The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America (7 page)

      “Now, having proven himself extremely knowledgeable in the political affairs of the USBA, I would like the young man’s opinion on the question originally posed him: what will happen when word of the emancipation bill reaches the USBA?”
     Bratton put on a face as grave as that of Adams himself. “I believe the Governor-General and the South will fight any emancipation of their slaves, with compensation or otherwise…to the fullest extent of their abilities and resources.”
     “Militarily, as well as politically?” Lord Durham probed.
     “To the fullest extent, including armed resistance,” Bratton reluctantly replied.
      Adams, who had been sitting erect, his hands clutching the conference table tightly, fell back in his chair, a look of victorious satisfaction on his face. “I fully concur.”

___________

   This time the silence did exceed 60 seconds. In fact, almost two full minutes passed before Lord Melbourne spoke.
   “So gentlemen, the dreadful possibility we had previously hoped would be negated by the USBA electorate suddenly must be faced. The tool we will use to eradicate this blot on humanity in other parts of the Empire may not be effective in the USBA. The culture of slavery may be too embedded among too large a portion of the population to simply be bribed out of existence. In the USBA, as we have come to realize, slavery is a political, as well as an economic, issue. Therefore it must be addressed politically as well as economically. Fortunately, we have also planned for this contingency. I suggest we put our plan into operation as soon as possible.”
    “Is that the consensus of this Committee?” asked Lord Palmerston. “That, as discussed, we send the Duke to Georgetown as soon as the Royal Navy ship which brought us this plebiscite dispatch can be readied for a return run? And that he briefs as soon as he sees fit the current Governor-General to ascertain his acceptance of His Majesty’s Government’s emancipation plans? With full authority from the King under the terms of the USBA constitution to remove the incumbent if he refuses to enforce said emancipation?”
    Bratton’s jaw had dropped, but the concept was apparently a contingency fully discussed at previous meetings. Slowly, each Committee member voiced his approval…some more reluctantly than others.
    Lord Palmerston began replacing his papers in his pouch. “I will go immediately to see the P.M. Thence, I expect, to Buckingham Palace. Meanwhile, Sir Arthur, I suggest you begin packing for an unpleasant journey. The North Atlantic is bound to be brutal, but we must resolve this crisis before it can escalate into bloodshed. God willing, we are underestimating Andrew Jackson’s commitment to the Colonial Compact and all it represents. That will be up to you to ascertain…and to take whatever measures are deemed appropriate.”
   As the meeting broke up, the Duke motioned the Colonial Secretary and Bratton to the side. “Frederick, I believe it is mandatory that the American Office become mobile. Don’t you agree?”
   “I certainly do, Sir Arthur. Harry, pack your own luggage. You’ll be going back to your old duty station with the Duke of Wellington.”

CHAPTER FIVE             

Georgetown, D.C.

