The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (80 page)

       The shot should have knocked the General completely off his horse. But the massive Scott grabbed on to the saddle horn with his huge left paw and instead slid slowly off the right side of the saddle as the horse pulled up, incredibly without rearing up on its back legs.

      Ignatieff wasn’t watching; he turned slightly to get off a final shot at the back point rider, who was beginning to look up in his general direction. But by now the adrenalin was pumping too fast, even for Nicholas. Though he aimed for the chest, the shot went high. It blew a chunk of the regular’s skull and brain all the way onto the wooden sidewalk. The trooper spun out of the saddle and collapsed into the street, rolling over onto his back close to the spot where his brains had landed.

     Nicholas didn’t wait to assess the damages. He pulled the rifle back in and dropped it on the floor, grabbing his coat and hat in the same motion. He strode quickly toward the hallway, pulling both on as he moved.

___________

    Harry heard three incredibly quick successive bangs before he rounded the corner from 17
^th
Street onto Grant.
Three shots that close together?  By God, has he recruited
a
bloody team of assassins?
He spurred toward the chaos. The carnage was evident: one soldier lying outstretched on his back; horses shying and shoving. Two troopers covering Scott, who leaned unsteadily against his horse; at least he was still standing. A horse down and another trooper attempting to drag a body from underneath it. Yet another soldier, this one holding a flag-attached stanchion, pointing to The Eagle and shouting for assistance.

      Harry jumped off his horse and ran toward the side alley adjacent to the Eagle.

___________

  The Count raced through the hallway and down the stairs. No one was even banging at the front doors yet; with luck he’d be out the kitchen door and down the back alley before they even broke in. He sprinted through the kitchen, knocking over china and pots as he slid on floor grease and grabbed a carving table to catch himself.
Damn, could have
turned an ankle!
ебать этих поваров! (
Fucking cooks!) Joanne at least always insisted the kitchen be spotless before they left for the night…

     Now he unlocked the door and took two steps down into the alley. Less than a hundred feet to the right a connecting side alley would lead him out to 18
^th
Street.  He sprinted toward it.

     Captain Bratton pulled his pistol from his waistband as he ran up the side alley. He heard a door slam even as he skidded to a stop at the corner of the building and peered cautiously around. A man in a wide brim hat and coat was running toward the far end of the back alley, no more than 60 feet away.
It has to be Ignatieff or one of his team of assassins!
He stepped out, knelt and fired, using his left hand to steady the right.

     The man glanced back over his shoulder and stumbled but regained his balance. He was closing in on the corner…
Bloody hell
, Harry swore, reaching into the waistband for his second pistol. 
The bastard’s going to make it!
He fired anyway…and the figure crumpled to the ground, rolling over into the connecting alley.

___________

      Both shots had missed but the Count had instantly realized at the sound of the first shot that he could not expect to lose himself on 18
^th
Street if someone was chasing him.

      He resolved to play possum---though he had never heard the maneuver so termed, of course---if his pursuer got off another shot. Otherwise, he’d wait for him at the corner of the two alleys. At the second shot he dived onto his left shoulder and rolled into the shadows extending from the back of the building facing 18
^th
. And waited…

___________

    Harry reloaded as he walked cautiously up the alley. He doubted he could have more than winged the assassin at such a distance. He looked quickly up at The Eagle’s kitchen door; suppose someone was hiding there in ambush? He jumped the steps and crashed through the door: no one in the kitchen. Quickly he turned and raced back outside.
Maybe the lost time would aid the wounded assassin; no matter, he’d have gone free anyway if someone was waiting there to blow my head off as I passed by!

     He continued up the alley at a steady pace. Now he was approaching the corner. The west side of the alley was still shaded.
Did the bastard get around the corner while I checked out the kitchen?

