The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (3 page)

        “Technically, Captain Akkridge, as you well know,” Bratton began in a formal tone before breaking into a grin, “I am employed by the American Office…”
        “Which itself is simply a desk in the Colonial Office. Though, for the sake of the USBA delegates to Parliament and others who revere the fine print in the Colonial Compact, it is called a Cabinet-level office. How can that be when the ‘American’ Secretary is also the Colonial Secretary? Simply a ruse to keep the simple-minded Americans happy, lest they rise in revolt once again.”
       “The Compact, Captain, saved the Empire from a bloody and costly war, which we could very possibly have lost.”
       Akkridge snorted again. “Why, just because Washington and that rabble he called an army managed to drag enough artillery onto the hills overlooking Boston that Lord Howe decided to evacuate the town? His Lordship was massing his forces in Nova Scotia for an invasion of New York when word of the Compact came down. He’d have gone through the colonies like a hot knife through butter. The rebellion would have been crushed in a matter of months.”   
        “I’m not so certain of that, and remember: I’m the one who graduated from Sandhurst. Even before Washington arrived, ‘that rabble’ bloodied our collective noses  at Lexington, Concord and Breed’s Hill.  When you allow the Americans to fight in their own manner, that is to say, as light infantry, Indian-style, they are very effective. Certainly they demonstrated that in their conquest of the Louisiana Territory and over here in the Boney wars. To say nothing of the way their General Scott put down the French Canadian insurrection 20 years ago. Anyway, it appears
Irresistible
has finished laying its gangplank. Shall we proceed aboard?”
       Captain Akkridge nodded and began to walk briskly toward and up the gangplank, shifting the lantern to his left hand as he accepted and returned salutes from half-frozen sailors now on the dock. The Colonial Office man moved more gingerly.
This whole
damn dock is turning into one bloody sheet of ice
.
I’ll be lucky if they don’t
have to fish
me
out of the Thames at dawn…
   The snow was falling harder than before but the Royal Navy proprieties had to be observed. After being properly piped aboard, Captain Akkridge saluted another officer who had materialized on the main deck. “Welcome back to Blighty, Sir Stephen. Made it in record time. No mid-Winter North Atlantic storms, I gather?”
     Sir Stephen---Captain Sir Stephen Richards, master of HMS
Irresistible---
returned the salute. “Hardly, Captain Akkridge. The North Atlantic was its usual nasty self. The gales  pushed us along nicely, however. So did stripping the ship to its essentials. Did make for a bit of a rocky crossing at times, though.” Sir Stephen glanced at the tall civilian and back at his fellow RN colleague.
     “Forgot my manners, Sir Stephen. This is Harry Bratton of the Colonial, excuse me, ‘American’ Office. He’s here to collect that diplomatic pouch you brought with you from Baltimore.” Turning to Bratton, he added: “Harry, Sir Stephen Richards, commander of the fastest warship in the King’s Navy, as
Irresistible
has demonstrated on this crossing.”
    Bratton nodded. “My pleasure, Sir Stephen. What news have you brought us from the USBA? Any tidbits I can feed Lord Goderich?”
    Sir Stephen smiled. “Our American cousins are busy in their usual pursuits: making money, fighting Indians and arguing colonial, or should I say, dominion politics. On the fringes, both the Creoles and the French Canadians seem resigned to the fact that Napoleon isn’t rising from his grave, or from that tomb the Frogs are building for him in Paris…
    “But if you’re the man I’m to give this pouch that I risked my men and ship to bring across the North Atlantic in dead of winter, I’d better retrieve it for you now.”  Sir Stephen nodded to a waiting aide, who hurried off into a cabin with keys the Captain handed him.
     “Any news of the Governor-General plebiscite,” Bratton asked nonchalantly, “before you pulled anchor?”
    The warship’s captain nodded. “Yes, unofficial, of course, but it seems old Jackson is again the electorate’s choice. He seems to have defeated his opponent, …”
       “Clay. Henry Clay of Kentucky.”
      “Ah, yes, that’s the fellow. Seems to have beaten him rather conclusively.  Not that it will do Jackson much good. From the looks of him at a dinner I attended in Georgetown last month, he may not last long enough to accept His Majesty’s reappointment. Poor old man looked ghastly.”