December 23, 1832:
   The Residency had not regained the puritan fastidiousness of the Quincy Adams’ tenure after its near demolition by celebrating Westerners the night of Jackson’s inauguration. Despite the best efforts of the G-G’s niece---his wife Rachel had died soon after the 1828 plebiscite---the old house had neither quite regained the look of the fine Southern mansion that Dolly Madison had rebuilt after a devastating fire early in her husband’s second Administration.
    No, thought Lieutenant Wilder.
I’ve been to ‘real’ Southern mansions; including
a huge one in Westminster, Maryland.
He grinned to himself. The
Residency simply doesn’t compare.
He looked around the oval room where the formal reception would be held before everyone moved into the main dining room for a buffet-style supper and dancing.
Now this room, at least, offers a great view of the Potomac River and the blue/green Virginia hills of Arlington.
Including, he thought somewhat enviously, the Custis plantation, which Robert Lee stands to inherit, now that he’s finally married Mary.
This house, though, reminds me of the Nashville Inn, where I stayed last Spring when General Jackson stopped off at his plantation on the way back from his tour of the Deep South. 
     Wilder had arrived at 5 p.m., 90 minutes before the official Governor-General’s Christmas reception was to begin. Most of the guests would begin arriving early---
what else is there to do in this miserable excuse for a capitol city
---but some would be fashionably late, in order to make the grand entrance.
It’s a toss-up who’ll show up
later, Lucille Latoure or Candice Samples, but the daughter of the new Russian Counsel-General, Countess Caroline Renkowiitz, is a good bet to upstage them both.
Well, we’ll see what unfolds. Now its time
to play social aide to ‘Old Hickory,’ though
that’s an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one…
    The official carriages were rolling up to the Main Portico as Wilder hurried into the spacious vestibule dominated by the wide staircase leading to the G-G’s private quarters. The guests---the handful of members of Congress and their wives still in Georgetown, members of the Dominion Supreme Court, the diplomatic corps and favored government appointees and special guests, as well as a few senior military officers and their wives---were now pouring into the building, handing off their cloaks to various Negro ushers and drifting into the oval room. Wilder greeted Jacques Jean-Claude, King Louis Philippe’s representative, entering with his beautiful wife, Jacqueline, as well as, surprisingly on schedule, towering Count Karl Renkowiitz, the Russian C-G, with daughter Caroline in tow. (Renkowiitz’s wife had taken one look at Georgetown when the Count had first arrived and fled immediately back to St. Petersburg.)
       “Well, Mr. Wilder. Enjoying yourself yet?” The Lieutenant spun around at the gruff growl of General Scott. The General’s dark-haired wife, Maria, seemed doll-like clinging to his arm. Yet Mrs. Scott was no more than an inch shorter than Wilder himself. “Well, Sir, on occasions such as this, if the diplomatic corps leaves without a declaration of war being threatened, I’ve been told to consider it a successful evening.”
     “Why, Thomas,” drawled Mrs. Scott, like her husband a Virginia native, but unlike the General, the proud possessor of a Southern accent, “surely the Governor-General is fond of all his guests. Why, he told Sarah Polk just last week how much he was looking forward to tonight.”
    
