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

by James Devine

  The silence threatened to extend into minutes when at last Wellington opened his mouth:

  “Our’s is an empire of laws, Senator. Some formulated and approved in Parliament; some likewise passed by the Congress of which you and your esteemed colleagues are members. These laws may be tested, as it were, by challenge and appeal to the appropriate courts-of-law.

  “I submit that the bill to emancipate the Empire’s slave population will without question be approved by both houses of Parliament before summer’s end. You are welcome, indeed encouraged, to challenge the bill, either through your elected members of that august body, or in the Empire’s highest courts. But you will not win.

  “Further, you will have the opportunity for debate in your own legislative arenas in Georgetown. Based on my extensive conversations in other sections of the Dominion, I am comfortable in stating my confidence that you will lose there, also. Once again, you may challenge in your Supreme Court. Justice Marshall, however, has been quite explicit in stating that your Court will also rule in the Crown’s favor.”

  Swain and Brown exchanged worried glances as the Duke paused briefly. My God, thought the Governor, Calhoun looks ready to take the fireplace utensils to Wellington! And the Duke seems intent on enticing him to try!

  Wellington continued: “As for your position of prior existence, I’m told by Justice Marshall that this has no legal merit on either side of the Atlantic.

  “Finally, Senator, I do not believe that you---and you alone---speak for the South. Views more moderate than your own may yet be expressed by Southern voices, including possibly some present here tonight.”

  The lumps of burning coal masquerading as Calhoun’s eyes seemed to blaze even brighter. “I would not be so presumptuous, Sir Arthur, in counting Southern votes---or determining who speaks for the South---on this issue.” He turned and glanced meaningfully at the other two Senators before pausing.

  A strange smile, to the on-lookers’ amazement, seemed then to break out on Calhoun’s face though it by no means reached his still-blazing eyes.

  “Even if all you claim is true, Sir Arthur, and I am in no way acknowledging that it is, the South will in the end proceed unabated with our ‘peculiar institution.’ And with your blessing and that of your Government, I might add.” The South Carolinian’s smile had evolved into a near-smirk visible to all.

  “For what Congress will vote on next month will not pertain to the abolition of slavery. Instead, it will vote---and approve---an exemption to Parliament’s measure. An exemption that you, Sir, will work out with the Governor-General and which he will then submit. Once passed, you will return to London to shepard it through Parliament. I have no doubt that you will be successful in this endeavor.”

  The three North Carolina officials’ mouths were now all ajar, while Wellington, while maintaining his stiff upper lip, had in fact blinked rapidly and repeatedly.

  Regaining the small measure of self-control he had momentarily let slip, the Duke quietly asked: “Is that so, my dear chap. And what on earth could lead you to that remarkable conclusion?”

  Calhoun, his long hair providing a frame for the gaunt face now completely dominated by the fiery eyes, raised his right arm and pointed the extended index finger at Wellington.

  Even the crickets seemed to have ceased their repetative chirping in order to listen in:

  “Because, Sir, the Empire can not afford a crisis here in the USBA. Not when you are facing such a serious one in Europe…”

  He paused and looked at the younger men. “…or, to be more precise, in Asia Minor.”

  The fire-eater looked back in triumph at the Duke, who was now conducting a protracted interior battle to maintain his composure:

  “After all, Sir, as righteous as your Parliament may consider emancipation of our slaves, it considers the security of your own British India to be just as righteous. So that John Company can continue its own righteous work of merrily looting that fabled subcontinent...to the benefit, of course, of King, Country and Empire.”

  Calhoun moved past Wellington and across to grasp the study’s door handle before pivoting. “Think on it, Sir Arthur. The Empire does not need a truly unnecessary and avoidable crisis on one side of the world while you have to deal with a very necessary and unavoidable one on the other. And the only price to make your American crisis disappear is one small exemption.”

  The other four men were still staring as Calhoun’s face relaxed into its first complete smile of the evening.