       Akkridge chuckled. “So this Clay chap may get the prize after all, what?  All good things come to he who waits, eh?”
       Bratton shook his head. “No, James. If Governor-General Jackson dies or is incapacitated---assuming King William reappoints him for another four-year term---his new Vice Governor-General would step in.” Knowing the answer full well, he asked Sir Stephen, anyway: “Which would be who?  I seem to have forgotten.”
       “I don’t recall the chap’s name, but he has served regularly in their government. A Dutch name, Van something...”
       “Oh yes that’s right. Van Buren. Martin Van Buren, formerly a Senator from New York and their Secretary of the Interior.”
        Shaking his head, Captain Akkridge asked the Colonial Office man how he remembered “all these colonial politicians? I suppose it is your job and all, but….”
       Having obtained with causal banter the information he knew was contained in the dispatch pouch, Bratton was now anxious to speed the news to the Secretary before the damn 5 a.m. meeting. He noted with relief the approaching return of the subaltern and changed the subject.
      “Did I hear you mention, Sir Stephen, that you crossed the North Atlantic with only limited ammunition? Rather sporting of you, wasn't it?”
      The two Naval men glanced at each other and managed, with simple facial twinges, to look quite amused. Eyes twinkling, Sir Stephen drawled: “So who would we have likely met in a North Atlantic battle, Mr. Bratton? A Viking ship, perhaps? The Frog Navy is limiting its voyages to Algiers these days and I’m quite certain the Hapsburgs haven’t found their way out of the Mediterranean yet. China perhaps? And Czar Nicholas’ Navy is mostly iced-in this time of year. Yes, I guess we can consider ourselves fortunate to have escaped the wrath of a latter day Eric the Red!”
      The three men laughed and Bratton turned to glance at the gangplank. “Can I offer you gentlemen a ride? We go close by the Admiralty on the way to the Office.”
      “Thank you, Harry, but I have a carriage waiting. Sir Stephen doesn’t know it yet, but he’s to accompany me back. Seems the First Lord is anxious to wish him a belated Merry Christmas! Be careful on that dock. Wouldn’t want that dispatch
Irresistible
brought so far so quickly to end up water-logged…”

CHAPTER TWO

Georgetown, D.C.
December 17, 1832:
     Lt. Thomas Wilder had a love-hate relationship with his assgnment. Both parts of it. He loved the access to power that being an aide to the Governor-General provided. He also loved the access to information that aided him in his other role as an aide to the commanding general of the USBA Army. His ear for languages---he spoke French and Spanish fluently and knew enough German, Russian and Dutch to understand and be understood---made him invaluable at those Residency social situations involving the diplomatic corps.
    Wilder hated, however, his function of formally introducing at such receptions foreign diplomats who undoubtedly knew each other better than he knew any of them. M. Jean-Claude, the French counsel-general, for example, had probably served with his Prussian counterpart, Von Benes, at one or another European court. And the chances were good they might have run across each other on some European battlefield, too.

   Mending the social fences damaged by the increasingly-cantankerous Governor-General could also be a difficult chore. Although the G-G could demonstrate, when the mood struck him, social skills that any London hostess might approve, he seldom displayed them. ‘Old Hickory’ treated the diplomatic corps generally as if it was a regiment of raw Tennessee recruits. The atmosphere was somewhat better when the G-G’s niece was in Georgetown, but Emily Jackson Donelson had returned to The Hermitage, Jackson’s plantation outside Nashville, last summer. So far, there was no word of her return. That meant that Sunday’s Christmas reception for the capital’s elite would probably be short…if not sweet.
    The Residency post provided a good cover for Wilder’s real job, gathering and analyzing information for the commander of the USBA Army. While the Lieutenant loved fitting together seemingly unrelated pieces of information to help develop a theory or to make clearer the bigger picture, he did not always relish presenting his analysis to the commanding general. Winfield Scott dominated any room he entered with a physical presence even more commanding than Jackson’s. At 6-foot-7 and at least 275 pounds, Scott towered over virtually everyone. His piercing blue eyed-stare seemed to drill a hole completely through anyone he fixed it upon and was, actually, more effective than any of Jackson’s profanity-laced outbursts.
