Another small kingdom, p.1
Another Small Kingdom, page 1
ANOTHER
SMALL KINGDOM
JAMES GREEN
Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2012
ISBN 9781908262899
Copyright © James Green 2012
The right of James Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.
Printed and bound in the UK
Cover design by Sarah Ann Davies
Foreword
In July 1790 the US Congress established the Contingent Fund of Foreign
Intercourse in response to a request from President George Washington for funds to finance intelligence operations. The Fund was granted $40,000 which, within three years had grown to $1 million, more than 10% of the Federal Budget. Successive administrations developed and expanded this Fund until, in 1947, President Harry Truman signed into law the National Security Act – and the CIA was born.
Chapter One
PARIS 1802
February 23rd
The Office of Maurice de Talleyrand, Foreign Minister to the French Republic.
Ambassador Livingston was trying very hard to keep the hate from his eyes and the anger from his voice. Had he been able, like Samson, to bring the Tuileries Palace down on himself, but more especially on the head of the man sitting opposite him, he would have done so willingly.
‘Monsieur Talleyrand, if the American Republic is to expand, and it must expand …’
‘Grow or die, eh, Monsieur Ambassador? How very Napoleonic.’
‘There is no question of America dying, that is never going to happen. Ask the British if you doubt it.’
‘Of course I do not doubt it. But there is a question over whether it will grow, is there not?’
‘No, there is not. America will grow and will take its rightful place among the nations of the world.’
‘And that place will be?’
‘At any table where decisions are made which might affect America.’
‘So, America will be here, there and everywhere for, as we know, all decisions great or small affect all other decisions in some way or another. When the wine growers meet to discuss the vintage, America will be there. When farmers meet to discuss the harvest, America will be there. When the mistress of the house meets with the cook to discuss the menus for the week, America will be there. Very well. But tell me, Monsieur Ambassador Livingston, how many Americans do you think will be left in America while so many are away sitting at all these tables where decisions are made?’
‘Monsieur Foreign Secretary, you may choose to make a joke of my words if it pleases you to do so. But I know you understand my meaning. The fact that you play with the issue instead of discussing it shows you understand it very well indeed, and understand its importance. Make something look ridiculous and no one will take it seriously. Perhaps that works well enough with smaller issues but it will not work with this one, Monsieur Talleyrand, and no amount of wit nor clever words will make it otherwise. America will expand and America will sit at the Council Tables where the great nations meet.’
‘Monsieur Livingston, if you as the Ambassador of President Jefferson say that it will be so, then I am sure it will be as you say. One day, I am sure, America will be great in all senses of the word. The question I ask is, when will that day be?’
‘America will expand, Talleyrand, and it will be sooner rather than later.’
‘Ah, then you have come to some arrangement with the British?’
‘The British?’
‘Well, America cannot expand to the east unless American statesmen can build on water as well as walk on it. The same applies to the south, the Caribbean is just as wet as the Atlantic. That leaves north and that is British? Strange, I am usually so well informed and yet I have heard nothing of your negotiations with the British whereby you will move into their territories and they will move out.’
‘West, sir, west. America will expand across the Mississippi and into the Louisiana Territories. You know very well that is our intention because I have told you often enough that I am empowered by President Jefferson to negotiate for the purchase of those Territories.’
‘Ah, the American dream of going west, of course. How very remiss of me to have let it slip from my mind. But if your Government wishes to push west with its borders, surely you should be in Madrid? The Louisiana Territories, as everyone knows, are Spanish.’
‘The Louisiana Territories, as everyone knows, were negotiated back into French hands two years ago under the Treaty of San Ildefonso.’
‘But my dear sir, I know of no such treaty.’
‘The Secret Treaty of Ildefonso then, if you still prefer to play games.’
‘Ah, the Secret Treaty of Ildefonso, of course.’
‘Then if we both know that the Territories are French, we can discuss an American purchase and put these games to one side.’
‘I assure you, my dear Monsieur Ambassador, this is no game. It is deadly serious. If I discuss the sale of these Territories with you, I acknowledge the Treaty of San Ildefonso to a third party and it becomes no longer secret. I would have broken the terms of the treaty and Spain would have the right to re-claim the Territories.’
The French Republic’s Foreign Secretary spread his hands in that universal Gallic gesture which signifies, alas, what can one do?
Robert Livingston stood up angrily and paced the large and elegant room bringing his temper under control while Talleyrand sat back and watched him. Not for the first time the American Ambassador felt that the frustrations inherent in negotiating with this man were wearing him down to the point of despair. After a pause the gentle but almost mocking voice of Talleyrand resumed.
