by James Devine
There were few avowed Abolitionists in Congress and even fewer among the spectators. Thus there were no outbreaks of sustained applause or celebration. The Southern delegation’s reaction was twofold: stunned disbelief or incoherent fury. Most civilians in the galleries were Southern: they shared their leaders’ reactions. The diplomatic corps sat in amazed fascination as the Empire’s most famous man announced a self-manufactured crisis; even ‘Andre Karlhamanov’ found it hard---though gratifying---to realize that Wellington’s blunt-though-understated words contained the seeds of a civil war. Among the military and government hierarchy, men looked at each other with thoughts of promotions, resignations, repudiations and fratricide in their eyes. Their wives looked at their husbands and each other with incredulity, with sadness, with horror.
Major Layne had found the USBA Marine detachment commander, a hard-boiled captain named Goodwin, and had convinced him with some difficulty to bring his men into the building’s Rotunda. (The Royal Marines waited outside with The Residency’s carriage.) Goodwin, on verbal orders from General Scott (Bratton had located and approached Scott to share Layne’s growing concern), quietly provided security for the Duke as he left the rostrum, marched through the House well and up the same aisle he had come in. If any Southern hot heads entertained thoughts of assassination, they were either too paralyzed by shock or intimidated by the Marines to act on their inclinations.
Which is not to say that the Duke’s journey back to the Rotunda was a victory march. The anger of the Southerners was blatantly evident; the astonishment of moderates like Kentucky’s Henry Clay and Thomas Ewing of Ohio was obvious and the feelings of most New Englanders were subdued. Like Clay, Webster shook Wellington’s hand as the former P.M. moved back up the stairs; unlike Clay’s perfunctory grasp, there was a silent but solid commitment of solidarity in the Massachusetts senator’s grip.
Wellington, of course, acted as if he was greeting the crowds in Trafalgar Square. He never winced, blanched or otherwise acted as if he had done more than deliver the King’s best wishes to his loyal British American subjects. “They don’t call him the ‘Iron Duke’ for nothing,” an impressed Bratton whispered to Sir John as they finally cleared the House chamber.
“Today may not be the ‘Ides of March,’ but this walk will go down with Caesar’s final stroll through the Forum,” Burrell replied. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t end the same way.”
The Duke waved to the crowd as if campaigning as they moved outside and prepared to reboard the carriage. He even chose to ignore the contingent of Royal Marines drawn up to reinforce Goodwin’s detachment. “Well, gentlemen, I’ve a dinner engagement at General Scott’s this evening. I believe a short recap and a nap are appropriate in the meantime. So let’s proceed back to The Residency, shall we?”
The show of bravado lasted till the carriage was rolling back down Pennsylvania Avenue (under renewed cheers from a populace unaware of the sudden turn-of-events). Wellington sighed deeply and fell back in his seat. He looked at his two aides (Layne rode outside with the mixed Marines) and shook his head: “That, gentlemen, was worse than enduring Marshall Ney’s cavalry charge at Waterloo. The hostility by the end was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Bratton was placating: “The problem, Your Grace, is the location. How the devil did the Northerners allow their capital to be located down here in the slaveocracy? The reaction, I’m quite sure, would have been much more positive if you had delivered your speech in Philadelphia or New York…”
Wellington shook his head. “No Captain. The problem is just as you analyzed it in London: Like you, the people in that ugly, pretentious capitol building of theirs see emancipation as the powder keg which will blow this whole Dominion apart, no matter their feelings on the subject. From a distance, the USBA appears a vibrant, thriving monolith. In fact, it is as fragile as a plate of china.”
He looked at each aide in turn. “Thank God whatever happens can be contained internally. We are very fortunate that there are no other Powers in a position to intervene. If there were, I’m not sure we could hold this together…or put it back together…
“Whichever becomes necessary.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Residency
Georgetown, D.C.
March 2, 1833, 4 p.m.:
Lieutenant Wilder had spent a boring 2 ½ hours in his tiny office and wandering the halls. He dared not leave; who knew when the meeting in Jackson’s office would break?
