The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (53 page)

      And if they can’t get that exemption, well…one way or the other, we’ll see who’s commanding what Army...and who’s retired in disgrace!

___________

Liaison Office

Georgetown, D.C.

May 27, 1833, 3 p.m.:

       Captain Bratton and Major Layne were waiting with Sir John Burrell when David Harper was ushered into a spacious conference room decorated with a massive British flag and equally large portraits of the King, his father George IV and the Prime Minister.

     Harps had sent the Captain a short note early this morning and the Colonial Office man had requested his appearance at this hour “if your schedule at the Department permits. Otherwise, please specify a time.” Three o’clock was fine with David: it should leave him free before Interior closed at 5 p.m.. The new Secretary was making a show, he thought with a grumble, of keeping the Department fully manned until that hour, work, or lack of same, notwithstanding.

       The amenities quickly disposed of, the Captain plunged directly ahead: “Well now Mr. Harper. I assume your afternoon with the Countess went well? Good; now what have you got for us?”

        Harper hoped the three Brits would not be upset with the brevity of his report; not much had happened, but he felt it his duty to bring Bratton up-to-date anyhow. He hadn’t expected the entire Liaison upper echelon to be present, however…

       “The Countess is sticking with the official word that Karlhamanov is some sort of renegade son of a rich and influential St. Petersburg merchant family. But it’s easy to see that’s just the cover story…”

      Burrell’s delicate eyebrows went up: “Easy to see…how’s that? What makes you so sure?”

       Harper flashed the grin that had disarmed---and disrobed---so many females before continuing: “I’ve been seeing Caroline…the Countess…almost every Sunday for more than three months now. She’s doesn’t seem to be a very good liar; I doubt she’s had much practice…

      “She turned away before answering my question about Karlhamanov, which was simply if she was aware of a fellow Russian who seems to split his time when in town between the Consulate and the Golden Eagle. Couldn’t look me in the eye. And that’s the first time in our, err, ‘friendship,’ that I’ve gotten such a reaction...”

      The three Englishmen suddenly jumped to their feet as a hook-nosed old gentleman opened the conference room door and quietly walked in
. Oh my God, it’s Wellington
! Harper thought, looking over his left shoulder before scrambling to rise himself.

      “At ease, gentlemen.” The Duke eyeballed Harper as he had a thousand young subalterns. “Young Mr. Harper of the Interior Department. I’m told you’re our ticket inside the Russian Consulate…”

       Harry Bratton, busy pulling out a conference table chair for Sir Arthur, quickly recapped: “Mr. Harper doesn’t believe our friend ‘Andre’ is quite the ‘Russian dissident’ he has claimed to be. Says the Countess was…unconvincing…in so describing him.”

       The Duke returned his icy gaze to David: “Is that so. Hmm. Was she…unconvincing…in anything else she said?”

        “Yes Your Grace,” David’s head was now bobbing up and down like a bouncing ball:  “Carol…the Countess…also claimed she had no idea where he might have gone or who he might have seen during his time away from Georgetown. ‘No interest’ was the way she put it. She seemed rather upset…and insisted we end our picnic and resume riding…

        “I think I know her well enough to detect when she’s not herself. And my questions definitely flustered her. So, I have to think she knows quite a bit about his travels and, as she put it, ‘his American acquaintances…”

       With an embarrassed look at the Duke---
I thought he’d have more than this
---Bratton quickly, almost pleadingly, asked: “Anything else, Mr. Harper? Surely more talk than that on a long Sunday afternoon together?”

       Awed by Wellington’s presence, Harps took a minute to reply. “Well Captain, she was definitely surprised to know of the man’s relationship with Mrs. Casgrave…”

       Bratton’s forehead and cheeks suddenly matched the red of the Imperial flag displayed across the room. A sudden spasm of coughing simultaneously erupted from the Major, while Sir John’s lips puckered in a strange way. Even the Duke took a moment to clear his throat.

      “…but overall, it was her nervousness in even talking about him--and the Cossacks were far enough away that our conversation was strictly private---that most impressed me. Why, she even became confused…”

         “To what extent, Mr. Harper?” Bratton’s tone was interrogational, almost desperate.