‘Perhaps there might be a way.’ Livingston turned. Could this be the first hint of negotiations actually beginning? He returned and stood at the desk. ‘If America were prepared to leave the matter secret. You would, of course, pay France the full purchase price on the signing of a Secret Treaty, but then do nothing until Spain was satisfied that any publication of the new nationality of the Louisiana Territories did not adversely affect Spanish interests. If and when Spain was satisfied, France would then be free to judge how French interests should be protected. Of course if, while Spain and France considered their positions, America did anything to prejudice the terms of the Treaty, perhaps negotiate with some other government and thereby give them knowledge of the Secret Treaty, the Territories would revert to France. More accurately, because of the Secret Treaty of San Ildefonso, they would appear to revert to Spain because France would, of course, keep the terms of the Secret Treaty of San Ildefonso and not make the true nationality of the Territories known to any other party. For if France did that the Territories would revert to Spain whose Territories they appear to be to all those not party to …’
But Robert Livingston was no longer present to appreciate the culmination of the Foreign Minister’s erudite exposition on the nature of Secret Treaties. The sound of his angry boots on the marble floor of the corridor rang out as he stormed away. A door in the corner of the fine office opened, Talleyrand’s secretary entered and waited until the sound of boots on marble died away. He then crossed the room and stood by the large elaborate desk.
‘It sounds as if it went well, Your Excellency?’
‘Well enough for the time being.’
‘You are too much for them, they lack flair, élan, subtlety …’
‘You have studied our American friends closely?’
The secretary made a contemptuous gesture.
‘Enough to know they are a country with thirty-two religions and only one sauce.’
Talleyrand laughed loudly.
‘Very drôle. But eventually I will have to deal with our Americans friends and, one way or another, I think they will force my hand. Livingston is no great diplomat but neither is he a fool however much I make him feel like one. One day America will send someone who will make me listen,’he paused,‘unless of course the plan of our very clever Minister of Police, Monsieur Fouché, is successful. If that happens then they will find they have other, far more important things to worry them and perhaps forget for a time their dream of going west.’
Chapter Two
That Lawyer Macleod was a man full of hate did not make him exceptional. What did make him exceptional was the completeness of his hate, and its great depth.
Macleod raised his eyes from the article in The Boston Commercial Gazette which lay over the contract papers on which he had been working. A man of middling age he wore a linen neck-cloth and a close-buttoned black coat. A man who despised display, his manner of dress was severely plain as was his view on the European war. If Europe was bent on self-destruction, then good luck to it. As far as he was concerned they could all go to hell in a wheelbarrow, led there by the strutting Little Corsican or Mad Farmer George. They could all dance to their graves to the music of musket-shot and cannon-fire. The French, the Prussians, the Austrians, the whole damned lot, men, women and children. Especially the damned British. In fact most of all the damned British.
He got up from his desk and went to the office window which was shut tight, his only concession to the late February weather. Down in the busy, wet street carriages and carts jostled and splashed. Crowds, wrapped in cloaks against the weather, hurried through the rain that carried with it flecks of snow with the promise of more to come. He looked at them for a moment. These were the people for whom he had fought in the late war, fought that they might be free and America independent. He had shed his blood for them. They were Americans, fellow citizens of the great new Republic. He would fight again for them if called on, yes, and die for them if necessary. But he could not feel for them. He did not wish to know their ambitions or aspirations, their sorrows, griefs or joys. To Lawyer Macleod they were a charge on his duty, a duty he owed to his country. They could never be an object for any personal emotion, because the only emotion left to Lawyer Macleod was hate. And that, of course, brought him back to the British.
Macleod left the window and returned to his desk where he put thoughts of the late war from him. That was ancient history, something gone with youth and joy. As for foreign wars and the politics of war, they were nothing to him unless they threatened his country. But the soldier in Lawyer Macleod, though dormant, was not dead. He began to muse for a moment on Napoleon, his military achievements and his likely ambitions.
He had sometimes said to clients that in his opinion Napoleon would prove to be more interested in France as a kingdom, his own kingdom, than in spreading the ideals of Revolution and Republic across Europe.
‘Mark my words,’ he would say when business was concluded, ‘Louis won’t be the last king of France. The Corsican will be given the Crown when he asks for it. And he will ask for it when there is no one left with the courage or power to deny it to him.’ And the client would nod and listen, and Lawyer Macleod would continue. ‘America is the only proper home for a republic. The true Free Man exists only in America and can exist only in America. Everywhere else it is master and slave, aristocrat and serf, ruler and ruled. Europe can no more cope with the idea of republican liberty than it could with religious liberty. That’s why Europe is dying while America is being born.’
It was an amazingly long speech by Lawyer Macleod’s standards and his clients, somewhat surprised at such loquacity, were happy to agree with him when he had said his piece. He was deep, was Lawyer Macleod, and he knew his business better than most. If, once in a while, he chose to speak on some subject outside the law, well it was probably best to listen and, having listened, take your leave.
Lawyer Macleod gave up his thoughts and pulled out his watch. It was time for lunch. He went to the door of his office, opened it and called out, ‘Lunch if you please, and make it now.’
