by James Devine
“Now then, Lieutenant: what’s new on the frontiers? Has Zack Taylor ever located Sam Houston? What’s your analysis of that?”
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#10 Downing Street
London, England
March 29, 1833:
Armed with notes from his Tudsbury meeting and a draft of the instructions for Ponsonby, Palmerston was meeting with the P.M. and Lord Melbourne. The Government, he wryly observed, was faced with a series of interlocking dilemmas.
A dilapidated, tottering Ottoman Empire was more pliable than a vigorous new Arab Near East kingdom would be. Therefore, it benefited the Empire to see the Turks put down their rebellious vassal. Yet, calling in the Russians to do so, while it would most probably end the Egyptian threat, had the potential of bringing worse: the Russians, once ensconced, never withdrew from newly-occupied territory voluntarily…
So the threat to unrestricted overland access to India was potentially more alarming once the Bear chased the Gypos back across the Nile than even a successful Arab takeover of the Ottoman domains would be…
The tired-looking P.M., however, questioned the seriousness of the Egyptian threat: “This Ali Pasha. Does he pose a realistic danger? These desert chieftains are just glorified banditti, are they not? Like the Tripoli pirates we used the USBA Marines to clear out back during the Boney wars?”
Palmerton shook his head firmly. “No Prime Minister, I’ve concluded that they could pose a serious threat. In fact, I wrote Ponsonby a private note about Ali just this morning. Let me read from it to you:
“…Mehmet Ali’s actual aim seems to be establishing an Arab kingdom embracing all the Arabic-tongue peoples. This project may contribute to dividing the Ottoman Empire, and there is no excuse for allowing an Arab king to supplant the Turks in controlling the road to India…”
Lord Melbourne shook his head in agreement. “I concur. It is in our interest to keep the Ottomans in power and the Arabs subjugated and divided. So we have to root for the Russians to put Ali in his place.
“But once done, how do we convince the Bear to leave Syria? That’s the question, Henry.”
Palmerston looked firmly at the others. “A delicate combination of diplomacy and saber-rattling, my Lords. For various reasons, their own security and otherwise, the other Powers do not wish to see a more powerful Romanov empire anymore than we do.
“We must raise a diplomatic coalition in opposition, while at the same time polishing our own bayonets a bit. The Mediterranean fleet must be reinforced and the Army put on alert. Also, Prince Leiven called in for a discreet discussion.”
Melbourne again nodded his head in agreement. The Prime Minister, however, was gazing for some reason at the portrait of his discredited predecessor, Lord North, on the far wall.
“That’s all well and good, Henry. And I approve and authorize the steps you propose. Now tell me, however: what affect do you see this crisis having on the Duke of Wellington’s mission to the USBA?”
The two Cabinet ministers appeared stunned. They looked slowly at each other and then at the P.M. It was Melbourne who spoke first:
“By God, Prime Minister. In all the excitement over the Near East, I’m afraid we’ve overlooked America and the emancipation issue completely. This could indeed be a sticky wicket on that front…”
The Foreign Secretary had stood up and was now pacing the room. “Wellington must be informed immediately of the Ottoman developments, of course, Prime Minister. It is more essential than ever that he arrange peaceful acceptance of emancipation in British America. Certainly, we cannot afford trouble over there while we attempt to safeguard India and keep the balance of power in the Near East.
“That chap from the Colonial Office who briefed the committee and expressed the opinion that the South would resist. He went to Georgetown with Wellington, did he not? Well, we must reemphasize to the Duke that the man’s prediction must simply, by no means, be allowed to come to fruition.”
He turned to the others. “With your permission, Prime Minister, I’ll write the Duke tonight and send it by special packet. He must be informed how the international situation has changed. And that he must, accordingly, adjust. The last thing we can afford is anarchy in America!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tuscaloosa, Alabama
April 2, 1833, 3:30 p.m.:
Despite the assistance of Senator Brown, Nicholas had never caught up to John C. Calhoun. Not, at least, until today.
