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

by James Devine

  What made Scott believe the ‘mastermind’---until then Captain Goodwin, like most everyone else in Georgetown, had thought the crazy bartender had acted alone---and the black-haired man were one and the same, the General had not said. Goodwin’s orders were simple: take the black-haired man, alive if possible. But take him…

  “Well,” Goodwin said, as much to himself as to Stubas, “there’s no time like the present. Shall we proceed…?” Stubas nodded as Goodwin barked the order. The ring of Marines tightened its circle around the old house, sharpshooters utilizing trees and rocks where possible. Where not, the Marines went to the ground, piling stones in front to afford some semblance of protection.

  “In the house. This is the USBA Marine Corps. We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands raised high.” A rooster crowed in the barnyard.

  Nothing…

  Goodwin waited 60 seconds by his hand-held pocket watch. “I say again. This is the USBA Marine Corps. Surrender or we will commence firing.”

  Shutters opened on several second floor windows. Arms were outstretched and voices in an incoherent babble---at least to the Marines’ Anglicized-ears---shouted down.

  A white pillow or sheet fluttered from the cautiously opening front door. A stout woman emerged, followed by two men. Others came out seconds later.

  No one resembled the black-haired man Marshal Stubas had seen talking with the C-Gs less than 18 hours previously. Nor did a careful, thorough search of the barn and out-buildings discover any cowering men.

  Neither the woman nor any of the others claimed to speak or understand English. Though someone had obviously heard and understood the order to surrender…

  Nicholas Ignatieff was a superb secret agent well versed in the nuisances of his craft. As soon as Count Renkowiitz told him of the disastrous series of interviews with Wellington, Van Buren and the civilian pair, he had realized it was time to move on. He waited until after dark, in case the two C-Gs had been followed. Then he rode several miles away and slept in a field under the stars.

  The Count had slipped through the Americans’ hands before the Marines were even enroute.

  ___________

  The White House

  Richmond

  October 20, 1833, 1 p.m.:

  President and Mrs. Calhoun walked leisurely back from 11 a.m. services at Monumental Church on Shockhoe Hill. The assistant pastor, Reverend Norwood, had delivered a satisfying sermon favorably comparing the Confederate troops still arriving at Camp Washington with the Archangel Michael’s fighting legions.

  Generals Taylor and Twiggs were waiting in the parlor with the latest reports from the front.

  “The column that the 1st Virginia sighted moving toward Frederick will cross at a bridge they’re constructing at Edward’s Ferry, probably starting tomorrow, Mr. President. Our sources in Georgetown say another column is coming down further east and will cross at Chain Bridge in the next day or so. They’re both heading for this staging ground.” General Taylor pointed to Alexandria. “Scott has set up a camp just west of the town, taking over land belonging to several plantations.”

  Calhoun studied the map. “That’s less than 10 miles from our forward line at Fairfax Court House. We won’t get much advance word when they march…”

  “On the contrary, Mr. President, we think we’ll know right down to the day. Mary Lee and her friends have been accurate thus far.” General Twiggs smiled confidently.

  “These young women…we rely on the reports of…belles?”

  The two generals smiled. “Well, Mr. President, Scott’s headquarters is apparently a converted guest cottage at Cranford Plantation, the Latoure family estate.

  “These…belles…have, ah, front row seats. We expect to know almost immediately when the Yankees have completed their movements to the camp. After that, it’s just a matter of time. Between our pickets, our other ‘friends’ in Georgetown and the Lee ladies, we’ll know the date before Winfield finishes designing his line of march.”

  ___________

  The Residency

  Governor-General’s Office

  October 21, 1833, 9 a.m.:

  “So your raid missed him by a few hours, eh? Slipped through your hands…too bad. This Russki is as sharp as Satan, apparently. Sounds like he never sleeps in the same place twice.”

  Colonel Burr looked at Wellington. “Well, damn it. He’s got at least one less place to sleep, now. If he’s aware we’ve hit this hideout.”

  The G-G had his elbows up on the desk, his tiny fingers forming a miniature tent. “This young fellow Harper. I recall him from my days at Interior. He’s been useful, you say. I think he can safely be detached from his, err, ‘official’ duties and assigned to this manhunt full-time.”

  The Colonel chuckled. “The magnificent Jacqueline and the delectable young Countess. The boy’s official duties obviously are not overtaxing him…yes, I agree, Matty, let’s utilize him where he’ll do the most good…”

  The others smiled and the G-G turned to Wellington. “No sense having overlapping searches, Sir Arthur. I suggest we consolidate our efforts, as this is something of an emergency situation. I should think Captain Bratton to be charge, with young Harper and our Justice Department marshals under him. The Marines will also be available.”

  The Duke nodded affirmatively. “Agreed, Mr. Governor. We have to take this diabolical Russian off the board before he can create further chaos. Let’s bring Harry in now and give him his marching orders. Also, it might be advantageous if you summon this young Lothario so we can hear firsthand what if anything he picked up on his, ahem, Sunday picnic.”

