The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (16 page)

___________

        
Georgetown, D.C.
February 1, 1833:
     Winfield Scott sat at his huge desk, rubbing his eyes and flexing his tree-trunk neck.
It’s the damn paperwork that’ll send me into retirement some day
, he thought with disgust.
That damn Gaines is a born paper-pusher. He eats this stuff up. Me, I need to get into the field more. Going out to Illinois for the Black Hawk War was a tonic. Not the fighting and dying, of course, just being in the field…
     The General rose from his chair and walked around the room, letting the blood circulate in his massive legs.
Almost 5 p.m. Think I’ll call it a day. Wonder what damn fool event Maria has us scheduled for tonight? If it was up to my wife, we’d never stay home…well, she deserves her fun where she can find it. Georgetown isn’t exactly
London or Paris---or even New York---when it comes to excitement.
     The General was reaching for his cloak when his secretary, Lt. Luke Beaufort, appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me, sir. Rider just in from Fort McHenry.” The secretary handed Scott Lieutenant Wilder’s message: ‘Ship identified as
Irresistible
sighted off harbor at 6 a.m. Anchorage anticipated by 8 a.m.’ Scott folded the message and handed it back.
        “Get this over to the Governor-General, Lieutenant. His hand only, you understand? Tell General Jackson I will hand deliver the follow-up message when received, no matter the hour.” Scott tossed his huge head, indicating to the secretary to leave.  He leaned back against the front of the desktop as he watched his aide depart.
Well, she got back in a
hurry, didn’t she ever! Let’s see: December 16
^th
to February 1st
^st
. Forty-seven days. That’s got to be record time. Which means something’s up. If it’s not a slave-based tax, it’s something of comparable importance. I wonder what, if anything, Wilder has found out…

___________

Georgetown-Baltimore Road

February 1, 1833:
    Darkness comes early to southern Maryland in midwinter but Wellington and his party pushed on till the lights of Brady’s Fox Hunt Inn began to become visible after 5 p.m.
     “I suggest we stop here, Sir,” Wilder said as the three horsemen slowed their pace several hundred yards north of the Inn. “We’re still about 30 miles from Georgetown and there isn’t a better inn within 10 miles. The food is good here and it doesn’t look too crowded. Shouldn’t have trouble getting rooms.”
      Wellington had nodded at the suggestion to stop and laughed at the reference to rooms. Bratton, however, seemed to bristle. “Are you suggesting that the Duke of Wellington would be turned away at the inn, Lieutenant? Bloody little chance of that, I would expect…”
     Wilder looked at the Englishman as they dismounted and handed their reins to the stable boy.
You pompous jackass! You come over here and treat us like second class citizens in our own country. This isn’t Ireland. Here, we push back
: “I’m sure there’s room for the Duke, Captain Bratton. I was referring to the chances of
you
bedding down in the stable…