The South Carolinian had apparently deposited his wife at Fort Hill Plantation and then embarked on a series of meetings and speeches throughout the South, angrily condemning Parliament for the effrontery of even introducing an emancipation bill. He was also demanding that Jackson a) denounce the “abominable concept” and b) force his Northern supporters to do likewise.
Calhoun had crisscrossed the deep South---Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia and Florida Territory---always several steps ahead of the “visiting Russian liberal professor.” Ignatieff had engaged in healthy conversation with Georgia’s Senator Troup when he encountered that worthy firing up a crowd in Savannah. Troup had also caught the inferences in Nicholas’ respectful style that Brown had originally picked up. He had “wondered” aloud how the Czar’s friendship could be significantly helpful to the South.
Troup directed Nicholas to this rough-and-ready village on the Black Warrior River that served as Alabama’s capitol. Though the legislature was not in session, Calhoun was addressing a large outdoor gathering here most of this hot, sunny afternoon.
Perhaps because their planter society was so new---the last Indian tribes had barely been cleared from the state---and their lives resultantly so suddenly prosperous, the Alabamans had a more primeval reaction to the emancipation news than those in the older, more established states. They were angry and rebellious even before the great orator began his speech. By the time Calhoun reached his peak, the crowd was ready to burn any British flags---and Britons---found in the town.
Ignatieff, who admired Calhoun’s style even if he could not literally or philosophically follow some of the Senator’s more outlandish rhetorical tangents, waited patiently under a tree (and out of the sun) for the speech to conclude.
Although the Russian would not have understood the term, what he was hearing was an early version of the stump speech for which Calhoun would soon be even more (in)famous, one in which he asserted that slavery was a ‘positive good.’
All societies, the Senator claimed, are ruled by an elite class that enjoys the fruits of the labors of the less-privileged. (Calhoun illustrated with examples ranging from the Spartans’ domination of their Peloponnesian neighbors to the Empire’s own exploitation of India). Unlike the laboring class in the Northern and European cities, cast aside by the owner-class to die in poverty when too old, sick or feeble to work, the Southern slave was cared for even when no longer productive.
Nicholas, who had never given the Russian serf system much thought---that the serfs allowed themselves to be bullied and terrorized by the local estate owner, backed by a handful of Cossacks, marked them as little more than two-legged work animals---saw no necessary reason for such a lofty offensive-defense. The system in place was benefiting those in the crowd; naturally they’d fight to maintain it. But he could see that it fired up the Alabamans.
Cries of “bravo,” “damn straight,” and even a few “down with the Crown” punctured the blistering, humid air. At the end, Calhoun was carried off on the shoulders of his jubilant supporters, leaving Ignatieff to follow in their wake, sputtering Russian oaths.
He didn’t have far to go: the crowd headed immediately to Tuscaloosa’s largest inn, The War Eagle, from whose veranda Calhoun again addressed the crowd. This time, the fire-eater confined his remarks to the inviolability of states rights, and complimented the citizenry on having the wisdom to elect such Southern-rights activists as the two men standing with him, Governor John Gayle and Congressman Clement C. Clay. The crowd then happily pushed on i
nside, occupying every inch of the bar and two dining rooms, spilling over into the dusty street. Beer and harder spirits suddenly, magically, appeared in every hand.
It therefore took Nicholas some time to work his way close to Calhoun and the other politicos, who were standing hard, surrounded by a semi-circle of admirers, against the center of the bar. They were drinking, he observed, as thirstily as any spectator. Troup had described the one aide Calhoun was traveling with: a tall, frail red-headed young man. Ignatieff finally managed to edge close enough to the aide to whisper in his ear and pass an envelope given him by the Georgia Senator. Glancing briefly at the note, the young man’s eyebrows rose and he quickly moved in to get the fire-eater’s attention. Calhoun briefly scanned the note and, after whispered instructions, sent him back to Nicholas.