  “Until June 4th, gentlemen, in Georgetown. Good evening.”

  The door closed gently behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Liaison Office

  Georgetown, D.C.

  May 23, 1833, 10 a.m.:

  The Duke had returned to the capitol on Monday, just in time to experience the lovely Georgetown spring turn equatorial overnight. He had hastened his return to determine if anyone in Georgetown was aware of the Russian incursion into Syria…and to determine how Calhoun had discovered it!

  Captain Bratton immediately, of course, had jumped to the conclusion that this Russki secret chap---whatever his name really was---had informed the fire-eater. “Not only is this the sole plausible way Calhoun could have gotten the information, Your Grace, but it confirms that Karlhamanov actually is Count Ignatieff!” Thus Bratton’s argument on the ride back to Wilmington after being briefed on the private meeting in the Governor’s study.

  Wellington had not discounted the validity of Harry’s theory, but wondered aloud how, if the Russian had been in the USBA since February, he could know much about the Syrian crisis. “And how, and how much, information could have been conveyed to Calhoun?”

  The Duke had paced worriedly throughout much of the pleasant voyage back to Georgetown. He braced himself for the worst: had The Times published stories about the Syrian crisis in issues one or more of which might have survived an Atlantic crossing? And had knowledge of the incursion already been absorbed and factored into the emancipation business over here? What did Jackson know? And how, if he did, is he reacting?

  Now that he was back in the capital, Wellington assessed the situation and found it less volatile than feared: while the upcoming special session---with all its increasingly-frightening implications---was on everyone’s minds, there was no mention of the Syrian affair, either among their American contacts or in diplomatic circles.

  Nor did the G-G appear to have any knowledge when they breakfasted yesterday. (Jackson had apparently been enjoying an extended weekend at Frank Blair’s Silver Spring country mansion when the Duke and Bratton arrived back early Monday afternoon.) The talk, of course, had been dominated by emancipation…and by Jackson’s adamant refusal to reveal his position: “I stand by my Inaugural speech: I am waiting to hear the people’s voice as conveyed by their elected representatives. I’ll make my decision then and only then…”

  Jackson could be sly and tricky---as a hapless French army at New Orleans once discovered---Wellington thought, but he is not devious. The G-G, the Duke determined with relief, is unaware of the Syrian complication.

  General Scott, after being appraised of the situation over dinner at his home Monday evening, had been adamant: the European crisis was not yet known to official Georgetown. “I’ll grill Lieutenant Wilder tomorrow morning, Sir Arthur. But I’ve no doubt The Residency is unaware of this. The Lieutenant would have observed any increase in excitement or intensity and reported it, even if he did not have the details.”

  (Winfield had sent Wilder to the Office yesterday: to the best of the Lieutenant’s knowledge and observation, no information of a foreign nature was being assessed at The Residency. Based on his faith in Scott’s evaluation of talent, the Duke accepted Tom’s assessment as accurate.)

  All was also quiet at the neglected State Department, which was the Administration’s principal, though mostly ignored, liaison with the consulates. So Burrell, whose job included monitoring bureaucratic Georgetown, reported.


  Now the Duke was convening a meeting with Bratton, Sir John and Major Layne to consider the situation--and their options:

  Do we abduct this Russian and grill him here in the Office basement? At what point do the Extremity Provisions---Harry, trust him, had brought them up on the voyage from Wilmington---come into play?

  If-and-when is the Jackson Administration entitled to a briefing on Syria?

  Most importantly, if-and-when do we inform our political allies in the North---from the Vice G-G on down---of the Syrian problem? And its potential impact on the emancipation question?

  Wellington shook his head wryly. Who would have thought the advance of some upstart Gypo Pasha into Palestine could affect the freedom of some 2,000,000 Godforsaken darkies in America?

  ___________

  Asheville, North Carolina

  May 23, 1833:

  Despite his farewell at the Governor’s Mansion, John C. Calhoun did not leave Raleigh until three days after the cornerstone-laying ceremony, long after the Duke himself had ridden east.