  The Colonel coughed discreetly. “If you gentlemen don’t mind, I will join the search …in an ‘unofficial’ capacity, of course...”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed and the familiar twinkle was gone, icicles now seeming to protrude from the sockets. In the Duke’s mind’s eye flashed a scene on a cliffside ledge overlooking the water, a hot morning sun breaking through the lingering fog, two hushed groups of men standing apart under trees while two small figures in shirtsleeves and vests stood facing in a clearing, pistols in their right hands pointing upward, awaiting the command to fire…

  “…as I should very much like to meet this Russian myself.”

  ___________

  Bethesda Meeting House

  Rockville Pike, North of Georgetown

  October 22, 1833

  2:15 p.m.:

  The wiry, clean-shaven bald man sat erectly on his horse in the shadow of the Presbyterian church. Even in the shade, the heat was intense and he took off his hat to wipe his brow, the head glistening.

  At their meeting Saturday, M. Jean-Claude had volunteered to relay messages to and from him, so as to mislead the British, who undoubtedly had the Russian Consulate under constant watch. The Frenchman’s help was especially appreciated now that Nicholas had confirmed that the Americans were also on his trail. He had watched the comedy at the farmhouse from a safe distance. The Marine contingent had awakened him as they rode by less than a quarter mile from his makeshift camp. He had followed, guessing immediately where they were headed.

  Now he could see a single rider coming up the Pike. Surprisingly, it was Jean-Claude himself; Nicholas had expected to rendezvous with the Consulate’s security chief. He waited as the Frenchman paused and looked around, then eased his horse slowly onto the meeting house grounds. The C-G’s animal joined Nicholas’ mount in nibbling on the plush grass.

  “I appreciate the effort, Consul-General, even as I question the judgment; this is a risky business for the chief representative of a supposed neutral…”

  “Nonsense, my dear Count. I am a familiar figure, riding in and around Georgetown on an almost daily basis. Nothing could be more routine…and my country has its own interest in seeing the Lion tied up in knots here in North America…”

  “As you wish, Consul-General. However, you and Count Karl were almost certainly followed; the Americans launched a raid on the farmhouse befo
re dawn Sunday.”

  “Sacre bleu!”

  “Fortunately, I had taken the precaution to camp in the open fields. They found no trace of me. However, tell Renkowiitz to find another une maison sans danger. That one’s usefulness is at an end. Now, what have you for me?”

  Jean-Claude was visibly shaken by Ignatieff’s news and glanced around nervously, to Nicholas’ disgust. “Come Monsieur, quickly: what news?”

  The C-G forced himself to concentrate on his verbal report. “They opened their Alexandria camp this morning. By tomorrow, their entire army will be across the Potomac. Word in the capitol is that Scott will march by week’s end; certainly by this time next week.” He wiped sweat from his eyes; Ignatieff grinned his wolf’s grin and wondered how much was due to the heat and how much to his reaction to the news of the American raid.

  “Is that all?”

  Jean-Claude was continuing to shift nervously in his saddle. “My dear Count. Before I entered the diplomatic service, I served in the Grand Armee. If I knew an enemy agent was lurking out here, I would send cavalry to sweep the area…”

  Ignatieff nodded and grinned again. “So would I. And so have they. I have been dodging their patrols all morning. I found a quiet inn to pass last night, but it appears I must again take to the fields this night.”

  The C-G was shocked: “What, why I saw nothing coming up here!”

  “Probably because they have swept the area and moved further north.” Ignatieff was dry. “So you had best depart. However, did that fool Renkowiitz find out when Scott leaves for Alexandria?”

  “I saw the General and a group of riders heading toward the Long Bridge early this morning…”

  “Merde alors!”

  “However, that does not mean he will stay in Virginia.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I do not think he intends to remain on his horse until the last of the Carlisle regiments has arrived. He may well be back at the War Department as we speak, after officially welcoming the first troops to Alexandria.”

  Ignatieff nodded. “Tell Renkowiitz to find out for certain. There is a small French café, the Ille de France, on 14th Street. Are you familiar with it? Good. Arrange with Renkowiitz to have a professional--someone cool and competent who can avoid being followed---meet me there in two nights: Wednesday evening, after 9 p.m.”

  Jean-Claude stared into the strange eyes. “You will risk coming into the city?”

  Nicholas snorted. “Why else would I have come back? What I must do is better done on this side of the Potomac.”

  Jean-Claude was halfway back to Georgetown when, suddenly, he knew what the Russian intended to try.

  Sacre bleu!

  ___________

  The Residency

  October 24, 1833, 4 p.m.:

  The Ignatieff group had taken over Tom Wilder’s cubbyhole (it was, in fact, where Colonel Burr’s memorable interview with Renkowiitz had taken place). As the Colonel observed: “There’ll be no party planning at The Residency for quite some time…”

  The group had decided, at its first meeting Monday, to place a watch on the French Consulate. The surveillance, however, hadn’t been operational until Tuesday. By then, Jean-Claude had passed Ignatieff’s message on to the Russian C-G. The surveillance had been fruitful, however: the steady stream of messengers and visits exchanged between the two consulates confirmed that, in all probability, they were working together.

