The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (42 page)

Monticello Tavern

8pm:  

     Even Cris Donfield made it to Monticello by the appointed hour, to find Tousaint’s group virtually the only customers in the dusky, dirty barroom. He moved toward the rear table they regularly occupied and ordered a beer.

     He and the others---Ugene Doby and Marion Motley---were still stunned that a government plan to end slavery might be at hand. And they were even more stunned to find out how angrily Tousaint Numidia disapproved.

      It was very simple, Tousaint explained as patiently as his fiery temper would allow: “The British Congress---what they call their Parliament and which has power over the Congress here in Georgetown---agrees that slavery is an abomination.

       “But not so much of an abomination that they want to end it now. No, this Parliament wants to wait seven more years---seven more years during which our maumba will continue to suffer and die---before they do anything about it.”

      Tousaint looked at his followers: “What kind of uhura is that? If Parliament can abolish slavery in seven years, why wait? Why not now!”

      There was silence around the table as Tousaint, in an imitation of his father which somehow lacked the same effect, slammed his fist on the rough wood surface, rattling his own glass of rum and the beers of the others.

        Ugene, whose Interior clerkship gave him a somewhat more sophisticated view of the world than that available to a hotel porter or a consulate maintenance man, shook his head.

      “I don’t know, Simba. Don’t seem there’s much we can do about it. If the Brits are serious about emancipation, that’s the best news I’ve heard in years. Even though it might be sometime down the road…”

      Donfield was shaking his head in agreement: “That’s right, Simba. Sure, we’d like emancipation right away, but at least we do know now when it’s coming.”

      Tousaint was growing angrier by the second. “Don’t you dumb bastards understand? Seven years from now is 1840. Lot could happen by then. Just suppose that King William over there dies? Who’s to say this young girl who’s next in line for the throne will go along? Who’s to say she’ll be allowed to go along? Who’s to say she’ll even be queen?

      “And these damn planters! Give
them
seven years to organize and who knows what will happen. Moses says the Brits are prepared to back up emancipation by force…”

        “Then whats you be worried ‘bout Simba? Da Redcoats make ‘em do it at da barrel of a rifle!” Motley spoke for the first time.

       Numidia looked at Motley and smiled as if about to explain something fundamental to a child. “Because, Marion, there’s no guarantee the Royal Army will be able to enforce emancipation…”

        Doby laughed: “Shit, Simba, who’s gonna stop them? Not those tin soldiers over at the War Department!”

       Tousaint was grim: “Those tin soldiers threw the French out of the Louisiana Territory and helped the Brits defeat Napoleon, Ugene. Don’t underestimate them. But I wasn’t talking about the USBA fighting the Brits. Europe’s gone 20 years now without a war. That’s some kind of white man’s record. By 1840, the Royal Army could be tied up anywhere from Greece to India…”

        “You done lost me, Simba.” Motley was laughing. “Only grease Ah knows be on a wagon wheel.  As for Injuns, ain’t that who da Dominian army be fightin’ wit’ now?”

      Tousaint’s frustration was obvious, so Ugene, the most educated of his followers, decided to call a halt. “Okay, Simba, you ain’t happy with the wait. We get that. Is that why you wanted to meet here tonight…to let us know you’re pissed…or do you have something else to add?”

      Numidia grinned. Doby was a lot smarter than he looked…or let on. “Right Ugene. I got a plan. A plan that will force the damn Brits to declare uhura. Now!”

      Donfield groaned. “I was afraid of this. Okay, Simba. What you got in mind…knowing that we ain’t necessarily agreeing to follow through on whatever the hell it is…”

     His leadership confirmed, Tousaint looked around the table in triumph. “What I have in mind, gentlemen, is to encourage Parliament to speed up the uhura process…”

    Now it was Ugene’s turn to roll his eyes and groan. “And exactly how…”

    “By taking the Duke of Wellington prisoner and holding him for ransom.”

    “For ransom?” Donfield spit out the words along with a mouthful of beer. While the others sat looking at Tousaint in shock, he continued: “Why, so we can buy our maumba free ourselves?”

