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

by James Devine

  Scott was grim: “It’s about slavery, son. But not about taxes. It’s about abolition. Abolition now, not next decade, next generation or next century. Abolition now, mandated by the Crown.”

  Thomas sat speechless and open-mouthed. He can’t be serious. And if he is, why is he telling me?

  “Last night, Lieutenant Wilder, the Chief Magistrate of the Dominion declared the principle of human bondage to be immune from legislative or judicial tampering, based on its longevity in our society.

  “In making that declaration, he spoke for a determined and united South. In the presence of the representative of King and Parliament sent here specifically to announce that emancipation is at hand.”

  Scott sipped his still hot coffee and looked bemusedly at the amazement apparent on his aide’s face.

  “There are about half-a-dozen people in Georgetown who are aware of the Duke’s real mission here, Lieutenant, including you. I’ve let you in on it because I will require your help in developing a contingency plan for this Department in case the worst scenario should develop. This is, of course, a secret project of the highest degree. And since my secretary---as efficient as he is---was one of Mississippi’s first graduates from the Point, you see why the burden falls on you.

  “Lieutenant, you’re going to help me see what kind of an army the Dominion can field. Without its Southern officers…”

  ___________

  British Liaison Office

  Georgetown, D.C.

  February 14, 1833:

  Harry Bratton took one last look at the report and, shaking his head in frustration and dismay, locked it in the safe. He then crossed the tiny windowless room he was using as a temporary office and stood in front of the huge wall map of the USBA.

  This Andre Karlhamanov was becoming something of a professional and personal annoyance. Taken at face value, everything he had said or done since meeting last Saturday evening had fitted with his story of a wealthy exiled Russian liberal: the trip from New York to Georgetown immediately upon landing in North America to check in with the Consulate; a day of rest followed by one of sightseeing around the capital; even a visit to a popular local inn the night before.

  But exiled Russian liberals don’t carry daggers in their boots, nor pistols under their waistbands; especially not exiled college professors. Nor do sightseers spend the time the Liaison Office’s agent had observed Karlhamanov taking at various key locations and roads around Georgetown, as if perhaps committing them to memory. Nor should a professor be particularly interested in the locations of the consulates of the other leading powers. Or that of the Liaison Office mission.

  And the visit to The Golden Eagle: he went in around 6 p.m. and emerged after 9 a.m. this morning. The Eagle did offer an assortment of ladies carefully stashed on the upper floors; maybe he had found one to his liking. But Joanne is a tough and shrewd businesswoman: she charges her girls’ time by the hour. Unless, of course, it was her bed he had shared all night!

  Well, it was nearly 5 p.m. Time enough for him to head back to The Residency to clean up before meeting Karlhamanov at the Eagle. He intended to discover the truth about this Russian ‘professor’ tonight, or at least begin to. He hadn’t much time; the Duke was talking about a trip through the Middle Atlantic States after Jackson’s speech to the Congress Monday about this unfathomable bank business. Then they’d come back to prepare Wellington’s own address: the emancipation bombshell.

  Let’s start by finding out when Andre’s own tour of the Dominion begins. And where he intends to go.

  ___________

  All the while, Bratton knew he should have his mind on the impending crisis: certainly Wellington was increasingly concerned that the USBA could fall apart over the emancipation issue. The Duke had voiced that concern during their noontime meal at the Liaison Office with Major Layne and his civilian counterpart, Sir John Burrell.

  “I’m afraid we saw a preview of the immediate future over the cigars and brandy last evening,” Wellington had glumly observed. “I recall that in London you warned Jackson might be more loyal to the South than to the Dominion, Captain Bratton. From his reply to that Yankee Senator, it would seem you may be correct.”

  “In theory at least, Your Grace. But Jackson was talking in the abstract. He has no idea that emancipation is anything more than wishful Abolitionist thinking. The true unveiling of his colors will come when you inform him of the Government’s decision.”