    “However, that does raise a serious question, Sir,” he added, turning to the still chuckling Duke. “We’ve not discussed whether this is a public visit to the USBA. Am I to announce you to Mr. Brady, who is, as the sign says, the innkeeper, or simply to refer to Your Grace as a distinguished visitor from Great Britain?”
     Even in the half darkness of the lantern-lit yard, Wellington’s eyes sparkled as Scott’s sometimes did when Wilder said something sharp. “Very good, Lieutenant. I am here on a tour of the Dominion, but one that has yet to be announced publicly. I believe it will be easier all around if I remain incognito until we reach Georgetown and I can pay my respects at The Residency. You will introduce me as ‘Colonel Wellesley, British Army, ret.’ And the Captain as ‘Captain Bratton of the Coldstream Guards.’ Now, let’s go in, shall we?”
    An hour later, their gear stashed in their rooms (to Thomas’ disgust, he was forced to share his space with Bratton) and the dirt of a hard day’s riding washed from their hands and faces, Wilder and the two Englishmen were seated at a back booth near a roaring Inn fireplace.
    A waitress, one of the owner’s daughters, Erin, had already served a round of drinks: hot rum for the ‘Colonel’; Port for Captain Bratton and a mug of beer for the Lieutenant.
     “Even in the dead of winter, Mr. Wilder?” Bratton said, pointing to the stein. “And you Americans still drink it chilled, too, I see.”
     “I’m not one for spirits, Captain Bratton,” Thomas said without, he hoped, a trace of a blush. “I do enjoy fine wines in the appropriate settings, and an occasional glass of Port. However, I acquired my taste for beer naturally. And I refined it at the Point. That’s all we could get, at Benny Haven’s…”
     Wellington, who seemed to enjoy the biting give-and-take between the Colonial Office man and this surprisingly feisty young USBAA officer, broke in: “What’s that? ‘Acquired your taste naturally?’ Eh? And what was this about ‘the Point?’”
     Well, it was bound to come out sooner or later.
Thomas looked the Duke in the eye. “I’m a third generation British American of Irish Catholic descent, ‘Colonel Wellesley.’ So I naturally like my beer. I also graduated from West Point, the USBA Military Academy, back in ’29. Benny Haven’s is a rather disreputable tavern outside the Main Gate. Like every West Pointer, I remember it fondly…”
     There was a short silence at the table, which the Duke broke with a snort that seemed to denote acceptance rather than disdain. “Well, Lieutenant, we Englishmen enjoy an occasional pint ourselves, eh Bratton? But not on a cold winter’s night. Have that waitress bring over another round and tell us what’s on tonight’s menu…”
      Over their meals---‘the Colonel’ and Captain Bratton chose two of the Inn’s specialties: prime rib and a steak served sizzling hot, respectively, while Tom ate a hearty beef stew---‘the Colonel’ steered talk back to the political situation.
       “Captain Bratton, Lieutenant, served in the Liaison Office at Georgetown back in the late ‘20s. He has emphasized to me the political importance of the slavery issue in the USBA. So your observations this afternoon about emancipation and nullification made an impression. Tell me, have you any indication that the abolitionists are planning to introduce an emancipation bill in the upcoming Congress, which for some reason doesn’t convene until next December, if I’m not mistaken?”
      Taken back by the news that Bratton had first-hand knowledge of the USBA--
did the
Captain realize he had deliberately slowed their progress to Georgetown
?--the Lieutenant paused before focusing his thoughts on the ‘Colonel’s’ question.
       “An emancipation bill is the abolitionists’ long-term goal, ‘Colonel.’ At least ten years down the road, from all I’ve heard and read. Perhaps I overemphasized their strength in the North at present. It’s growing solidly in New England, where it’s begun to have an affect on local political races. In New York and Pennsylvania, the movement doesn’t yet have the political clout it now does in New England, but is drawing more attention than ever. In the West, people are more concerned with developing the land than arguing social issues that have no direct impact on their lives. Even out West, however, there seems to be growing conviction that slavery is a moral blot on our society. Yet everyone realizes that, even if the abolitionists managed to get a bill introduced and passed---which is remote at best---they’d never muster the two-thirds majority necessary to see it into law.”
     Captain Bratton leaned forward across the remnants of his sizzling steak. “And why do you say that, Mr. Wilder? Why a two-thirds majority?” The ‘Colonel,’ too, looked puzzled.
     “Because, gentlemen, according to our constitution, it takes a two-thirds majority to overturn a gubernatorial-general veto. That’s a veto which is automatic, at least for the next four years, as long as the G-G’s health holds up.
     “After all, if there is anything as sure as death and the British Empire, it is that Andrew Jackson would veto any emancipation bill placed before him.  That, ‘Colonel,’ I don’t believe any British American citizen, including the most rapid abolitionist, would argue.” 
       The political talk seemed to die off shortly thereafter, and the ‘Colonel’ soon excused himself and went to bed. The two younger officers remained in the tavern, where Bratton quizzed the Lieutenant on the Georgetown social scene, both high level and low. He seemed particularly impressed that Joanne Casgrave had taken over ownership of the Golden Eagle.

___________

Georgetown, D.C.
Evening, February 1, 1833:
    Winfield Scott was relieved that his wife had not made plans for the evening. He needed to stay home to await the arrival of the second Fort McHenry rider.
     With a complete trust in Maria’s ability to keep official secrets, a trust earned in the almost two decades of their marriage, the General had long before discussed the
Irresistible
mystery with her. She of course knew that Thomas had been sent to Baltimore and was aware that messages were expected if-and-when the ship was sighted. Only the timing surprised her. Winfield hadn’t expected
Irresistible
for a few more days, at the earliest.
     After relaxing over glasses of Port, the couple was preparing to sit down to supper when a servant went to answer a sudden knock at the front door. “General, a soldier who identifies himself as from Fort McHenry is in the vestibule. He requests to speak with you.”
     Scott glanced at the clock and shared a look with his wife. It was 7:12 p.m. He strode out without a word. Saluting the obviously tired but still awestruck corporal, he took the message from the man’s hand before speaking. “Thank you, Corporal. When did you leave?”
     “About 8:50 this morning, Sir. Been in the saddle all day, except for remounting.”
      “It will be noted on your record, son. Good work. I assume you know the drill as far as food, lodging and care for your horse?”
     “Yes, Sir, I’ve ridden this route before.” The Corporal saluted and left.
     Scott was tearing open the message and reading it even before the door closed behind the non-com. He could count on one hand the times he’d truly been taken back during his years in the service, but this message left him dumbfounded. His old commander from the Peninsula campaign, General Sir Arthur Wellesley, now formally the Duke of Wellington, had come across the Atlantic on
Irresistible
! And was within 40 or so miles of Georgetown, escorted by Scott’s own aide. The General read the message a second time. ‘…Stop expected undetermined inn Georgetown-Baltimore Road. Arrive 2/2/33…’

