'bout dis re-port?"

  Tousaint looked at his companions and smiled. "Moses done tol' me."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  London, England

  February 14, 1833:

  The incessant fog that gave London its slightly other-worldly feel was blanketing the city as Lord Palmerston’s brougham pulled up at #10 Downing Street.

  The damn fog isn’t the only thing other-worldly this day, the annoyed Foreign Secretary thought as he entered the old house, carrying both Baron Heytesbury’s written report on the Russian intrusion into the Turkish crisis and his own department’s very thin list of options.

  Options indeed, he thought angrily. What options! The cork’ll be out of the bottle before we can act! The bloody Bear has finally found a way through to the Mediterranean, with that fool of a Sultan holding the gate open for him at the Bosporus! How the devil do we turn his fleet around and stop this landing in Syria when those idiots in the Porte have invited the Russkis in? And that’s if we can get word to the Mediterranean fleet in time! Palmerston shook his head in disgust and headed into the second floor conference room that had already experienced so many crises. And to think I so blithely told the emancipation committee just six weeks ago that we were inclined to let the Ottomans and the Egyptians battle this out amongst themselves!

  Two hours later, only the First Naval Lord had a light in his eye as the otherwise-grim faced Cabinet broke up. As the Senior Service, the Navy had taken only slightly less of a financial-pinching than the Army as Government after Government had tightened its financial belt to pay off the staggering costs of the Napoleonic Wars.

  Now that this stunning development in the Near East threatens the all-important trade routes to India, thought Admiral Sir Thomas Hardy, Lord Grey and the others are once again turning to the Navy to pull Britannia’s chestnuts out of the fire. See if we don’t get some rearmament funding out of this!

  Palmerston was anything but jubilant as he conferred with the Home Secretary in the meeting’s aftermath. And that had Lord Melbourne worried. He knew that the mantle of leadership could fall onto his shoulders at any time: Grey looks older, more exhausted and less interested by the day…the P.M. might go to Buckingham Palace with his resignation at any time. Then this mess will fall into my lap! And Pammy looks like he’s run into one of ‘Deaf’ Burke’s right hands!

  The Foreign Secretary did indeed look a bit punch-drunk. The Cabinet had been aghast at the news of the Russian gambit…and stunned to hear that the Foreign Office had no bold plan to checkmate the Bear. A discreet note to the Porte cautioning against allowing the Russians unlimited access through the Straits under the pretext of supplying their Syrian army was hardly countering St. Petersburg’s boldness! Calling in the newly returned Prince Lieven would be equally futile and embarrassing: it would serve only to acknowledge the Russian diplomatic coup…and the Government’s inability to do anything about it. Something the Prince and his charming wife obviously already realize!

  Instead, Palmerston had recommended---and the Cabinet had, grudgingly, accepted----that the Government’s stance must be to closely monitor the Russian build-up in Syria for the present and to work behind the scenes to ensure that the Bear did not conclude some sort of formal treaty with the Porte. Also, the Egyptian army’s real capabilities must be determined. Would the Gypos come on against a legitimate European force? Or would they turn tail and flee back across the Sinai? The answer was important: it would determine if the Russians were in for a fight that could suck more troops, munitions and money into the Syrian adventure. Or would the Bear simply scare this Pasha Ali away, leaving the Czar to consolidate his position? A position that threatened current trade routes…and a possible Suez canal!

  As dissatisfying as this passive stance was, it was all they could do…at least until the Russians landed and squared off against the Egyptians. That and get Admiral Hotham’s fleet into the Eastern Med.

  Nelson must be turning over in his grave….

  ___________

  The Residency

  Georgetown, D.C.

  February 14, 1833:

  The Duke of Wellington wondered if the Governor-General would fulfill their breakfast engagement. In fact, The Iron Duke wondered if Old Hickory was in any coherent condition to have breakfast at all.

  Last night’s state dinner had begun successfully, with Jackson at his most dignified, though the lack of a formal greeting line both surprised and annoyed the Duke. Wellington was not happy with this democratic ‘pell-mell’ approach; for all the obvious ostentations of the formal greeting line (introductions to men and their ladies one has known for ages), it provides the occasional dramatic moment of meeting and immediately sizing up an important but previously unintroduced dignitary. That was how Wellington had expected to meet this South Carolina fire-eater, Calhoun.

  Instead, the Virginian, Tyler, had simply brought Calhoun, his wife and another Southerner, Senator Troup, over and introduced them as if they were all tra
ckside at Epson Derby!

  While the Georgian Troup looked the part of the planter-aristocrat--blond hair, well-built, average height and affable--this Calhoun looked ever-ready to spit, as well as eat, fire. The man had approached wearing an angry glare that seemed, as the evening progressed, a permanent facial feature. Scott had described him as looking “as if he just swallowed a lemon whole.” Thinking back on it now, Wellington wondered if Calhoun had emerged from the womb with lemon already inserted.

  Calhoun had exhibited tact enough not to refer directly to the issues of the day in their brief conversation, saying only that he hoped to “expand upon the discussions you have had with Senator Tyler in Richmond.” By then, the young pup Wilder was approaching with an impressive looking man who turned out to be the Massachusetts senator, Daniel Webster. Webster had merely grinned when Calhoun scowled at his arrival. He had greeted the Southerners lightly after offering Wellington his hand in greeting.

  It’s rather startling, Wellington thought: socially, I feel more at home with the Southerners---even Calhoun---but politically, these uncomfortably-informal Yankees are more agreeable.

  The drama that had Wellington not entirely-facetiously concerned for Jackson’s health had begun with the formal toasts over dinner. The Governor-General had risen and, looking pointedly around the room at the scattered Southern contingent, had said: “Our Federal Dominion…it must and will be preserved.”

  It was a sentiment that at face seemed designed to reassure the former Prime Minister of the USBA’s loyalty to the Empire. And so it sat, its domestic implications simmering, until Calhoun had risen. Even the diplomats among the guests sensed the rising tension. The South Carolinian had waited till conversation had entirely ceased before speaking, looking slowly from Jackson to Wellington and back: “The Dominion; next to our liberty, most dear!”