  But now a Russian messenger was on the Portico, having walked over, apparently, from the Interior Department. The Colonel’s eyes twinkled wickedly as a doorman announced a message for Harper. “Well Mr. Harper, shall we see what this is all about? Perhaps the Countess needs some attention?”

  David, reddening, rose and, walking into the hallway, accepted a small envelope from a heavy-set woman---he recognized her as Caroline’s maid---who gave no indication of any sign of leaving. “Expecting a reply, Mr. Harper. Must be important…and immediate.” The Colonel was now openly grinning as he watched from the cubbyhole’s doorway.

  The message was short and, on the surface, correct: “Finding my schedule for this evening unexpectedly cancelled, I am now free to accept your supper invitation at The Hungry Peddler, 7 p.m. Caroline.”

  Harps quickly scribbled his confirmation and handed it to the Russian woman, whose bright blue eyes betrayed an intelligence not otherwise apparent on her round peasant face. She turned without a word and shuffled toward the doors.

  David watched her disappear across the Portico before turning to Burr with a strange smile on his face. “Countess Caroline has reconsidered, apparently, and accepted my invitation to dinner this evening. We’re to meet at 7 p.m. at a local tavern.”

  The Colonel grimaced. “My congratulations, but I had hoped for something more…appropriate…to the present situation than a social engagement.”

  “But Colonel: I issued no such invitation.”

  Burr stared. “Captain Bratton and I will await your return. No matter what the hour.”

  ___________

  Grant Street Cafe (The Golden Eagle)

  Grant & 18th Streets

  October 25, 1833, 1:30 a.m.:

  Nicholas had not been happy when informed that The Eagle had reopened. But the report he had received from Captain Drago, via the French agent who had also delivered a well-stocked carpetbag, was that the upper floors were unoccupied. Apparently, the new management lived elsewhere…

  He slipped out of his back room at the Ille de France at 14th & I Streets after midnight and walked head down, the brim of his wide hat pulled low, unchallenged and virtually unnoticed the mile or so towards the alley behind the Eagle. Those he did come across included the usual assortment of drunks, thieves and honest workers coming or going about their own business. With the Army now settled at the Alexandria encampment and the remainder of the defense force stationed northwest of the capitol, there were few soldiers in Georgetown. The police presence, of course, was virtually negligible. Lightly carrying the carpetbag in one hand, his other resting on a pocket-held pistol, he arrived without incident.

  He extracted a tool from the bag and easily picked the newly changed lock on the kitchen door. He pushed open the door gently and stepped inside. No sign of life. Drago is right: no one stays here overnight. He grinned in the darkness: fear of ghosts, perhaps? He walked through the bar---nothing had apparently been changed---and dragged tables to the front doors. He piled them up to the top of the doorway and then pushed a second set against the first. Anyone attempting to break down the door would have a struggle. Quickly and quietly he made his way back to the staircase leading to the second floor. At the top he did not even pause to glance at the back boudoir where he had lived with---and murdered---Joanne. Instead, he turned toward the front of the building, to the small corner bedroom that one of the whores---he couldn’t remember her name, only her wild blond hair---had used.

  The door creaked but was unlocked. He strode toward the window overlooking the street. He opened it slightly; the air in the room was stifling. Going to his knees, he pulled out the prototype French rifle the Consulate had provided him; it was capable of firing three shots before reloading. Our army must get its hands on these, he thought, idly; if they can be practically produced en mass, they would change the entire equation of infantry battle tactics.

  After pushing the weapon’s barrel through the window and experimenting with several potential angles, he finally was satisfied and pulled the rifle back down. He turned his back to the wall; he had several hours before his prey would most probably be riding by. Incredibly---a compliment to his iron nerves---he closed his eyes and napped.

  ___________

  Streets of Georgetown

  October 25, 1833, 3 a.m.:

  In light of the emergency, Captain Bratton and Colonel Burr had tossed protocol---and the constitution---aside. All fighting men must be utilized on this deadly manhunt…and that included the Liaison Office’s contingent of Royal Marines.

 
His Majesty’s forces were now surrounding both the Russian and French consulates, making no effort to keep their presence a secret. Major Layne himself was in command, with orders to arrest anyone who interfered…and to shoot to kill, if fired upon.

  Captain Goodwin personally led the squad of USBA Marines who had broken down the front door of the Ille de France an hour ago and thoroughly searched the building. The angry French-born owner was roughly shoved aside as the Marines tore the place apart. Other Marines were busy taking up guard around The Residency and patrolling the streets.

  Larry Stubas had mobilized his USBA marshals and they were questioning---none too politely---the various denizens of the night unfortunate enough to be prowling the streets.

  This explosion of activity, like lava out of a suddenly erupting volcano, had resulted from the quiet words of Countess Caroline over barely-eaten meals at The Hungry Peddler.

  Harper had found her waiting in her carriage, the usual Cossacks shockingly absent, when he arrived at 6:45 p.m. “We must act gay, as if nothing is amiss, even though what I will tell you is very shocking,” Caroline whispered as they made their way to the dining room. The Residency had quietly secured for them an isolated back booth.