There was the sound of someone jumping off a high stool in the outer office as the lawyer returned to his desk. An elderly clerk came in with a plain wooden tray bearing a coffee pot, cup and saucer, and a few dry biscuits. The clerk pushed the papers to one side, put the tray on the desk, then left closing the door behind him. As the coffee was steaming hot it was clear that the lunch had been ready to the minute, and that the clerk could have brought it in at the correct time without any command from the lawyer. But both lawyer and clerk were men of fixed habits, and men of fixed habits dislike change. For some years now the lawyer had opened the door at the same time each day and made the same peremptory command, at which the clerk had brought in the same lunch. No comment had ever passed nor was it likely that any comment ever would. The world of Lawyer Macleod’s office had little or no variety and was universally regarded by his clients as dull as the eye of a dead fish – and the elderly clerk honoured him for it.
Chapter Three
If the lawyer’s idea of luncheon was to read his paper, drink coffee and eat dry biscuits, there were those among his clients who took luncheon more seriously. They repaired, with others, to the select and popular Gallows Tree Club. The club’s grim name belied its grandeur both outside and inside, but referred to Boston Common which stood opposite across Beacon Street. It was on that Common that in 1656 Ann Hibbins, a wealthy widow, had been hanged on an oak tree for witchcraft, one of three women executed for the same crime. The club’s name was a tribute to the fact that the Boston witch trials pre-dated those of Salem by more than thirty years, a reminder if one was needed, that in all things of consequence Boston should regard itself as leader and guide.
In a well-appointed assembly room, after an excellent meal, a group of Boston’s best and brightest gathered for coffee, cigars and serious conversation.
Here the talk could not be of fashion or the other frivolous matters more suited to the mixed company of the dinner table. Here the talk could be only of business, the state of America and the state of the world.
Macleod’s last client of the morning was one of those who lunched at the club and was now sitting comfortably with coffee at his elbow and pulling on a good cigar. His fellow members listened as he told them that, while Macleod was an excellent Business and Contract lawyer, none better indeed, unfortunately he knew as much about politics as a dog knew about salvation. Heads nodded wisely in agreement. One of the older men commented that Lawyer Macleod took after his late father, a good man of business but a poor judge of life where its larger considerations were concerned. Another agreed. Yes, he most surely took after his father in that respect.
‘Euan Macleod. Now there was a dour Scot if ever there was one.’
‘It may be he takes after Euan in some ways,’ offered another, ‘but he certainly got his looks from his mother. Old Macleod was no picture but his son is a fine handsome man. He could have married again a dozen times over since the war on his looks alone.’
‘And picked up a tidy fortune with some of the young ladies who would have been pleased to have him as a husband. Many a mamma would have been happy for her daughter to become the second Mrs Macleod.’
‘Yes sir,’ remembered a stout, bald gentleman who had long since published a substantial second edition of his chin, ‘his mother was a fine woman indeed. I remember when I first saw her just after they had arrived over from Edinburgh.’ And he was once again, in his mind if no longer in reality, a dashing young buck twirling his killing, black mustachios. ‘Dam’me, gentlemen, on my life she was the prettiest thing that ever set foot in Boston.’
The older heads nodded in agreement and there was a brief pause of pleasant thoughts among the senior men. The mood was rudely interrupted by a man too young to be able to share any memories of the beautiful young Mrs Macleod.
‘Stap me, gentlemen, so it was the old story, eh, beauty and the beast? She had the looks and old Macleod had the tin? Blast my idleness, it’ll have to be the other way about with me, that’s for sure.’
The stout gentleman spoke coldly,
‘Not at all, Rayburn. The money was on her side as well as the beauty. What he brought to the match was brains, and fine brains at that. Euan Macleod may have had a face like a hoof-print in a cow pat, but there was nothing wrong with his business head. That man could make money out of fresh air and floor sweepings. He could see a good prospect at night, in a fog with a bag over his head. He was a fine man of business and died rich enough for plenty of good Boston Protestants to attend a Papist funeral.’
‘Aye, aye. True enough. A fine man, though, as you say, a Papist through and through.’
Heads nodded and the talk threatened to turn to religion when a new voice cut in with a lazy drawl which was almost a sneer.
‘So, Macleod’s got his father’s brains, his mother’s looks, plenty of family brass and is now in a good way of business in his own right. Pity he doesn’t seem to know how to enjoy any of it. For all the fun he seems to get out of life he might as well be a backwoods parson. God knows he seems satisfied to dress like one,’ and several of the younger men there grinned and sniggered in agreement.
Darcy was a young lawyer, in Boston only a year but well-to-do and dressed as near to the height of fashion as was possible. He spoke too loudly and too often for some of the older men but the younger set seemed to think something of him.
‘True enough, Darcy,’ agreed the self-confessed idler, Rayburn, ‘he’s a dull dog and dresses no better than his clerk, but I wish I had half the damned fellow’s luck.’