      “Not for money. We ransom Wellington for a speed-up in uhura. A formal agreement to free all the slaves in the USBA within 12 months time.”

      “Dear Lordy.” Donfield was pounding both his head and his fist against the table. “We’re dealing with a madman. Lord help us…”

       Doby, however, was assessing Numidia with a sober, somber look. “I know you’ve thought this out, Simba. So tell me: how is four niggas gonna blackmail the British Parliament? What makes you think the Brits---or the USBA authorities---will keep any bargains they make with us?

       “Hell, the moment we give Wellington back…and that’s saying we can snatch and hold him for as long as it takes…they’ll hunt us down like Nat Turner…”

       Tousaint silently played with his rum glass long enough to let Doby’s question sink in. “I agree, no question they wouldn’t honor any agreements with us, Ugene… 

      “But don’t you think they would with the New England Abolitionist Society?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Constantinople, Ottoman Empire

March 10, 1833, 7 a.m.:

     Sir John Ponsonby, British Ambassador to the Porte, was a student of ancient history as well as an amateur archeologist. This Sunday morning, he was up early and had left the Embassy with an aide to explore some recently uncovered ruins just outside the city walls. Prior examination indicated the find might predate the Roman period.

     So it was that he was among the first residents of Constantinople to witness the amazing sight: A rag-tag armada of warships was escorting a remarkably-diverse convoy of merchant vessels, fishing boats, pleasure craft and barges moving slowly and carefully through the Straights.

      Sir John’s puzzlement at the sight---the warships’ designs were unlike any he had previously understood the Sultan’s pitiful Navy to possess and yet looked remarkably outdated to even his nonprofessional glance---grew as guns began to boom on the city walls. It soon became clear, however, that the Turks were intent on greeting, not destroying, the fleet which now moved closer to Ponsonby’s vantage point atop the shoreline ruins.

      Alistair Tudsbury, the Embassy’s talkative second secretary, stood at the Ambassador’s side, his mouth open and gargling sounds alone escaping. Young Tudsbury had been as startled as Ponsonby himself when the ships had come into view and the artillery salute commenced. Now Tudsbury, who had served a four-year hitch as a junior officer in the Royal Navy and had the best eyesight at the Embassy, was pointing at the two ships-of-the-line, his hand visibly shaking.

      “Sir John, do you see it? What the devil…? I say, this is most improbable!”

      Ponsonby turned to his now red-faced aide: “What is it, Tudsbury? Damn it! What do you see? You know how nearsighted I am! This bloody flotilla is too far out in the Straights for me to make out anything definitive…”

        The shaken Ambassador now looked up at the walls. A growing clamor rose from the throngs of merchants, workers and other city residents staring at the stunning scene. The uniformed Ottoman soldiers, however, were gazing out impassively, while the gun crews continued the salute now being answered by the ships in the Straights.

       Tudsbury, having regained his self-control, spoke to his superior while looking out onto the Bosporus: “I count two 70-plus gun warships, Sir. Four frigates of roughly 40 guns apiece. A dozen or more gunboats. Haven’t had time to count the transports, but they’re clearly packed with men and horses. Can see some artillery, too, Sir John.”

       The former ensign, pausing, now turned and looked Ponsonby in the eye: “And they’re all flying the white double eagle flag…

        “That, Sir John, is a Czarist fleet coming through the Straights. With the permission, apparently, of the Porte. Headed out into the open waters of the Mediterranian…”

___________

Rose Hill Plantation

Yancyville, N.C.

March 20, 1833:

    Count Nicholas Ignatieff, aka Andre Karlhamanov, rode up the winding driveway that led to the home of North Carolina’s senior USBA Senator, Bedford Brown. He carried with him an invitation that had arrived while he was visiting Virginia Senator Tyler’s plantation in Charles City County.

       Nicholas was thus far pleased with the results of his travels and meetings with the Southern leadership. Both Governor Floyd and Tyler had angrily denounced Parliament’s unilateral move to abolish slavery. Floyd was also particularly incensed that Wellington had violated Virginia’s hospitality by never mentioning the issue when previously visiting Richmond:

     “The man comes down here virtually unannounced, holds talks with us on a number of Dominion issues and then returns to Georgetown accompanied by both Tyler and Rives. Yet he never mentions the real reason for his visit here! That verges on the duplicitous, Sir!