___________

   Ignatieff watched him come on.
So, Captain Harry Bratton it is! We meet again
…

   Nicholas stepped back and around the corner and aimed from the shadows. Bratton’s reflexes were such that he was moving at the sound of boot on gravel. But his own boot turned over a small stone and he momentarily stumbled, still peering into the darkness.  In that instant, Harry Bratton knew he was a dead man.

    The Count fired, the weapon’s spark giving away his position. But it didn’t matter; what Count Ignatieff aimed for he invariably hit and he had aimed for the left side of Harry’s chest.

    The bullet pierced the heart and the big Brit tumbled backward, dropping his own reloaded pistols. One went off harmlessly, the bullet ricocheting off the walls. The other simply bounced toward Nicholas, who fielded it and stuffed it in his own waistband. He turned and ran around the corner toward 18
^th
Street.

    Pausing at the alley’s entrance, he adjusted his hat and smoothed out his coat, vest and waistband. He walked purposefully but unhurriedly down 18
^th
and across E and C Streets towards Foggy Bottom. 

    By the time a sorrowful Colonel Burr---his walking stick poking Harry’s body---stood shaking his head over the corpse, Nicholas was crossing the Foggy Bottom marshes. The French agent was waiting on the Potomac bank as planned. They pushed the small boat into the River and rowed southwest towards Virginia.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The Residency

October 25, 1833,

12:30 p.m.:

     “Well, Mr. Governor. It looks like he’ll make it, but he’ll be out of action for some time.”

      The Secretary of War stepped into Van Buren’s office direct from a visit to General Scott’s bedside at The Infirmary on M Street. He was sweating profusely and not simply because of exertion, shock and fat; the incredible heat wave showed no signs of abating even as November approached.

       Van Buren was in conference with Colonel Burr and a somber Duke of Wellington. Captain Bratton’s shocking death was almost as catastrophic as the attempted assassination of Scott. Van Buren had just expressed the feeling that “the veneer of civilization seems to have shattered; have there been this many successive assassination attempts in one Western city since the fall of the Roman Republic?”

        The Colonel, who had broken the difficult news of Harry’s death to the Duke himself, looked up at Cass. “How long is ‘some time,’ Mr. Secretary? When will he be able to take the field?”

       Cass hesitated. It was a delicate situation, with Wellington so obviously affected by the loss of the Captain. “Perhaps later, Colonel. The Duke…”

      Wellington shook his head, the hook nose slicing the air. “No Mr. Cass, the Colonel is right. We must put aside our grief and look to the emergency at hand.”

       “Well, he’s lost a lot of blood. Collapsed while they were awaiting the ambulance wagon, you know. Fortunately, the bullet struck him at the confluence of the chest and shoulder. But he lost more blood while they were carving it out. There’s a serious risk of infection, from what I understand. As to your specific question, he’ll not be fit for field command on the schedule as it now stands…”

        The Attorney-General came into the room as the options hung in the air unsaid: wait for Scott; postpone the campaign until spring (no one could envision a winter campaign); or place one of the corps commanders---or someone else---in field command for the duration. Unattractive options, all in all…

      “Well Mr. Butler, have we apprehended that
bastard
?” The G-G’s vehement---and virtually unprecedented---use of the profanity shocked even his alleged father.

      “Unfortunately, Mr. Governor, there is no sign of the…
bastard
. He seems to have vanished into thin air.”

       The G-G scowled and banged his tiny fist on the hard desktop. “How does he do it? How can a foreigner simply move among us so effortlessly and inconspicuously, commit his mayhem and just disappear? Does he have some sort of supernatural power?”

       “For one thing, with the help of half the diplomatic corps, it would seem.” Colonel Burr growled. “I’ll wager Jean-Claude has a hand in this. We’ve had the Russian consulate under constant surveillance. There’s no way they could have assisted him. Either the French are hiding him…or they’ve already helped him escape.”

