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

by James Devine

  “We must arrange for that damn eye patch to be accidentally dislodged,” Bratton had mused after reading Layne a description of the Russian Count that highlighted the blue/brown eye. “Then we can confirm whether ‘Karlhamanov’ has been playing us for fools all these months…

  There was little in the reports; the Russki had kept a low profile while traveling. Nor was there much concerning the week since Karlhamanov had been spotted back in the capitol. Apparently, he had resumed splitting his time between the Russian Consulate and The Golden Eagle…with the Eagle holding a considerable advantage, time-wise. “And, he has made no attempt to disguise his activities,” Layne observed. “He’s been openly moving around Georgetown, as if daring us to track him.”

  Bratton, having dismissed, at least consciously, romantic thoughts about the Eagle’s proprietress, concentrated on Karlhamanov/Ignatieff’s possible reasons for being in the USBA. His mind went back to the tip---received last month from young Harper---that the ‘professor’ had usurped Count Renkowiitz’s ticket to the Duke’s Congressional address.

  At the time, it had made no sense; and anyway, departing with Wellington on a God-only-knew-how-long tour of the north and west USBA, Bratton had shelved, if not discounted, it. It made perfect sense now, however, assuming that Karlhamanov was simply Ignatieff’s latest alias: the Russian agent would far outrank a mere C-G and would, as a matter of course, preempt the Wellington speech ticket…

  Knowing what he now did--or surmised---the British agent realized he had made a serious error: Karlhamanov should have been tailed to wherever and whomever he had traveled last month! That he was back in Georgetown could mean any of a thousand things…and none of them were good!

  “I wish this situation met the extremity stipulations,” he told the Major, who looked less-than-shocked at the inference. “Unfortunately, we have no firm substantive evidence of anything…not even that the fellow is Ignatieff! We need more before we even consider going to the Duke for permission to ‘go under the rose.’”

  (The elimination of a foreign agent could be carried out, under the Government’s ‘extremity stipulations,’ only if specific criteria were met. The French agent Bratton had eliminated ‘under the rose’ in New Orleans back in ’28, for instance, had been demonstratably organizing a plot to assassinate the French-speaking governors of both Louisiana and Quebec as part of an elaborate plan to spark simultaneous revolts.)

  “Yet, I feel quite certain that Ignatieff---disguised most probably still as Karlhamanov---has somehow ingratiated himself with emancipation’s most emphatic---and dangerous--opponents.”

  Layne puckered his lips in frustration at the dilemma: “Clearly, the fellow is an ‘agent provocateur.’ It is no coincidence that he arrives here just as this crisis erupts…”

  “…but how do we eliminate him from the scene,” Bratton picked up the thought, “without causing an international incident? He has, as well as can be determined thus far, done nothing that could justify such a step.”

  The two stared at each other in frustration before a slight smile broke out on the Captain’s face. “Do you remember, Major, that Interior Department chap we breakfasted with the day of the Duke’s address? The fellow seemed to be developing some interesting back-channel contacts within the diplomatic corps. I believe it is time we chatted with him again.”

  Layne smiled. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements…”

  “Yes,” Bratton repeated, “it is time we sat young Mr. Harper down again.” He glanced at the wall clock. “It is also time I informed His Grace that my earlier suspicions, unfortunately since we have not acted on them, appear to have some validity. And God alone knows how the Old Man will react to that!”

  ___________

  The Duke’s immediate reaction was that they were stretched too thin. Bratton had been asked to do the impossible: keep track of a possible foreign agent ‘touring’ the Dominion’s Southern states while simultaneously accompanying him around the rest of the USBA.

  No sense worrying about past omissions and errors; however; the job now is to ascertain who this Russki really is and why he is really here! And how precisely his presence ties into either or both the emancipation crisis and/or this incredible Syrian situation!