  He in fact met with Senators Magnum and Brown the following day; as a Dominion-Republican (and thus considered ‘soft’ on slavery), Governor Swain was pointedly not invited. The fire-eater put off their questions concerning his, as Brown called it, ‘Asia Minor riddle’: “In due course, gentlemen. First, let’s observe its effect on the great man. All will become clear once the Congress convenes.”

  And that was all Calhoun would say on the subject. The two young North Carolinians were too much in awe to press him further, despite their curiosity. “That damn old man acts as if he’s operating on a higher plane than the rest of us,” Magnum fumed privately later. “He expects us to toe the line…but won’t say where the line leads.”

  “Obviously, to a confrontation with Wellington and perhaps Jackson in Georgetown,” Brown replied. “One in which he believes he holds all the aces. I’m not happy either, but for the sake of the South, we must go along for now. If he’s overplayed his hand, there’ll be time for compromise up there. At least, I pray to God there will be…”

  ___________

  Senator Calhoun had delayed leaving Raleigh ostensibly because he received several invitations to speak over the weekend at various Democratic rallies in the capitol city. More importantly, having digested the contents of the amazing letter while still on the road, he had sent word to Congressman Polk to meet him in this small Blue Ridge town almost equidistant from Raleigh and Polk’s east Tennessee plantation.

  The Senator had checked into the Wolfpack Inn late Monday but Polk, along with his young law partner, Gideon Pillow, had not shown up until the following evening. Calhoun wasted no time once young Pillow was banished to the bar to join his own aide, Munroe, in briefing Polk on the letter at a back table.

  The Tennessean was astonished, as Calhoun knew he would be; and also immediately grasped the implication; which is why he had been shown the letter. “Speak of this to no one, James,” Calhoun directed, staring at Polk’s still-dropped jaw. “Digest it, and we’ll speak on it again in the morning. You can see now why I had you come to Asheville. This is much too valuable to chance having fall into the wrong hands.”

  Calhoun’s coal-black eyes began to blaze anew. “Before I tell you of my meeting with Wellington, and hear your news from Tennessee, let’s be clear why I’ve shared this with you: You are our best conduit for information in and out of The Residency. You’re the only member of our inner group who’s also an advisor to Jackson. We need you back in Georgetown post-haste. So you must head back to your plantation immediately after our talk tomorrow morning, collect Sarah and start out for the capital.

  “I am headed directly back to Fort Hill. There I will pick up Floride and McDuffie and sail for Georgetown myself. We must organize for the special session as soon as possible, counting on whatever information you obtain concerning Jackson’s leanings or decision.”

  Though stunned by the contents of the letter, the Congressman was marveling at its potential power: “I understand completely, Senator. The information contained,” he tapped at the letter before handing it back to Calhoun, “if true, puts the entire situation in a new perspective.”

  He paused and shook his head while fingering the half-empty whiskey glass in front of him. “Obviously you believe this Russian’s news...”

  Calhoun nodded affirmatively.

  “…I tend to concur. Why would he---or anyone else---make up such an astounding story? This letter may give us the upper hand in this crisis…and checkmate the damn abolitionists once and for all.”

  Calhoun smiled his dark smile. “My thoughts exactly, Congressman. Now let me relate my ‘interview’ with His Grace, the great man himself…”

  ___________

  Early this morning when the two met again privately, their two baffled aides at a separate table, Calhoun returned to the letter over their bacon and eggs:

  “At some point Wellington will have to brief Jackson on the Syrian adventure. That’s why I showed you the letter, so you’d know in advance of walking up The Residency’s steps. This may be the weight that tips the G-G’s scale in our favor. That damn old man has enormous prestige in the North and West. If we can fix things behind-the-scene so that it appears that he has arranged the exemption as a compromise---without anyone knowing what really caused Wellington to cave in---the other sections will, reluctantly, go along.