         “At one point, while we were discussing his absence from Georgetown, she even began to mix him up with her father.”

         “What? With her father…?” Sir John looked skeptically at the young American. “I say, in what earthly way?”

         “She started to refer to him as ‘the Count.’ Only, she caught herself about halfway through. Then called him ‘M. Karlhamanov.’”

     Three heads stared momentarily at Harper before reflexively turning to look at their chief. The Duke of Wellington reached across the table and offered David his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Harper, you’ve been very helpful. I will send an appropriate note to Mr. MacLane for your permanent file. Major, if you will show Mr. Harper out…” Harry and Sir John were talking at once almost before the door closed behind the stunned Harper. “”By George, we’ve pegged him at last, Sir!” mixed with “We’ve got him this time. That’s confirmation!”

       The Duke, however, quickly held up his hand for silence. He waited till Robert Layne returned to the table before speaking in a quiet but forceful tone.

       “’Pegged him,’ Harry? Perhaps. ‘Confirmation’ though? Not yet. All we have is an apparent slip of the tongue by a Russian noblewoman speaking in a language not native to her.”

   He smiled softly as Bratton and Burrell fell back in their chairs, their excitement visibly fading. “Now gentlemen, no long faces. I daresay, I haven’t said I disagree with your conclusion. It’s simply a rather long leap of faith on very little tangible evidence.” He turned to look at the now-seated Layne. “Major, what is your opinion?”

      Layne licked his lower lip and paused for a long second: “Your Grace, I agree that the evidence at face value is flimsy. Until you recall something Mr. Harper told us the last time he was here.” He paused again and looked at Bratton.

       “You will recall, won’t you, Harry, that young Mr. Harper told us over lunch that day that the Countess was so proficient in the English language that she was conducting classes at the Consulate several days a week?”

         Encouraged by a nod from Wellington, as well as quick agreement from the Captain, Layne plunged ahead: “So this is more likely a slip of the tongue than a confusion of language.” He stopped again before picking up a report that had been in a stack in front of him:

       “After our initial, ah, ‘mishap’ concerning this Russki’s whereabouts, I had a tail placed on ‘Andre’ until he left town; then resumed it when he reappeared. But I also have had the Consulate under 24-hour surveillance since March. Twice in the last,” he looked down at the report, “30 days, one Captain Drago---whom we have long-since identified as the, shall we say, ‘man of action’ over there---has left town. As of this morning, he had not returned from the second jaunt.”

          Sir John shrugged his skinny shoulders in puzzlement. “So these Russkiis like to ride through Virginia…I fail to see what that…”

         Layne paid his civilian counterpart no apparent mind: “I submit, Your Grace, that the two situations tie together: Captain Drago is being utilized by Count Ignatieff---as I believe the Countess inadvertently but correctly identified him---as the postman to deliver news to this Mr. Calhoun. News contained in letters or reports that the Countess has had a hand in preparing, under Ignatieff’s direction.”

         Bratton and Burrell were silenced by pure shock, but Wellington smiled and nodded his head at the Major. “Well Major Layne, indeed. There may be a future for you after all, above and beyond this…hamlet. Good work.”

          He turned to the others: “However, gentlemen, even if accepting the Major’s deductive reasoning as correct, we still do not have the grounds, the proof actually, to move in on our friend. And certainly not to invoke the Extremity Provisions…

       “At this juncture, all we can do is continue to keep a close watch on the Consulate…and all its inhabitants.”

       He nodded grimly: “It may also be time to bring certain of our American political allies up-to-date on the Syrian adventure. And how Calhoun may be about to use it to his diabolical political advantage when their Congress meets.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Charleston, South Carolina, Harbor

May 28, 1833, 7:00 a.m.:

       John C. Calhoun had been firm with the sloop’s captain. If Congressman McDuffie wasn’t aboard by this hour, the anchor was to be pulled anyway.