  That it must, Wellington had no doubt: one of the Czar’s most-feared and reliable agents does not turn up by accident in the middle of a British Empire internal crisis. Nor is he lightly sent 4000 miles away on holiday while St. Petersburg embarks on a foreign adventure that has the potential to change the entire European balance-of-power.

  The Duke rose from the desk he had appropriated from Sir John and walked to the window, with its view of both The Residency and the Potomac. Quite a beautiful place this time of year, he thought idly, though they tell me it will be India-like in a month…

  He turned to Bratton, who had remained seated in front of the desk and was now sipping from a rapidly cooling cup of tea. “Captain, despite some misgivings, I am afraid we will have to rely more heavily on Major Layne and his people this time around vis-a-vie this Russki character. I want fulltime surveillance placed on him, both here in Georgetown and wherever he might wander off to next. You will receive twice-daily reports while we’re here; direct supervision will have to fall to Sir John later this month when we go south.”

  Wellington was thinking rapidly: “Round up Sir John and Layne and get them in here for a briefing in one hour. A dispatch has come in from the Foreign Office that casts this situation in a new light. The three of you must be aware of it. Meanwhile, I need some time to turn all this over in my own mind.”

  He returned to the desk and settled into the chair with a sigh, then looked at Bratton, who had risen and was preparing to leave. Wellington smiled: “This is becoming quite the sticky wicket, eh Captain? I daresay, there’s quite a bit more to this than informing some colonial cotton growers they’ll have to pay their help from now on, wouldn’t you agree?”

  ___________

  The Residency

  Georgetown, D.C.

  May 4, 1833, 9 a.m.:

  Andrew Jackson was this morning reviewing the latest crisis reports from around the country.

  While the Duke of Wellington’s ‘tour’ of the North and West had been conspicuously private---Sir Arthur had not made a single speech---the G-G’s allies were reporting that Wellington had secured the backing of most major leaders of both parties.

  That New England would enthusiastically support emancipation Jackson had never doubted. That the West was lining up was a bit of a surprise: the G-G had never known the Westerners to give much thought to any developments in the states they had left behind.

  It was the reports from the MidAtlantic States that had at first shocked him. He had been surprised that George Wolf up in Harrisburg was apparently in favor; then Frank Blair had reminded him that Wolf had a large constituency of small farmers and immigrants. “Philadelphia does not speak for Pennsylvania any more,” Frank had said. “The commercial interests there are all-powerful in the city, but have lost much of their clout in Harrisburg.”

  That damn Aaron’s hand is clearly visible in New York: the Vice G-G’s political organization controls Albany, but any doubts that Burr still possesses, in Frank’s word, ‘clout’ in the City has vanished. The old fellow has Tammany Hall lined up, apparently, and is working on the merchant classes.

  Jackson shook his head at the New York Post’s mutterings about secession and becoming a city-state. “As if London would sit still while they turned the Mayor into a--what was it they used to call the ruler of Venice---Deluge?” he observed disgustedly to Lewis Cass as they perused the reports over breakfast. Cass smiled: “I believe the term was ‘Doge,’ Mr. Governor.”

  Jackson grunted. “Perhaps I should recall the Creek and send them up there. Those damn New Yorkers are always bragging about how they bought their island from the Indians for $24.00. Well, maybe we should inform the city fathers that we’re sending them their $24.00 back and that the
Creek and the Cherokee are on the way, too. That’s one bill that ought to sail through Congress without much opposition!”

  Jackson’s sarcastic musings, as well as breakfast, were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a visibly excited Frank Blair, who had apparently crossed Pennsylvania Avenue from his own home in something of a run. A flapping packet of papers, apparently letters, was clutched firmly in his left fist.

  “Mr. Governor-General,” Blair---who never addressed Jackson formally--blurted out as he quickly crossed the room. “Reports from Kentucky…” he stopped suddenly to catch his breath.

  “Well, Frank, now that you’ve joined us, take a seat and calm down. Whatever’s come out of Kentucky can wait. Mr. Cass and I have solved the Georgia Indian problem.” The G-G glanced across the table at his Secretary of War and then raised his eyebrows as a new thought entered his head. “Or perhaps, we’ve solved the emancipation issue.”