       “God knows I’m on record as wanting a quick end to this impractical, obsolete system of labor. But it is an issue for each state to determine individually and in its own good time. Parliament has no right to arbitrarily abolish it by vote or Imperial decree!”

        Keeping strictly to his role of visiting college professor and fascinated observer of the American Dominion, Nicholas had listened respectfully, nodding and asking appropriate questions, both at the Governor’s residence and later, while visiting Tyler’s Walnut Grove Plantation. He had been impressed with the beauty of the state while traveling south towards North Carolina, the prosperity of its (white) people and their fierce love of what they regarded as their true homeland.

    He had in fact remarked to Senator Tyler---who was resting up during a break in a hastily arranged statewide speaking tour---on the ambiguity of the Virginians’ feelings toward Dominion and Empire.

      “We are not as extreme as the South Carolinians,” Tyler had replied with a smile, “who resent any Dominion or Imperial ‘intrusion,’ so to speak, in their affairs. We are more practical: we understand that there is a give-and-take. The Dominion maintains order, provides a unified currency and allows for free trade. The Empire protects us internationally and provides markets for our crops, particularly cotton and tobacco. In return, we abide by decisions affecting all the states as determined in Georgetown and London.

        “However, our peculiar institution is not a Dominion-wide issue. It is, by and large, confined to the South. Thus, its future must be determined by the South. When Franklin and Burke sat down to negotiate their famous Compact, they purposely refrained from mentioning slavery as it was not an issue causing conflict between the mother country and the colonies, nor among the colonies themselves. Since it was never considered, never debated and never voted upon in ‘76 by either the Continental Congress or the Parliament, it is not an issue that either of those august bodies can at this late date take it upon themselves to adjudicate!”

       Secretly pleased with the apparent determination of the Virginians to oppose Imperially-imposed emancipation, Nicholas had put on a face of confusion: but how could they stop the procedure, short of armed resistance…unthinkable, correct?

         Tyler had been grim: “Once the North and the West realize that this mandatory abolition is unacceptable, they will accede to our wishes. The Western economy, especially, is dependent upon our good will. They must have free access down the Mississippi River to deliver their goods to New Orleans for shipment. And Jackson is a Southerner, a planter himself! He will rally his supporters in the other sections and then, backed by a united Dominion, force Wellington to the bargaining table.

      “Let the Empire impose its will elsewhere. We of the Dominion enjoy a special status. An exemption will be negotiated…”

        Nicholas had looked at the fiery Virginian with a most earnest, solemn expression. “And if either the North or Parliament refuses…?”

       Tyler was hard-faced: “In that extreme instance, which I pray and expect will never occur, the Dominion as a whole, and the South in particular, will consider its options…”

__________

     The Senator was on his way back from meetings in the state capitol and was expected later in the day, Mary Brown said in welcoming her visitor. The couple’s bevy of rambunctious children raced from across the landscape with various playmates of darker shades, all eager to see the unexpected visitor.

       Eye patch firmly in place, Nicholas/Andre was an object of intense fascination to the children, both white and black, as he relaxed and awaited his host, whom he barely remembered from Georgetown. (Nicholas actually had difficulty remembering one Southerner from another, with a single exception: John C. Calhoun. That object of his highest intentions had not yet issued an invitation to visit Fort Hill Plantation, but Nicholas hoped to prevail on his ‘official’ South Carolina host, Congressman McDuffie, to so arrange.)

       Brown, who had entered politics at the ripe age of 19 with election to the state legislature, turned out to be an affable man of about 35. His views on emancipation---tempered by his ownership of some 200 slaves---were much the same as the Virginians: the call on abolition was the right of each state, not the Dominion or Imperial governments. Any phased-in emancipation plan was also out-of-the-question for a variety of practical reasons: impact on the Southern and Dominion economies; obvious inability of the ‘servants’ to fend for themselves; etc.