Not surprisingly, he had found two communications in his office that needed immediate attention: General Scott’s order that he deliver Colonel Burr to his home at 7 p.m. necessitated alerting the enlisted man driving the carriage that both their days would be a bit longer. The other note informed him that Candice was in residence at her townhouse and would expect him after 5 p.m.; fortunately, one of her ‘people,’ Stephon, had waited for a reply. Press-of-duty would delay him, Tom had written back. He’d be there sometime after 8…
Now he could hear the Duke’s arrival back from Capitol Hill. Standing at attention in his cubbyhole’s doorway, he could see the hook-nosed old man tiredly cross the Main Portico and head up to his suite of rooms, followed by the tense-faced Bratton and Burrell. Striding to the main doors, he could see the Marines depart in separate formations. Should he, the thought came too late to act on, have informed the G-G Wellington was back? Perhaps not: Jackson would have ordered him to stand watch if he wanted to be on the steps to greet the Duke. And Wellington himself hadn’t looked right or left to see if the G-G was coming. Significant…and not good.
Major Layne was now taking the steps two at a time, his long legs propelling him quickly into the building and across the hall to the stairs. “Well Lieutenant. Been here all afternoon? Missed the fireworks, you did, up the road…” Tom merely nodded. And you missed the fireworks here, Major. Though you may still be in time for an encore performance…
With that, the door to Jackson’s office opened and the G-G, his left arm around the smaller man’s shoulders, emerged with Colonel Burr. Jackson walked his guest over to Tom. “Your orders are to take good care of this old relic tonight, Lieutenant. Just have him back here tomorrow at 4 p.m. sharp.” The two ancient adventurers looked each other in the eye and shook hands silently. Jackson was still watching from the Portico as Thomas helped the Colonel into the War Department carriage.
The driver had some difficulty working his way through crowds that were building up outside The Residency gates. Tom was baffled; he’d never seen a Georgetown crowd this big, this quiet and at this time on a Saturday afternoon.
“Well young Mr. Wilder. Not used to seeing a crowd transform into a mob?” Burr had put on a sad, wise face. “The Duke’s message has gotten to the streets…and Georgetown’s citizens don’t seem to be taking it well. They’ll disperse, though, once word filters down that Andy will answer the Duke on Monday.”
“Answer him, Sir?”
“Certainly, young man. Whatever do you think we talked about in there for almost three hours? Come now, if you’re an intelligence aide to General Scott, you already know the gist of Wellington’s lecture, err, address to Congress. I was simply helping the Governor-General formulate his response. Of course, it’s still an early draft. We’ll have another session tomorrow afternoon, once he’s spoken with the Congressional leadership.”
For the first time, the old man looked grim. “And after I’ve spoken to the Duke. And General Scott…”
___________
The Capitol
4:45 p.m.
If the House Chamber had looked funereal, then the reception room resembled a huge Irish wake. Groups of mostly four or less; some loud, some somber, all with glasses in their hands; all talking at once.
Lt. Robert E. Lee was standing with Angeline and Lucille Latoure when he saw the huge bulk of General Scott across the room studying him carefully. The General seemed to grimace slightly; then turned to face Senator Tyler, who had pushed his way through the guests. The Se
nator began talking rapidly, accentuating his emotions with thrusts of his hands and forearms. To his left, Lee could see Senator Troup of Georgia with his index finger in Henry Clay’s chest. A not-so-gentile riot could break out in here any minute, Robert thought. I hope the bartenders are watering down the liquor…
Mrs. Latoure was addressing him over the ever-increasing noise: “So, Robert. We understand from Thomas that Mary did not take the news well. Had she adjusted any by the time you rode down this morning?”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Latoure. I tried to assure her that whatever London was proposing would not mean the end of Arlington House, but she is still extremely upset. How can anyone blame her? The plantation is not just her home, it is her life.” He paused. “Am I right in assuming you ladies will be staying the night in Georgetown? If so, could I impose upon you to stop at Arlington tomorrow? I have to leave early in the morning to catch my boat back to Norfolk. Even though we’ll have the evening, I know she’d appreciate having you to discuss this with tomorrow.”