“The Senator of course can not receive such a distinguished visitor in the midst of this mob,” the aide shouted over the crowd’s increasing roar. “However, he invites you to meet him here at the bar after supper.” The young man studied Nicholas carefully. “Apparently, Senator Troup believes you are an interesting conversationalist…”
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‘Supper,’ for Nicholas as well as Calhoun and the other politicos, consisted of partaking in the vast barbeque/bonfire set up in Tuscaloosa’s main square. No gourmet---he ate mainly for fuel, not pleasure---Ignatieff found he enjoyed the Southern cooking as much as he disliked the egalitarian style in which the food was dispensed.
Now he leaned against the bar in the half-empty taproom and awaited the Senator’s return. Calhoun, who had delivered yet another vitriolic attack on Parliament while the crowd partook of the barbeque, walked through the doors looking grim, even as his companions---Governor Gayle and the Congressman---looked alcoholically boisterous. (Nicholas, of course, didn’t know the South Carolinian well enough to realize Calhoun always looked grim.)
The great man spotted Ignatieff immediately and strode towards him. “Were we not introduced, Sir, however briefly, at the French Consulate in Georgetown some weeks back?” he asked---demanded---in as imperious a tone as the Count had ever heard the Czar Alexander employ.
Ignatieff bowed formally. “Yes, Senator, we were. I am Andre Karlhamanov, late of the university in St. Petersburg. And I am honored that you’d remember, with all that has since occurred…”
“Sir,” Calhoun growled, looking at the Alabama officials. “It is not every day that the French Counsel-General goes out of his way to introduce a Russian visitor, of all things, at a Georgetown party.” He glared at Nicholas with a half menacing look (though he exhibited the Southern courtliness not to reference Andre’s most prominent physical characteristic, the eye patch).
“So sir, Senator Troup writes that you offered several, ah ‘interesting observations’ during a recent discussion in Savannah. What were you doing in Georgia, eh? And what brings you to Tuscaloosa? Come to think on it, sir, what are you doing in America?”
Nicholas had maintained a blank smile during the introduction and sudden barrage of questions. Now he bowed his head slightly and indicated a corner table. “Perhaps, Senator, if we could adjourn to a more private place, I could explain to you and your associates over a round of after-dinner drinks.”
The foursome---Calhoun signaled his aide to remain at the bar---was soon seated in semi-privacy. After blandly offering his usual excuse for coming to the Dominion, Nicholas, still in his ‘Andre’ character, began to steer the conversation to the issues at hand:
“I must say, Sirs, I certainly seem to have chosen a most exciting time to make my tour. When I arrived in Georgetown neither my own Russian Counsel-General nor the British officer with whom I traveled much of the way from New York let on that such momentous events were about to unfold here. Apparently, I am observing an historic turning-point in the history of your, ah…land?” He smiled innocently and put on a surprised face when Clay sputtered indignantly.
“There, sir. You have hit the nail on the head.” The Congressman turned to the others. “This foreign visitor has defined the problem concisely with one uncertain question.
“That’s our problem: what is this ‘land?’ Are we a mere colony of the British, to be ordered about without regard for our own opinions? Are we a ‘dominion’---whatever the hell that means---with certain rights of autonomy, at least in domestic issues? Or are we a number of geographically linked states united to provide for mutual defense and trade, yet free to establish and maintain domestic institutions of our own choosing? With tenuous ties to a Mother Country that provides a secondary system of defense and trade in exchange for a certain percentage of our prosperity? Geographically linked states which are free, individually or in number, to decline further participation with the other states and/or the Mother Country at a time of our own choosing?
“I say the third! And it is time the South made both the Yankees and the Empire so aware!”
The dark smile briefly illuminated Calhoun’s features. “Well said, Clement.” He turned to Nicholas. “Yes Sir. You do indeed seem to have arrived at a most portentous moment in history. This Dominion of ours is about to be defined.”