Yes, to it being over, I’m sure
, Wilder thought to himself. From the slight smile on General Scott’s face, it was obvious his other boss had once again read his mind.
Damn,
‘Old Fuss and Feathers’ doesn’t miss anything
. “Well Mrs. Scott, General Jackson is always more comfortable at these affairs if his niece is around. He’s come to rely on her more and more.”
     The tall, gaunt figure of the G-G was now making his way down the staircase, with the aid of a cane, assisted by a lean, muscular hard-faced man of early middle age. “My dear,” gasped Mrs. Scott, clutching the General’s arm more tightly, “that can’t be who I think it is…can it?”
      Even General Scott seemed taken back, though he recovered his aplomb quickly. “I believe you’re right, Maria. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s the former Governor of Tennessee.” Turning to a bewildered Wilder, he asked: “Were you aware Sam Houston was in town? When did he arrive?”
   Wilder shook his head slowly. “He’s not on the official guest list, Sir. And when I left here at noon to return to the Department, there was no word or sign of him. Though I would not have known who he was until you identified him.”
      A more expected guest now made his way out of a circle of Congressmen and their ladies and toward the Scotts. The elegant little figure—no more than 5-foot-5 and 130 pounds, with short dark hair circling his bald head like a wreath--was the newly-chosen Vice Governor-General, Martin Van Buren. A consummate politician, he was famously nicknamed ‘The Little Magician.’
     “Congratulations and Merry Christmas, Mr. Van Buren,” said Scott, reaching out a huge paw that engulfed Van Buren’s dainty right hand.  Wilder winced in sympathy as a look of real pain shot briefly across ‘The Little Magician’s’ face
.  I truly believe the
General has no conception of his own strength.
     “Thank you and a Merry Christmas to you and the ever-lovely Mrs. Scott,” Van Buren softly---he never spoke much above a whisper---replied, extricating his now-reddened extremity from Scott’s powerful grasp.  Turning to Wilder, he added: “And to you too, Lieutenant…?”
     “Lt. Thomas Wilder is an aide to the Governor-General, as well as at the War Department. He’s from your state, as well.” General Scott smoothly followed up Van Buren’s inferred question. “Tonight, his job is to see that the diplomatic corps finds something in common with the Congress, besides the food and drink. Isn’t that so, Lieutenant?”
     Wilder had worked under Scott long enough to know an order, even when it was not enunciated. With a smile, he made his excuses to the powerful and backed away. In doing so, he backed directly into David Harper, who managed to keep his glass of champagne from spilling onto Wilder’s formal uniform. “Well, Thomas, mingling with the powers-that-be. Looking to change the shape of your insignia?”
     “Hello Harps. No, I was simply doing my job, working to keep this wonderful assemblage happy, when I ran into the General and his wife. The new Vice G-G came over to say hello to the Scotts, so I made my retreat. Right into you. Enjoying yourself?”
    “I’d enjoy it a lot more if you could introduce me to that cute little blonde over there. Though I suppose she’s the property of the Count, if that’s the Russian C-G, as I think it is.”
     “That’s his daughter, David, not his mistress.” Wilder was dry. “How should I introduce you? As the incoming Secretary of the Interior?”
    “A ‘high Interior Department official’ will do. I’ll take it from there.”
     Wilder snorted but was saved from immediate international matchmaking by a signal from General Scott. “You’re on your own. The General beckons. Maybe later, during the dancing. Just don’t cause a diplomatic incident, okay? I’ve got enough problems this week.”
      The General was now standing apart from the crowd, near the window overlooking the Potomac. His wife had disappeared, while the new Vice G-G was now gingerly shaking his swollen hand with the just-arrived Chief Justice of the Dominion Court, the elderly John Marshall. Wilder made his apologies as he moved through the throng surrounding the G-G and his special guest and approached Scott.
      “I’ve given your thesis more thought, Lieutenant. And I double-checked: only a pouch, not a passenger, went aboard the
Irresistible
before she sailed. So it is information they want in London and the plebiscite results are the only information of importance to have originated here in some time. Your thesis is as close to a rational reason as any I can come up with. When the government reopens on December 26
^th
, I want you to determine when that ship will dock in England. Also, how long it would take to resupply and get back to Baltimore. We may be anticipating the news she’ll be carrying…or we could be dead wrong. In either case, let’s determine the timeframe for when we might expect to hear something.
    “Also, use your Residency position to find out why Houston is here. The last time I heard about him, he was communing with the Cherokee.” 
I have my suspicions
, thought Scott,
and I
hope to the Almighty I’m wrong about them
. “Now then, where did Mrs. Scott get off to?”
     “Yes, Sir,” said Wilder in a low tone that fell off even further as he glanced past Scott to the other side of the now emptying oval room. Led by the G-G, with Mrs. Polk on his arm, the guests were filing into the main dining room. That gave Wilder a full view of Lucille Latoure as she strolled into the mansion on the arm of Lt. Joseph Johnston.  At virtually the same time, Mrs. Scott called from across the room. Standing with her, décolletage most prominently in view, was Maria’s good friend, Candice Samples.
   Dead heat
, thought Tom.
    “Come, Lieutenant, let’s join the ladies, shall we?” General Scott, trying unsuccessfully to keep the amusement from his voice. “Unless you’d rather say Merry Christmas to ol’ Joe Johnston over there instead?” Scott was having trouble keeping his huge shoulders from shaking with laughter.
   
Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, does he know about this, too?
“Yes sir, let’s join the ladies. I believe the lady with Mrs. Scott was at your dinner party last summer, was she not?”
Two can play this game,
General
…
     The General look down at his aide with merriment in his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Wilder. I believe she arrived---and left---in her carriage.”
      Candice Samples had glimpsed the Lieutenant while his back was turned, talking with General Scott.
I’ll have him under my Christmas tree,
she thought.
Either here or at Twin
Peaks
. The Samples plantation in Westminster, Md., was set in rolling countryside that afforded views of the Blue Ridge to the west and the flat Pennsylvania countryside to the north. From either of its two hills, the Potomac was visible on a clear day. Mrs. Samples’ late husband, Charles, had led the 3
^rd
Maryland Infantry under Jackson in the Lower Louisiana Territory campaign and came home to marry a teen-aged Candice in 1810.
    After a career as a planter and Maryland legislator, including one term as the state’s governor, he had vigorously supported his old commander during Jackson’s first, unsuccessful, try for the Governor-Generalship in ’24. That was the campaign in which the hypocritical---in Candice’s view---Henry Clay---a Southern gentleman who owned slaves himself but yet favored abolition!---had thrown his support to the insufferable---in Candice’s view---John Quincy Adams.
That unspeakable pretentious Puritan!
Candice’s husband was chosen by Jackson four years later to be his Secretary of War. But Charles, an indefatigable fox hunter, had fallen from his horse during a hunt soon after the campaign. He was dead by the time the other members of the hunting party had gotten him back to Twin Peaks, leaving Candice a very wealthy widow.
   And a merry one. Colonel Samples had been 38 when he married the 18-year old Candice and thus had been 56 at his death. He had been more interested in hunting and politics than the bedroom, or, perhaps, Candice had simply exhausted him. At any rate, he had looked the other way while she engaged in a series of discreet encounters during the second decade of their marriage, including influential members of the government and, briefly, a Liaison Office official.
   Although Candice could and did have her pick of the eligible bachelors her own age in and around the District, Lieutenant Wilder had caught her eye the previous summer at a party at the Scotts. His flashing blue eyes, blond hair and quick wit had aroused her interest, as had the promise a of hard young Army body under the blue-grey summer uniform. She had offered a ride home, upon hearing him tell another guest that he had walked from his hotel. They had barely made it back to her townhouse…for her driver knew without being told where to go…with their clothes intact. Once indoors, that had immediately changed.
Thomas may have graduated from West Point, but his real education began that night
, she thought now with satisfaction and excitement as the Lieutenant accompanied his boss across the room.
   Maria Scot knew the look in her friend’s eye and feigned shock. “Candice, you’re not…still…?” She giggled softly. “He’s just a boy…the General thinks he has promise…”
   “Winfield isn’t the only one who feels that way, Maria. Then, the General has his hopes and uses for Thomas…and I have mine.
     “Merry Christmas, Winfield. And you, too, Lieutenant.”
    The General, beaming broadly at the two ladies, took Candice’s hand and kissed it softly. “Merry Christmas to you, Candice. You remember my aide, Lieutenant Wilder?”
     Turning to Thomas, who hoped his cheeks were not as red as he feared, Scott was equally sarcastically formal. “Mrs. Candice Samples. You may recall Mrs. Samples from Mrs. Scott’s dinner party last summer…”
    “Certainly I do, General. It’s good to see you again Cand…Mrs. Samples. And Merry Christmas.” Thomas wondered how long this charade might go on.
     Scott, however, had other ideas. Turning to his wife, he said: “Maria, I don’t want the G-G to think we’re boycotting his party. And there are some people here tonight that I’ve yet to greet. Lieutenant, if you’ll escort Mrs. Samples in, before you get back to your other duties assisting General Jackson…”
    Candice took the Lieutenant’s arm as they crossed into the main room, where the guests were helping themselves to the lavish buffet set up along one long wall. Wilder could see the G-G now talking with an elderly man dressed in the antiquated eighteenth century style, with Houston and the Polks close by. He could also see Lucille Latoure making her way around the room on the arm of his West Point classmate, that damn Joe Johnston.