     The Lieutenant was equally grateful to and intimidated by Scott: grateful that the General had rescued him from service with the Dragoons in Arkansas and intimidated by this legendary soldier whose record dated back to frontier firefights against the French and their Indian allies at the turn of the century. Scott had in fact conquered more of the Louisiana Territory than Jackson had, though there was no major city in the Northwest to provide the lasting fame that Jackson’s capture of New Orleans had brought. Along with Jackson, Scott had served in the Peninsula Campaign in Spain under the Duke of Wellington but had hurriedly returned to the USBA to command the forces that put down the French Canadian insurrection of 1811. While Jackson had entered politics after the conclusion of the Napoleonic Wars, serving as Tennessee governor and later USBA Senator---along with a brief, unfortunate stint as the state’s delegate to Parliament---Scott had remained in the Army, rising to become its commanding officer.
   In that capacity, the General personally approved the commissioning of each West Point cadet as an officer in the USBA Army. Wilder had graduated precisely in the middle of his class of 46, due to a lack of aptitude for math and engineering equally as obvious as his ear for languages. In fact, if not for the intervention and late night tutoring of his friend and classmate Robert Lee, Wilder might not have graduated at all. His deficiencies in the two subjects that formed the core of the Point’s curriculum had ruled him out of the choice post-graduation assignments to the Engineers or the Artillery.  Scott had approved his assignment to the Dragoons mostly because he was considered the Point’s best horseman…at least among cadets from states above the Mason-Dixon Line. Three years later, however, the General had called him to Georgetown and offered the dual posts at The Residency and the War Department.
    Wilder was now on his way across Pennsylvania Avenue to see Scott, although what the summons was about he had no real idea. Thinking it might have to do with the upcoming Christmas reception, he carried with him the list of military and naval invitees, both Royal and USBA. The combined list was slight, as, subtracting the Royal liaisons to the USBAA and the Coastal Guard, there were few senior Royal military and naval officers in-and-around the Georgetown area. Most senior USBAA and CG officers were also assigned elsewhere. Scott ran a tight ship and he wanted his officers---for the CG was also under his nominal command---out where the action was, not holed up in the capital.
Well, whatever is on the Old Man’s mind, I’ll soon know
, thought Wilder as he climbed the War Department steps. Despite the raw, wet weather---Georgetown was equatorial in summer and damp and dismal in winter---the Lieutenant paused to clean the Pennsylvania Avenue mud off his boots and straighten his uniform.
They don’t call the
General ‘Old Fuss and Feathers’ for nothing
.
He’s a spit-and-polish tyrant
who would chew a
soldier out if he came in out of a blizzard with a button missing. But the old-timers say his men would follow him to hell in battle…
    Wilder opened the main doors and walked briskly down the hall to the Commanding General’s office, pausing only to exchange greetings with the few clerks and other officers situated outside. The General’s secretary, Lieutenant Beaufort, looked up from papers spread out on his desk, rose and saluted. “I’ll let the General know you’re here Lieutenant.” But Scott himself was now filling the doorway. “Come in Lieutenant.” Turning to his secretary, Scott ordered: “No interruptions.”   The General eased his bulk back behind his desk after indicating Wilder to a chair in front of him. “So Lieutenant, is the Governor-General set for his annual Christmas reception this Sunday?” The blue eyes began to twinkle. “I know how much he enjoys entertaining.”
     “Well sir, I think he’d be happier if the guest list was limited to Tennesseans, but he’s resigned to hosting the Congress, the Cabinet, the Court, the diplomatic corps and the other guests. At least, those members of Congress and the Court who are still in town. Though I doubt he’ll be wishing M. Jean-Claude a particularly Merry Christmas…”
      “No the Governor-General does not care much for the French, that’s true enough.” Scott’s heavy eyebrows rose with amusement. As a teenage prisoner, Jackson had suffered a merciless beating from a French officer for refusing to clean the man’s boots. The beating had left him with scars on his head and left hand. He and his brother, Robert, also taken prisoner in the endless, faceless skirmishing of the 1780s, both contracted small pox. Robert died soon after their release. The incident left the G-G with a lifelong hatred for the French. 