Face once again turning grim, he motioned toward the Troup note in his jacket pocket. “My distinguished colleague from Georgia informs me that you sense, ah, ‘similarities’ between our Southern society and your own which could be mutually beneficial in the months and years to come. Perhaps you could amplify those sentiments for us….”
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Tuscaloosa-Chattanooga Road
April 3, 1833:
The bonfire’s embers were still glowing when Nicholas claimed his horse and began the ride northeast across the state towards Tennessee early the following morning. His meeting with Calhoun and the Alabamans had been even more revelatory and successful than he could have hoped: these Southerners are not only willing to fight to save their ‘peculiar institution,’ they seem hell-bent on throwing the proverbial first punch…with or without aid from abroad.
While Congressman Clay had abruptly passed out after his eruption, Calhoun and the Governor had kept their wits about them. Gayle despite the prodigious amount of whiskey he continued to consume. (Calhoun, while no teetotaler, seemed a moderate imbiber.) Ignatieff himself had stuck with beer…there’d be no ‘accidents’ similar to the unfortunate evening in London…
The message had been received clearly by the dour fire-eater, whose original quizzically-demanding expression had gradually turned speculative and thoughtful as Nicholas elaborated on his comments to the Senators Brown and Troup.
(Though the Russian was unaware of the fact, Calhoun had served two terms as Vice G-G---the first under Quincy Adams---and had also been Secretary of War for over six years. The positions had provided him an education on world affairs available to few British American statesmen. He had thus quickly dismissed Ignatieff’s “visiting professor” persona as a ruse and saw him for what he was: an Imperial Russian agent of an as-yet-undetermined level.)
Calhoun has thought this through, Nicholas decided as he headed up the rutted dirt road (in actuality, just minimally more than a trial), and is willing to consider any and all options to achieve his goals. My vague danglings of possible financial aid, recognition as an independent state and even military assistance may make secession from the Dominion look more enticing…as well as realistic. Realistic enough, at least, to help make it more plausible an option when their Congress goes back to Georgetown.
How did Calhoun phrase it as the meeting was breaking up?
“The South needs and will welcome the friendship of any like-minded peoples, Sir. While we remain committed to the Dominion and its unique place in the British Empire---with the caveat that our domestic institutions be left sacrosanct---the knowledge that there are other peoples, other governments, other world leaders who believe in and maintain similar domestic institutions of their own will be a comfort to the Southern people in the trying times ahead.”
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Tuscalo
osa-Huntsville Road
April 3, 1833:
Calhoun, his young aide and a very hung-over Congressman Clay were the sole passengers on a hot, dusty stage ride north to Clay’s plantation. The great orator planned to rest at the Clay home---and give several speeches in Huntsville---before traveling on into Tennessee. As the carriage thundered north, the Senator was putting the pieces of last night’s strange meeting together in his mind.
“Are you familiar, gentlemen, with the French term ‘agent provocateur’?”
He shook his head as Clay winced at a sudden jolt as the stage hit a rut. The Alabaman looked ready to be sick. The aide, Jefferson Munroe, merely looked tired; the young man had escorted them all to various beds the previous night but obviously had delayed retiring himself.
“The term translates, quite simply, as an agent of ‘provocation;’ one who stirs up existing trouble or conjures up the same where none existed before. An interesting, though dangerous, occupation, would you not say?” He looked thoughtfully at his fellow passengers.
“Senator, there is a time and place,” Congressman Clay groaned. “While I admit to deficiencies in my French language ability, this does not seem an appropriate time nor place.”
“Ah, but it is, mine host-to-be.”
Munroe saw the slightest of smiles break through the dour features before receding like a weak sun on an overcast day. “You see, we were entertained by a skilled practitioner of those arts just last evening…”
While Clay closed his eyes in agonized exasperation as the stage bounced merrily through and across a seemingly connected series of ruts, ridges and rocky patches, Munroe rubbed his eyes in an attempt to remain alert.
“That Russian professor Senator Troup endorsed, Sir? I was surprised at the amount of time you spent with him…”