  “Otherwise, I fear Wellington’s visit and news of Parliament’s emancipation debate may give the abolitionists too much momentum, especially in the North.” Calhoun paused to take a small bite of his rapidly-cooling eggs and looked over at his colleague.

  Polk was nodding his head in agreement as Calhoun summed the situation up:

  “Without the exemption, the South has but one option, as acceptance is intolerable.”

  This time it was the Tennessean’s eyes that glowed: “Senator, I have always anticipated and feared a political compromise would be ultimately unfavorable to the South. Yet our chances for independence-by-arms or -threat have likewise seemed improbable at best.

  “If I have correctly grasped the overall implications of this remarkable Syrian news, the Empire will have its hands full in the eastern Mediterranean for quite some time. An armed insurrection over here---even if eventually quelled---would be an unacceptable drain, both in money and manpower.”

  The South Carolinian’s fork paused halfway toward his mouth and he silently nodded affirmatively.

  “Now then,” Polk continued, “I believe the Russians have fortuitously made our threat viable. The game is still a series of inter-locking gambles, but now the odds have lessened: London is more likely to give in here than risk an insurrection; and, if it does, the North is equally unlikely to press for emancipation without London’s backing. As those Yankees might say, ‘it simply isn’t good business.’”

  The Congressman motioned toward their empty coffee cups. As Calhoun nodded, the dark smile breaking out around his taut mouth, Polk called to the waiter for more. Once delivered, he proposed a toast:

  “To our Russian ally, whatever his real name and title. No matter his motives, the South owes him an enormous debt of gratitude.”

  Calhoun softly tapped his cup against Polk’s in smug satisfaction: “To our Russian ally.”

  ___________

  Russian Consulate

  Georgetown, D.C.

  May 25, 1833, 11:00 a.m.:

  Countess Caroline Renkowiitz was out-of-sorts.

  The Countess’ weekly Sunday afternoon ride with David Harper (which now began in mid-morning and extended, with the help of a picnic basket, through late afternoon) was scheduled for tomorrow.

  Caroline had come to value these outings, both because of her growing affection for the witty and handsome young American and because they provided an escape from the increasing tension inside the Consulate. But she was dreading tomorrow.

  Count Ignatieff’s on-going presence, though no one at the Consulate ever knew when he might sudden
ly appear, had everyone on edge. But Caroline carried a special burden: only she was aware of the amazing news from St. Petersburg concerning the Ottomans.

  Ignatieff had confided in her for a basic yet astute reason: while he himself was fluent in English, his ability was verbal. The Count knew he could not afford to make the slightest error or misrepresentation in his letter apprising Calhoun of the Syrian situation. So he had been forced to bring Caroline in, knowing of her impressive fluency in the language. And, he had said, he was “impressed with your splendid grasp of the USBA domestic political scene.”

  So Caroline, soon after the Count’s return from the South, had been told of the departure of the Imperial Black Sea Fleet---and a 10,000 man army---for Syria. Together, they had drafted the letter that Captain Drago had then been entrusted to hand-deliver to Calhoun in South Carolina.

  Caroline had since become increasing uncomfortable in talking about the crisis with David. This after all being Georgetown, politics invariably wound its way into every conversation (as her thus-far platonic admirer’s very secret and very carnal relationship with the beautiful Madame Jean-Claude could have demonstrated). She had turned the conversation to other things the last few Sundays, out of a vague sense of guilt.

  Now, however, she knew that a second letter with updated information had been written. General Mikailov had landed on the Syrian coast and was planning an advance into Lebanon or Palestine (depending on where exactly he located the Pasha’s army). It had once again been dispatched, utilizing Drago, to South Carolina.

  What could---should---she say when David inevitably turned the conversation to the crisis? She felt ashamed to mislead him, but…

  It was not just her growing attachment to the Interior Department official that had the Countess feeling confused.