  Blair dropped into a chair and let a servant pour him coffee as the grinning Jackson continued:

  “At first, we thought we’d offer any of those damn Indians who don’t like it out West the option of picking up stakes again and moving to Manhattan Island. But now, Mr. Cass, I have an even better idea.” He looked at the Michigan politician and winked before turning back to the incredulous Blair. “Perhaps we’ll instead send the darkies up there. That’ll give the New Yorkers seven years to get ready…or evacuate the place…”

  Blair was now arranging his features into a more dignified, statesman-like face, having completed the arrangement of the papers he had carried into a semblance of order. He sipped the coffee and allowed the G-G and Cass to finishing chuckling.

  “Andrew, we’ve read the reports from the North, both the people’s reaction to emancipation and on Wellington’s secret meetings. We also know what the reaction has been in the deep South. We’ve been waiting to hear from the border states. Well, the news is starting to come in. There’s been a public meeting in Louisville. Both Clay and Calhoun spoke…”

  The G-G’s favorite oath split the air. Then: “One thing I’m determined to do before I leave office is shoot Henry Clay and hang John C. Calhoun…”

  Blair put down his coffee and leaned across the table. “Well Andrew, depending how you eventually come down on this emancipation business, you may have the chance to do one or the other. Not, apparently, both…”

  Cass now interrupted: “Well now, Frank. Why don’t you take it from the top and tell us exactly what’s happened out there in Louisville?”

  The editor/advisor nodded. “We’ve known, of course, that Calhoun has been speaking all over the deep South, demanding the support of the other sections in the special session coming up. He’s hinted pretty strongly that the South won’t accept emancipation, whether rubber-stamped by Congress or not. An exemption, he’s been talking about.”

  Blair paused and put on a pair of reading glasses before picking up the top sheet in his paper stack. “He’s gone further out on the limb than ever before with his remarks in Louisville. Listen to this: for the South, ‘…freedom is not possible without slavery...’ And if emancipation goes through, ‘…we have two choices: to be slaves in the Dominion or freemen out of it…’”

  Jackson’s fist slammed down on the table; the remnants of breakfast, both solid and liquid, were immediately airborne. “The damn fool! This isn’t the time to be making threats. I’ve called Congress into session in part to demonstrate to Wellington and London that we’re capable of serious, judicious debate; of consideration of all options; of coming forth with a realistic alternative proposal.

  “Did Calhoun learn nothing from the tariff business? Demanding special privileges in public forums will not lead to an exemption! Reasonable men, elected representatives of the people, rationally discussing the issues might.”

  He glared at the others: “Don’t think that means I’ve made up my mind, either. I haven’t. There’s a part of me that understands---and agrees---with Calhoun’s position. But there’s another part of me that loves and cherishes this Dominion we’ve built above all else.

  “But even the part of me that understands Calhoun’s position knows this isn’t the time to articulate it!”

  The G-G rose and, reaching for his cane, turned his back on his advisors and hobbled toward the window. He stood, basking in the sunshine, before suddenly pivoting.

  His voice dripping sarcasm, he growled: “So what pearls of wisdom did ‘Harry of the West’ have to add to the proceedings?”

  “Actually, Andrew,” Blair looked up from his papers and smiled, “Mr. Clay’s words seem remarkably similar to your own of this morning: conciliatory, hopeful and statesman-like. He too seems not yet to have formulated a final position…”

  ___________

  Latoure Townhouse

  Georgetown, D.C.

  May 3, 1833, 1 p.m.:

  Lucille Latoure couldn’t wait for Tom to return from wherever he had vanished to; vanished, in fact, without even telling her he was leaving!

  Under normal circumstance, that kind of incivility would have been enough to set her off on another extended period of icy retaliatory snubbing. The stakes now were different, however: Lucille had realized that the Lieutenant’s position gave him access to the kind and level of information she now craved. So she had put aside her---rightful, as she saw it---anger at his previous misbehavior and had again allowed him to pursue her.