  Major Layne had then demonstrated why he would never become an ambassador or high Army staff officer: “All this talk by the Southerners, Sir Arthur, is cheap. If they resist the will of the Government, we’d simply militarily enforce it, wouldn’t we? A show of force and these planters will be working out labor contracts with their darkies, what?”

  Bratton had actually felt sorry for the chap, as the Duke had silenced him with an icy glance.

  “Major, though I have the power to replace you, by all indications you are doing an adequate job as chief military liaison to the Dominion government. However, you will refrain from any further political theorizing or commenting.

  “Now then, Sir John. Do you realize why Major Layne’s option is no option at all?”

  Burrell had managed to look appalled, though he was secretly pleased that Layne’s excursion into policy prognostication had so quickly blown up in his face. Although Layne seemed a competent officer, Burrell had encountered trouble before brought on by the Major’s loose tongue.

  “Well Sir. Apart from the fact that it would tie down most of the Army here for years, devastating the South and leaving us vulnerable in other parts of the world, it has always been my understanding that we are to allow the Americans, whenever humanly possible, to work out their own problems.

  “Even when those problems are, as in this case, manufactured, shall we say, in London.”

  Wellington had looked relieved. “Quite so, Sir John. Quite so.”

  ___________

  Harry was now waiting at the Golden Eagle bar for Karlhamanov to make his appearance. It was almost 6:30 p.m. and the Russian was nowhere to be seen. He had received a late, verbal report after coming down from his room at The Residency that Karlhamanov, for the first time all day, had departed the Russian Consulate around 4:40 p.m. So the ‘Professor,’ or whatever he was, is indeed out-and-about.

  Ignatieff, eye patch firmly in place, chose that moment to make his appearance. Bratton, however, looking toward the Eagle’s closed front door---darkness had brought a chill to what had been a spring-like day---failed to notice his presence until Nicholas/Andre was virtually next to him.

  That was because the Russian emerged from the back dining room whence he had come from the rear staircase to the upper floors. He had left the inn/brothel-keeper drowsily satisfied in bed; Joanne had remarked that the Eagle staff and patrons would have to carry on without her for a few hours. Andre had promised to return after a previously scheduled meeting with a new acquaintance at the bar. At this point none of the trio was aware of any connection; though Joanne decided to send a ‘girl’ down to determine the possible identity of Andre’s acquaintance.

  So Harry was surprised to feel the slight tap on the shoulder and realize the Russian had gotten the jump on him. “Well Andre, and here I thought you might have forgotten our meeting. It appears that instead, I was tardy.”

  “Hardly, Captain, I arrived early to make some necessary housing arrangements. You are exactly on time.”

  Bratton couldn’t control his eyebrows, which rose quizzically. “Housing arrangements, Andre? I thought you were anxious to begin your tour?” A sinking sensation began to affect the Captain’s stomach.

  “I am, my dear Captain. But since arriving I’ve become aware that this Congress of which I’ve heard so much is meeting in special session starting tomorrow. I thought this a great opportunity to study it before heading off into the wilderness.”

  Harry struggled to keep his tone light. “And the Congress is to meet here at the Eagle? I unde
rstood they’ve still not finished their Capitol building, but I was unaware it was uninhabitable this month.”

  Despite the British diplomatic’s attempt at lightness, his Russian counterpart’s sensitive antenna began to pick up the tension in his voice. And why would he care where in Georgetown I lodge? He seems more interested in that than when I’m to leave. Could there be something personal in this? After all, it is even easier to keep a check on me here than at the Consulate…

  “Well Captain Bratton, the Consulate is rather full at this time and I am not exactly a guest of choice. Count Rentkowiitz has been good enough to put me up for a few days, but I’m about to overstay my welcome.

  “At your suggestion, I visited here last evening and found the accommodations, ah, ‘soothing.’ The innkeeper, Mrs. Casgrave---surely you are acquainted---was particularly kind. So I’ve just now made arrangement to lodge here for the next week or so. By then I imagine I will have seen this Congress fully in action and can begin my tour with a higher level of understanding of British American democracy.”