       “Mac will just have to catch the next available boat,” the Senator told Floride. “It’s essential that I get to Georgetown as soon as practically possible. I’ll not wait for McDuffie nor anyone else…”

        To Floride’s relief, and Calhoun’s pleasure, as he often used the Congressman as a personal sounding board, McDuffie’s hired hack came racing up to the dock before the gangplank was raised. “Better late than never,” Calhoun grumbled as his House of Representatives’ point man dashed on board. “Congressman McDuffie, Sir. This is no time to initiate a habit of tardiness…”

         The winded McDuffie shook his head in disgust. “Damn hotel clerk forgot to waken me as ordered. I’d have skinned his hide, if there were time. Shows what happens when these transplanted Yankees are put in positions of responsibility. A proper darkie clerk would have had me up with time to spare…”

         Laughing, the trio went below to breakfast privately in the Calhouns’ stateroom. Once the fresh fruit was served and they were momentarily alone, Calhoun began to brief McDuffie on the Syrian situation, including the newest information delivered by Captain Drago: the Russians were landed and in search of the Arab army.

         It took till the ruins of breakfast had been collected and carried away before the Congressman fully grasped the implications.

      “If I understand you correctly, John, you intend to utilize the specter of insurrection here in the South as the weapon of choice to force the exemption concession from Wellington, based on the assumption that the Empire can not risk major conflicts in two places. But how can you be so sure the British are responding to the Syrian adventure? Seems to me, you have only the information this ‘correspondent’ of yours---who obviously is this Russian professor, or whatever his rank really is---has supplied you.”

        Calhoun’s smile bordered on the patronizing: “Not quite, George. I’ve yet to tell you of my encounter with His Grace, the Duke of Wellington himself, earlier this month in Raleigh…”

         The surprised expression on the Congressman’s face at this news gradually turned to comprehension as he listened to Calhoun’s version of the private session in the North Carolina governor’s mansion.

          “Well, John, sounds as if you bested the self-righteous old Limey bastard.  Knew exactly what you were referring to, eh! And realized you hold all the aces… Bet that sent him galloping back to Georgetown in a hurry. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s worked out a compromise with Jackson already…”

       Calhoun smiled at his wife while holding up a hand. “Congressman, please! I’m afraid it won’t be quite this easy!”

        He paused to sip some newly poured coffee before continuing: “Wellington is as astute as they come. He’s certainly had someone---probably Van Buren---counting heads. He knows it’s going to be tight in the Congress and that Jackson is key, if it gets that far.

       “I agree he probably
galloped
back to Georgetown, but I think it was to see any late-arriving dispatches. It’s questionable as to whether Jackson---or anyone else up there outside the Liaison Office---even knows about this Russian complication.” The Senator looked fondly at his wife. “In fact, outside of this room, only Jim Polk is aware of it.”

     “Polk?” McDuffie was confused. “How…”

      “Met with him in Asheville last Wednesday. He should be on his way to Georgetown now.  So, within 24 hours of our arrival, we should know what The Residency knows; and how the knowledge, or lack of it, is affecting Jackson’s position on emancipation itself.”

       McDuffie raised his own coffee cup in salute. “Now I see why you are in such a damn hurry to get up to that god-forsaken swamp…”

       Calhoun’s dark smile flashed briefly. “For this and other reasons we’ll discuss before we dock, George. This crisis is like a spilt inkwell: running in several directions at once. We’re not going up there to clean up the spill. Just to channel it in one direction: permanent exemption from emancipation for the South…and the Southwest we’ll soon be acquiring…”

___________

Van Buren Home

Georgetown, D.C.

May 28, 1833, 6:30 p.m.:

      The “certain American allies” the Duke intended to update were now gathering for dinner: in addition to the Vice G-G, Chief Justice Marshall was on hand. General Scott, who had arrived back in town after the unpleasant duty of relieving a valued comrade-in-arms of the command of Fort McHenry due to chronic alcoholism, was also present.

      “Well gentlemen, and ladies,” the Duke bowed formally to Maria Scott and Mrs. Marshall, “there is much to discuss this evening…and none of it is particularly pleasant. So, once we are served yet another of the Vice Governor-General’s most delectable meals, I suggest we wade into the subject…”

         Two hours later, the table was ominously silent.

         Each of the Americans was consumed with his or her own thoughts on the burgeoning crisis. Wellington himself, despite the stimulus of a steak dinner with roasted potatoes and several bottles of an excellent Bordeaux, was also deeply depressed.