        Wellington was as downcast as anyone had ever seen him. “I suspect the latter, gentlemen.” He turned to Van Buren. “You may as well reopen the Potomac bridges, Mr. Governor. If he chose that route, he’s long gone. And your cavalry sweeps north and south of the city, in my estimation, will also prove fruitless. As for the chances of him hiding out in Georgetown, well, I ordered the Royal Marines to a certain ‘house of discretion’ we have discovered the French maintain near 7
^th
and M. If he was hiding there, we’d know by now…

      “No, in my judgment, Count Ignatieff is back across the river in Virginia, well on his way to Richmond.”

       The Colonel was grave. “The Duke may well be correct, Mr. Governor. However, this Russki has outmaneuvered us at every turn. Better maintain close watch at the bridges. He may have gone underground here in Georgetown and plans to wait for the heat to die down, if you’ll excuse my choice of words. Especially since the Russians may be maintaining ‘une maison sans danger’ here in the city in addition to that damn farmhouse our people raided last weekend.

        “Now, as painful as it may be, I suggest we concentrate on who should lead the upcoming campaign. Or if we should have one at all…”

    The others deferred to the Duke, the acknowledged military man among them. “I believe, gentlemen, that the campaign must proceed as planned. Both the Compact and the Constitution require it…”

    Well now,
thought the Colonel,
he’s had another letter from Palmerston. The Russkiis must be setting up permanent shop in Syria…

      “The question then becomes: who shall be placed in command? That, gentlemen, I must leave to your judgment. Frankly, I have considered Winfield both invaluable and indestructible. I’ve not studied the list of possible replacements from within your ranks.

     “In any case, that is a decision for you to make. Meanwhile, I’ve duty, unpleasant as it is, at the Liaison Office. The staff will be assembling for a private memorial service. I’m overdue.”

      The others rose and, with grave faces and formal nods, again offered their sympathies. After the Duke, who seemed to have aged a decade in a day, was shown out by the A-G, they all began to talk at once:

     “Can’t we wait for Scott? This damn heat wave may well extend into mid-November…”

     “Maybe Thayer should take active command…”

     “Who’s senior, Wool or Worth?”

      The G-G signaled for silence. “Gentlemen, one issue at a time. And one opinion as well.”

     Frank Blair, who had crossed paths with the Duke in the corridor, now entered the room and the conversation. “I’ve come from The Infirmary. Winfield has been given a sedative. The doctors are alarmed at the loss of blood. He’ll be invalided for at least a month.”

     “Well, gentlemen, that answers the secondary question.” The G-G was grim. “If we proceed with the campaign, we need a new commander. So, let us begin with the primary question: should we proceed?”

     The A-G was first to break the silence that followed: “With all due respect to the Duke, the Compact and Constitution clearly do not set any timetables for a governmental response to an insurrection.” The others chuckled knowingly as he continued: “However, politically, Mr. Governor, I don’t believe you have any choice. The country won’t stand for a postponement of operations until spring.”

      “To say nothing of the benefits in morale and preparation such a postponement would afford the Rebels.” Colonel Burr was blunt.

      Blair was nodding his head in agreement. “I concur, Mr. Governor. Politically, we’ve no choice. Not only would you almost certainly face resolutions of impeachment in the House---those abolitionists have the reins in their teeth now---but from what I can gather from Mr. Butler’s comments concerning the Duke, the pressure from Downing Street to remove you would force Wellington’s hand. No, postponement is not a viable option.”

      The G-G turned to his Secretary of War: “Well Lewis, you have your order. The campaign is to proceed as soon as possible, given the change in command. What recommendations have you on that decision?”

       The beefy red face now drained of color despite the equatorial conditions in the G-G’s office; without a hint of breeze, it was at least an oppressive 90 degrees. Only the Marylander, Blair, did not appear to be suffering.

       “Mr. Governor, while my opinion of General Scott’s abilities is not quite as…effusive…as that expressed by Wellington, I must confess that I too have not considered the possibility of this campaign proceeding without him. Forgive me, but I must consider those possibilities before offering my recommendation.”