  It wasn’t that Thomas was spilling---as yet---any War Department secrets. He was simply so pathetically happy that she was displaying interest in him and his work that he was unintentionally serving as a sort of political science professor.

  Lucille had manipulated their relationship for so long that she automatically assumed she was extracting everything he knew about the deteriorating situation. If she had dared share her new-founded information with Mrs. Scott---or Mrs. Blair; or even Candice Samples, for that matter---she would have been stunned to discover that Tom, while overjoyed to talk with her on any subject, was delivering edited, abbreviated lectures.

  Lucille at this point in her political evolution did not consciously intend to betray the Lieutenant’s trust; he was still high on her short list of prospective matrimonial candidates. Her fury at the reaction of the Yankees and the British---Sir John Burrell was off (if he had ever been truly on) the short list--to this threat to the South’s (and her own family’s) way-of-life had, however, indeed changed her.

  Yet she was intelligent enough to realize that she needed an education in the ways-and-means of Georgetown if she was to be of any benefit to her beloved South. So, believing Tom was so enamored that he would tell her everything, she would not have accepted that her admirer had a conflicting, overriding, allegiance.

  In any case, Mrs. Scott had let drop that Tom was off with the General on a short, mid-week trip. She intended that her education would continue the moment he arrived back in town!

  ___________

  The Golden Eagle Tavern

  Georgetown, D.C.

  May 8, 1833:

  The big world-weary waitress, Kathy, shook her dirty-blond head one more time this afternoon in amazement: the black-haired little bitch is acting like a schoolgirl caught up in her first romance.

  The arrival of this Russian had changed everything, Kathy observed, shaking her head once again. ‘Andre Unpronounceable’ had moved into the little bitch’s bed the first night he had walked through the door. Sure, there had been others, of course, while he was away these past six or seven weeks, but Joanne had turned school-girlish again the moment he had made his reappearance. They had been inseparable since.

  Well, she and the other ‘downstairs’ staff couldn’t complain; the more time the little bitch spent mooning over her lover, the less time she had to criticize and order them around. (What went on upstairs, Kathy---whose looks and figure had vanished into a gin bottle during the last decade---didn’t want to know.)

  Andre not only had the proprietress wrapped around his finger, but he
also seemed to be gaining the allegiance of the strange man behind the bar. Since his return, the Russian had shared several meals---and bottles---with Lawrence. Andre actually seemed willing and able to tolerate the fellow’s company for extended periods: why, just Sunday, they had gone riding. This Saturday afternoon, according to Lawrence, they were going into Maryland to try out a new rifle Andre had apparently purchased. “And he’s promised to show me how to shoot targets with a pistol,” Richard had bragged a little while ago.

  ___________

  USBAA Southern Command HQ

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  May 11, 1833:

  Colonel Zachary Taylor was enraged: personally, professionally and personally-professionally.

  And when Colonel Taylor, a hardnosed, no-nonsense type---he had risen to fame by successfully defending a miserable Indiana outpost, Fort Harrison, against an overwhelming attack by French-armed Indians under the great Tecumseh himself back in the ‘10s---was enraged, both his family and staff knew enough to scatter. That’s why he was alone in his office his afternoon.

  The Colonel had plenty of cause, in his view, to be damned enraged.

  He had just received a report from the Nacogdoches country that Sam Houston was definitely in Mexican Texas and had allied himself with that pompous young fool, William Travis, to talk insurrection against the Mexican authorities. Now he would have to write Winfield Scott that Houston had slipped through his hands. If Houston, Travis and the others got Stephen F. Austin to join them, there’d be hell to pay. New Orleans---all Louisiana---would demand he go to their aid if Santa Anna marched north! He wouldn’t be able to lift a finger, of course, unless-and-until Georgetown gave the okay, which would make life in the Bayou rather uncomfortable for him and his command…