      
Tom’s giving us overnight to prepare…good boy
.
Should I send an escort troop up the
road tonight? No, wait till morning. Let’s not look too concerned…even though this is
one delicate situation.
      Maria had taken the message from his hand and gasped as she read it. “Win, Wellington himself here? Why do you think…?”
      Scott’s face settled into a puzzled frown. “I’m not sure, but something tells me all hell is about to break loose, my dear. The Duke didn’t take to the North Atlantic in January for fun. London’s planning something so big that they’ve sent the most prestigious name they could to inform us. I’d better get over to see Jackson. Don’t wait up.” He kissed her softly on the forehead and, pulling on his heavy military great coat, called for the carriage he had ordered to stand by as soon as he had arrived home.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Georgetown, D.C.
February 2, 1833:
    After consultation with a---for once---stunned-into-silence Jackson, Scott had decided against sending a troop to meet Wellington and escort him down to Georgetown. The strategy he and the G-G had devised in their late night meeting with Blair, Van Buren and others of the kitchen cabinet called for cloaking their preparations with apparent surprise.
     Scott now knew that Jackson had initially been violently against any Imperial-imposed tax on slaves and/or their resale but was now reconsidering, having realized its potential for countering the abolitionist movement. Blair, for one, had grasped that a tax---with or without a companion bill on Northern industrial growth---would indeed have the unforeseen effect of legitimizing slavery by making its existence directly financially beneficial to the Empire. He favored a public voicing of opposition but a tacit silent agreement of support.  Van Buren apparently---it was never crystal clear with the ‘Little Magician’---favored sending a special delegation to lobby Parliament to drop the proposal. (That the USBA already had a Parliamentary delegation didn’t seem to affect Matty Van’s thinking; he apparently wanted to talk the bill to death…or to so appear.)
     Scott hadn’t left The Residency until well after midnight but was back in his War Department office by 8 a.m. No matter what the purpose, a visit by as distinguished a dignitary as London could possibly send---a former commander-in-chief as well as former Prime Minister---called for formal welcoming ceremonies. His office was already working on the details and would coordinate with The Residency as soon as Lieutenant Wilder arrived. Meanwhile, at Jackson’s orders, Donelson was overseeing a hurried freshening up of the old house itself.
      Having given orders that the 4
^th
Artillery and the other ceremonial units standby, Scott returned to the real issue: why was Wellington here?
What has London decided to
spring on us? And why, in God’s name, now?

___________

Georgetown-Baltimore Road
February 2, 1833:
    They had risen before dawn and, after a quick breakfast of tea and biscuits that Tom had arranged with the innkeeper the night before, they were ready to ride. As they were reining their horses toward the road, the proprietor came out into the yard. A barrel-chested man in his early 50s with the map of Ireland imprinted on his face, Ed Brady had fought in the Napoleonic Wars before emigrating to the USBA.
   “I hope the food and accommodations were acceptable, gentlemen?” he asked. Informed that they were, Brady added, looking up to the ‘Colonel’: “And will Your Grace be leading the commemorative services at Waterloo for the 20
^th
anniversary? Some of the lads from Third R.I. Fusiliers have written me that something may be planned…”
    Thomas was unable to swallow a chuckle, though Bratton’s snort was clearly one of disgust. But the Duke smiled and thrust out his hand. “Third Royal Irish, eh? A good regiment, though a bit lax on discipline. You should have identified yourself last night, sir. It’s always a pleasure to meet one of my old boys. Yes, the Waterloo anniversary is coming up. I’ve heard something is in the works, but haven’t kept up on the details. Well, we both have time yet. Meanwhile, thank you for your hospitality, ah…”
     “Former Sergeant Brady, Sir. The honor was mine.”
     The trio of riders was silent as they headed down the road, though the Duke could be heard softly whistling ‘Rule Britannia.’