  Bratton was thankful the bar was comparatively dark. Although he was a skilled professional, there were some things he could not control. One was a tendency he shared with the American, Wilder, to redden when embarrassed or confused. In Harry’s case, it was only his forehead that exhibited the rush of blood. Unfortunately, that forehead seemed to grow exponentially each day…

  The Russian picked up on it nonetheless. Was this simply English prudity? Or had he stumbled across a chink in the Briton’s armor? The difference was important. He decided his probe would be gentle and off-handed.

  “So Captain, am I to assume you’ve been busy since we parted? I understand from Count Renkowiitz that some sort of social event involving those at the highest levels took place last evening. I take it you were there? Certainly I was informed that this place was unusually quiet due to the affair.”

  Glad to shift the conversation away from Karlhamanov’s choice of lodgings, Bratton spoke in general terms of the state dinner while wondering when Joanne would make her appearance. The ever-present bartender, this chap Lawrence, had poured him a refill but had been corrected when offering the Russian a glass of vodka. Instead, Andre had joined Harry in Claret.

  “So Andre, what route has the Consulate picked out for you? Did you tell them of my suggestion that you head south first?”

  Ignatieff’s face lit up in a smile that made Bratton uneasy for as yet unfathomable reasons. “Yes Captain, the Consulate staff agrees that a tour of the South would be healthier at this time of year. In fact, I may circle the southern region, going west after reaching Georgia and then back north up the Mississippi. I am told it is the ‘Queen of Rivers.’”

  “I’ve seen it and it is a magnificent sight.” Well, whenever he leaves, he should be gone quite awhile. Maybe he is on a private tour. No political reason for a Russian to visit the southern states right now, is there? “Nothing like it in England, I’ll admit. Wouldn’t know about your rivers, though, the Volga and such…”

  Ignatieff had gotten a quick briefing from Drago this afternoon and thus now knew that Bratton was a feared British diplomatic agent who had served both here and in India. Drago had reported that Bratton was currently with the Colonial Office though detached for Wellington’s visit. He fought off a tempting inclination to mention the Ganges.

  “And your plans, Captain? You never did tell me: are you permanently assigned here? If so, my utmost condolences. This seems a big, beautiful country. With a small, ugly capital…”

  Bratton smiled at the apparent candor and humor in Andre’s observation. “In the British Army, no assignment is ever permanent, my dear Andre. I could receive orders tomorrow for Capetown or Australia. One never knows. However, while His Grace, the Duke of Wellington is visiting these shores, I believe my assignment here is rather temporarily permanent, yes.”

  A thorough professional, thought Ignatieff. Won’t even admit he’s here as Wellington’s aide. “Yes, Count Renkowiitz let slip that the Hero of Waterloo is here in the USBA. In fact, I rather gather last night’s celebration was in his honor, no?”

  Bratton nodded as he sipped still another glass of Claret. “The local political establishment and the diplomatic corps turned out to dine with His Grace, yes. The dinner also coincided nicely with the opening of their Congress, in which you have so much interest.”

  Ignatieff glanced at his watch. Almost 7:30 p.m. I will get nothing of importance from this one, no matter how much more Claret he drinks. And the delectable Joanne expects me back in her quarters. Let me reinforce my reputation as a civilian rake while at the same time watching this Englishman’s response for any tell tail signs of jealousy.

  “Ah, Captain, you must excuse me. The delightful Mrs. Casgrave has arranged a private dinner. I must be on my way. Perhaps we’ll meet again before I depart for the South.”

  Bratton glanced reflexively at the backroom when the woman’s name was mentioned. Ignatieff also observed a slight reddening once again of the forehead. Yes, Joanne has had her way with this one, no doubt. Perhaps he was expecting more himself, tonight? That knowledge may come in handy. I’ll remember to probe her about the dashing Captain at some point this evening. Meanwhile…

  Ignatieff bowed formally and pivoted before leaving the bar as he had arrived: through the back dining room. Bratton, nonplused at the sudden termination of their meeting, stared at the Russian’s retreating back before reaching for his glass. As he did, the bartender snickered.