       “As for the guest list, you should have been here when he was inaugurated. The Tennesseans were all over The Residency. Wrecked everything. Good thing Mr. Adams left town immediately after the swearing-in. He would have been outraged…”
     John Quincy Adams, the previous G-G, had been mortified when “that frontier barbarian,” as he invariably referred to Jackson, trounced him in the 1828 plebiscite.  He had had to be persuaded from leaving Georgetown even before the inauguration.
      Wilder began to wonder whether he had been summoned simply to help the General pass a few unscheduled minutes. Scott, however, began shuffling papers on his desk and his tone became more businesslike.
        “As you are no doubt aware, Mr. Wilder, the results of the recent plebiscite were officially tallied and published two days ago. The previous night, however, a Royal Navy frigate,” he glanced down at the paper in front of him, “the
Irresistible,
left Baltimore unannounced and unscheduled. I am told she had been stripped of her weaponry and other equipment unneeded for a quick crossing of the North Atlantic and was headed for London. Does that strike you as unusual, Mr. Wilder?”
       “Sir, I must admit I am only vaguely aware of Royal Navy procedures…”
       “Mid-winter North Atlantic crossings are not normal Royal Navy procedure, Lieutenant, nor is stripping down one of the Royal Navy’s most powerful warships and risking it on such a crossing. Why do you think the Admiralty would sanction such a risky journey?” Scott’s eyes were now focused directly on the Lieutenant, who could feel the drill grinding through him.
      “I would venture that the Admiralty---or someone in Lord Grey’s government---wanted someone or something pretty badly, Sir. Though what or who it is, I have no idea.”
    Scott drummed his thick figures impatiently on the polished desktop. “Lieutenant, what have I been trying, apparently unsuccessfully, to train you to do this past year? Analyze odd, disjointed pieces of information to determine if they fit together. In the intelligence business, there is always a ‘who,’ a ‘what,’ a ‘when,’ a ‘where,’ a ‘how,’ and a ‘why.’ The first five can usually be identified rather quickly. Correctly identifying the sixth is what I’m attempting to train you to do.”
     Wilder’s face was flushing and he squirmed anxiously in his seat. “Sir, we have a ‘when,’ the 15th of December, two nights ago. And a ‘what,’ the departure of a Royal Navy warship stripped to its essentials for a peacetime North Atlantic crossing…”
     “Let me stop you there, Lieutenant. The voyage is the ‘how.’ The ‘who’ or the ‘what’ is the person or information London wants. And wants in a hell of a hurry, by all indications. If we know which it is, we can move forward to the all-important ‘why.’ Any ideas?” The fingers resumed their drumming.
     Wilder was silent as he thought back over the beginnings of the conversation.  “Sir, we know the warship.”
     “
Irresistible
.”
     “Yes sir,
HMS Irresistible
left Baltimore the night before the plebiscite results were publicly announced and is reported to be on her way to London.  London has traditionally stayed out of plebiscite campaigns. How quickly have the results been reported to England after previous plebiscites?”
     “With the first departing merchantman, Lieutenant. Even in ’28, when London was clearly concerned that General Jackson might get hold of the Residency, there was no RN vessel standing by to speed the results to England.”
      “But General, it doesn’t make much sense. It was pretty much a foregone conclusion that the Governor-General would win again. London must have known that.”
      Scott nodded. “Yes, all indications were that Andrew Jackson would win again. And I’m certain our friends over at the Liaison Office have been informing London of that fact since early summer. So that still leaves us with the ‘why,’ Lieutenant. Why is London so impatient to get the news?
      “I want you to go back over all the correspondence we have on file from and to the various military ministries in London. Do the same across the street. Analyze anything that appears the least bit odd, or different.  Somewhere, there may be a request or order that will tie in to this puzzle. I want you to find it and bring it to me post-haste. Is that understood?” Scott looked directly at the younger officer, who nodded his head vigorously.
     “Yes, General. I’ll begin reviewing all correspondence, both here and at The Residency. If there’s anything there, it will come out.” He stood, saluted, turned and headed out. Scott smiled to himself.
That boy has the makings of a fine officer. Even if I
doubt he’ll ever figure out how to properly sight a cannon…
                                          
___________