“Certainly, Robert. We’re attending a dinner-party at Mr. Van Buren’s house tonight, but we’ll be on the road by late morning. We’ll certainly stop.”
The first real smile of the day broke out on Lieutenant Lee’s face as he turned to the daughter: “The new Vice G-G’s, eh? Make sure Tom’s boots are buffed and buttons are shining, Lucille. We want him to make his best impression in front of his fellow New Yorker’s other distinguished guests.”
“Why Robert,” she purred, “and what makes you think Lieutenant Wilder was invited? Or has he been demoted to social aide to the Vice G-G? Oh dear!”
She curtsied and moved away, leaving her mother to shake her head in dismay. The chagrined Lee watched her disappear into the crowd.
“And so Robert, what was your reaction to the Duke’s announcement?”
___________
The Southerners were drinking more heavily and talking more loudly. Daniel Webster pulled Ohio’s Ewing aside: “I’ll take care of my people if you see to yours, Senator. These damn Southerners get any more liquored up and a civil war could break out right here…”
“What we need, Daniel,” said Ewing slowly, looking around at the red-faced and increasingly boisterous Dixie lawmakers and guests, “is a series of caucuses early tomorrow: Western; MidAtlantic and New England. Bipartisan. Then, we should meet later in the day and send a representative delegation to The Residency. Old Jack had to have some word this was coming…even if he received it in just the past few days.
“We need to isolate the Southerners for the moment; at least until we determine how the rest of us feel.”
Webster looked warily at the Ohioan: “Feel about what, Senator?”
Ewing was direct: “About London suddenly charging in here and upsetting the apple cart, so to speak! Damn it, Daniel, I thought the unwritten article in the Compact which made all this work was the provision that London would allow us to iron out our own problems. Not just walk in and announce they’re ramming this down our collective throats!”
The senior Senator from Massachusetts nodded in agreement: “It would seem, Senator, that London has forgotten that unwritten directive. Or has been suddenly endowed with such a sense of self-righteousness that it has overlooked our half-century of autonomous, democratic-style government.”
He paused and smiled ironically: “Or still believes that we of the USBA are not qualified to discuss or decide the major issues facing us…”
Ewing nodded. “Agreed. However…”
His expression slowly changed as he coldly looked Webster in the eye: “…I do not think I will be alone, Senator, once today’s remarkable address is reviewed overnight, in seeing the fine hand of Quincy Adams somewhat and somehow behind all this.
“I pray, Sir, for the sake of non-Southern Dominion unity that Mr. Adams has kept his own counsel in this. My Western associates would not be pleased to learn that New England had prior knowledge of the Duke’s announcement and kept it from the rest of us.”
The Ohioan broke eye contact and walked away.
This Irish wake, like any and all others of its kind, went on long after the scheduled 5 p.m. ending.
By then, the leading Southerners had adjourned to Troup’s townhouse.
___________
Georgetown
March 2-4, 1833
Jurgurtha Numidia had been stunned Saturday night as he rode back over Long Bridge from the Arlington House wedding. But his potential jubilation was muted by the thought that Sebastian, in his own excitement, might either have exaggerated the fragments of overheard conversation in his own mind or had misinterpreted what this Army officer had said.
While Jurgurtha knew a growing number of British Americans considered slavery to be either morally wrong or increasingly economically impractical---an “anachronism”, he had heard it described as recently---he believed the struggle to be far from over. Now, if Sebastian was reporting correctly, the British Crown itself was stepping in to put an end to the abomination…
By the next afternoon, Jurgurtha had confirmed that Sebastian had gotten it right: emancipation was on the table!