  “Well Captain, some unexpected competition for the propratress’ hand, eh? The government kid ain’t no match for a big, strong British officer such as yourself. But between the two of us, she’s taken a likin’ to this foreigner, you bet.”

  Harry sputtered as the Claret went down the wrong way. “I beg your pardon? What on earth are you speaking of? Answer me!”

  Lawrence flashed his crooked toothed grin. “This fellow, whoever he is, she’s partial to ‘im. I can tell our Joanne’s moods. Much more so than young Harper, who’s also been to her ‘private dinners’ more than once. Like you was just the other night, eh Captain?”

  Bratton fished in his pocket for a fistful of coins, threw them across the bar and walked out with as much dignity as he could muster. The bartender and some of his cronies were laughing as the door slammed shut.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  War Department

  Georgetown, D.C.

  February 16, 1833:

  Tom Wilder sat at his desk, sweating despite the relative coolness of the open office. It was after 3:30 p.m. on Saturday afternoon and, except for the guard detail, the building was empty. Thomas had put in a long morning, between The Residency and the Department, struggling on the one hand to come up with an adequate number of tickets for the diplomatic corps and other dignitaries for the G-G’s Monday bank speech; on the other, trying to put together---and keep secret---this study of an army with few or no Southerners.

  Scott had checked in, as was his Saturday habit, after 11 a.m.; apparently, a big breakfast with his Congressional friends had put him in a better frame of mind than he had shown the previous two days. The General had little comment about the latest---spotty---news from across Pennsylvania Avenue and had grunted his approval of Tom’s work thus far on the officer study. The General and his wife were on their way to Frank Blair’s country home in Silver Spring for the weekend; Wellington was also to be there.

  “It will be a much needed get-away for all concerned,” Scott had said. “The Blairs are gracious hosts and, in the country, we can be informal in a way that is seldom appropriate here in Georgetown. I know Maria and I need a break, and Wellington probably does, too. After all, how many Congressional hands can you shake before you’re a likely candidate for an insane asylum? To say nothing of diplomats. No wonder Jackson prefers having all those Tennesseans around…”

  Tom was now engaged in the umpteenth draft of a note to Lucille. This one, however, didn’t seek to explain t
he---tragic, in his view---circumstances that had led to their botched dinner engagement last month.

  No, he simply had to get back into her good graces so that he could begin to prepare the Latoures for the bombshell Wellington would be exploding in the coming weeks. Tom didn’t intend to inform Lucille and her mother that emancipation was apparently on the horizon; not just yet. He was under orders. But he had to regain her confidence so that he could gently break that astonishing news to them at the proper time.

  He felt a duty to prepare them that he didn’t feel concerning Candice. Yet the reason wasn’t one, in his mind, of love over lust.

  No, Cranford was a working tobacco and cotton plantation that relied on its slaves’ labors, backbreaking as they may be. Twin Peaks was primarily a horse-raising plantation that contained a farm. Candice had slaves, yes, but Colonel Samples had employed skilled whites and free blacks to oversee his herds. Even the farm was operated by tenants; the Colonel had brought Germans down from Pennsylvania. Emancipation’s impact on Twin Peaks would be felt most directly in the mansion. And Candice could certainly make the necessary adjustments!

  Cranford Plantation posed multiple problems; emancipation was only the most obvious. Situated in northeastern-most Virginia, it could be along a main avenue of battle if it came to war. Cranford might be ruined for years, perhaps decades, if, as General Scott feared, Virginia joined in a theoretical Southern secession that the North chose to contest. (With its anti-nullification elected officials, Scott felt Maryland safe for the Dominion.) And the sheer number of slaves, “Latoure people,” as Lucille always referred to them, could become a security threat to the family itself if war broke out.