The issue now was what to do concerning runaways already in the system and how to pass on the runaways most quickly to Boston and the New England Abolition Society. At this most sensitive time, Jurgurtha did not want a failed escape to lead to an expose of Exodus. Not only could such an expose fatally hurt the emancipation cause…but it would make he himself look bad… For Jurgurtha, in addition to his commitment to abolition, knew how to look after his own best interests. Quickly adapting to the startling new day would inevitably enhance his own standing with the Society…
This Sunday evening, religious services completed, Jurgurtha was back inside his quarters above the stable when Tousaint walked in, from appearances directly after a long sojourn at that old woman’s saloon the boy and his friends frequented.
“Boy, the Sabbath is for celebrating and worshipping the Lord Our God Himself, not some false god of pleasure. Don’t you spend enough time kneeling before the altar of Bacchus during the week that you can’t give Our Lord Jesus Christ your Sunday?”
Jurgurtha glared at his son, who smirked and wiped his hand over his mouth. “Wasn’t Bacchus I was worshipping tonight, old man. But Bibesia sends you her warmest greetings…”
In spite of himself, the father grinned through his grumble: "Four years of ancient history at that log cabin college of yours and all you retained was an appreciation of the Roman wine goddess?"
"Maybe if you sent me to Harvard Yard, I'd have learned the name of the Greek wine goddess. Or the Babylonian. Or the Egyptian... At any rate, there are some very fine young waitresses and such at Monticello. You really ought to get out more yourself, Reverend. Unless that Melissa of yours is spending more of her time at the Samples townhouse..."
This time, Jurgurtha's grumble was real. But as he reached for the neck of the backstepping, grinning son, the solution to the Exodus problem flashed into his mind.
"Sit down boy. We got something more important than female pulchritude to discuss. Haven’t you heard the news from Capitol Hill? Or have you been chasing skirts since yesterday morning?”
“Heard it all right, old man. Not worth celebrating, though. Some old Englishman says the King wants to free our people. In seven years or so! You really think all the massas from here to Mississippi are just going to sit back and let some fat little bastard 3000 miles away in London tell them what to do? I don’t see it…”
Jurgurtha managed…barely…to keep the lid on his temper: “Boy, you may have a college education…but sometimes I doubt you have a shred of common sense. Forget the damn white men’s politics. Just concentrate on how this will affect Exodus…and us.”
Tousaint respected his father, even as he considered him too cautious. So he listened and accepted Jurgurtha’s directive, even as he began to formulate plans that diverted from the older man’s orders.
Before leaving the stable
s the next morning, he sent word via a young urchin who frequented the place that Marion Motley was to come to the Hill as soon as possible. When the big man arrived, nursing a sore head from his own Monticello Sabbath overindulgence and grumbling about being awaken on his day off, young Numidia was brisk: Get ahold of Doby and Donfield. They were all to meet at Monticello at 7 p.m.
"How's I supposed to get in da Spanish house? Gettin' Doby ain't goin' be no problem. But I ain't guarenteein' nothin’ 'bout Crispus.."
"Do the best you can. Tell Ugene its important. I'll brief you all tonight." If Crispus missed the planning session, it really wouldn't matter. He could bring Donfield up-to-date later...
Tousaint, meanwhile, had already carried out his father's orders regarding Exodus…and Daniel Webster. The Senator arrived---spright and spiffy---at exactly 9 a.m., much to the surprise of his small staff, who never knew if-or-when the playboy orator would make his first post-weekend appearance. He listened carefully to Tousaint's relay of Jurgurtha’s message: all Exodus operations would be frozen until Boston assessed the changing situation. Those runaways now in flight would be stopped and hidden along the route. Exodus would not be the cause of any backlash against the emancipation plan…
Webster nodded and issued his instructions: sit tight. Let the legislative process take its course.
___________
Van Buren Home
March 2, 1833
7 p.m.
It was obvious to Tom that some of Van Buren’s guests had come straight from the post-speech reception. Certainly Daniel Webster had; or else had continued to imbibe elsewhere. He was now eloquently if somewhat boisterously speaking with an enthralled circle about the need for “bipartisan cooperation in support of this just crusade.”