Precipice

by Thomas Webb

  Jasper’s gaze darted right and left before he managed an awkward nod. Montclair never wanted so badly in his life to shake his head.

  The minuscule major turned on her heel and made her way across decks before striding back up the gangplank to her ship. Her first officer followed. Her two guardsmen rendered honors one last time, about faced, and departed as well.

  Montclair turned and dismissed his own captain of the guard and her troops. He stood with Jasper, watching as the Intrepid sped east growing smaller until it disappeared from view.

  Montclair turned to Jasper and raised an eyebrow. “So, majors are eligible for their own commands now?”

  “I don’t even want to think on it, sir.”

  Montclair laughed and clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “In my experience, Jasper, the ones who don’t want to think about command are exactly the type who make the best commanders.” Montclair looked back at the sky where the Intrepid had been only moments before. “What the hell was all the rest of that about?”

  Jasper shifted from one foot to the other, staring at the deckplates. “I…I’ve no idea what you mean, sir.”

  “My ass, you don’t.” Montclair laughed. He looked around, checking to make sure they were truly alone. “I wouldn’t have kicked that little major out of a four-post bed, that’s for sure. She made eyes at you, Jasper.” Montclair’s face split into a mischievous grin. “I’d stake my command on it.”

  Major Vincent fidgeted next to Montclair. “Certainly, you’re mistaken, sir.”

  Montclair sighed. “I can see I still have much to teach you, Jasper. All in good time. For now, I need you to send word up to the bridge and down to the engine rooms. We’re making best speed for Washington.”

  “Very good, sir,” Jasper said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Once you’re done, your orders are to meet me and the rest of the off-duty crew in the galley. We’ve got some drinking to do.”

  3 Wilds of Alabama - An Abandoned Tavern, September 1866

  The presidential steam carriage bounced along the deserted back road. Smythe watched from the window as the night rolled by. The summer moon hung low in the sky, and steam rolled off the Alabama hills like smoke before flames. Twelve crack confederate troops mounted on clockwerk horses known as brutes rode guard duty for Smythe: six to the front of the carriage and six to the rear. This small presidential guard plus Wagstaff, who was never far from Smythe’s side, comprised the entirety of the Confederate president’s protection detail. Twelve elite, brute-mounted soldiers and one giant of a man from Georgia — it was as light as security ever got for the President of the Confederate States. What they lacked in numbers, they’d tried to make up for in absolute secrecy surrounding the trip.

  “I don’t like it, Mr. President,” Wagstaff said, his eyes darting back and forth. The big Georgian looked out the window every two minutes, peering out into the dark southern forests as if an assailant waited behind every tree.

  Smythe sighed. “Nor do I, Wagstaff, but some things can’t be helped.” Smythe appreciated his bodyguard’s vigilance, and he shared Wagstaff’s concerns, but an oath was an oath.

  “For once, Mr. President, I find myself having to agree with Wagstaff.” Primm delivered the surprising statement without even bothering to lift his spectacled eyes from the stack of reports he was reading. “This ‘Cabal’ nonsense is beneath you now,” Primm continued, “nothing but grown men with funny nicknames playacting at rituals and the like. May I remind you that you have an entire nation to look after, sir?” Primm made a sound of disapproval. “Why, these reports on the Freedmen’s insurrectionist activities in South Carolina alone—“

  Smythe held up a hand. “Enough, Trevor.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “I couldn’t agree more. It’s not as if I don’t have enough on my plate, but they’ve invoked the order, and it must be obeyed.” Not that I can blame them after what happened with Horton.

  Smythe's aide harrumphed. “It’s all secret society nonsense if you ask me, Mr. President.”

  Smythe’s eyes narrowed. “I’m beginning to think so as well.” Smythe reached for his wine glass, calculating. He looked out over the Alabama countryside, the forests and fields bathed in moonlight. “Trevor,” Smythe said. “Something’s been nagging me ever since we left New Orleans. Truveaux’s general… his surname was ’Montclair’, wasn’t it? Where have I heard that name before?”

  Primm seemed surprised. “I thought you knew, Mr. President. Montclair is the surname of the hero of the Battle of the Potomac.”

  “You mean the butcher of the Battle of the Potomac,” Wagstaff said.

  “Correct, Mr. Wagstaff,” Primm said. “He is known as such, but only south of the Mason Dixon and the demilitarized wastelands, of course.”

  “Yes,” Smythe said. “I do recall that detail now. So this Montclair of Truveaux’s is some relation to the Union colonel responsible for the Stalemate? I thought I’d heard the hero of the battle of the Potomac was a man of color.”

  “Correct, sir,” Primm said, “but it’s still quite possible that they are blood relatives, even to the point of sharing a surname. Open mixing of the races and bloodlines and all… such things are much more common in New Orleans than the rest of the Confederacy.”

  Just then, the steam carriage slowed to a stop.

  “We’re here, Mr. President,” Wagstaff said.

  Smythe glanced out the window at a lonely, two-story tavern situated smack-dab in the middle of the Alabama wilderness. The building looked like it hadn’t seen regular maintenance in years, but from the outside appeared at least to not be falling down. An overgrown clearing fronted the tavern, which was bordered on three sides by tangled forest. Another steam carriage, almost as luxurious as Smythe’s own, sat parked in the clearing. A collection of brutes stood statue-still, the Alabama moonlight shimmering off the mechanical horses’ brass flanks. Not far away, several flesh-and-blood horses whinnied nervously. They strained their hitching post tethers in a frightened effort to move away from their unfamiliar, metallic-smelling cousins.

  A group of men and several women, their clothing threadbare but their superior quality knives and pistols on full display, stood smoking and drinking underneath a dead, leafless tree. One said something unintelligible, and a chorus of raucous laughter erupted from the group. About fifty feet from them, a pack of men in impeccable suits stood guard near the dilapidated tavern’s entrance. They surveyed both the road and the band of hooligans with watchful, wary eyes.

  “I see we’re the last to arrive,” Smythe said.

  Wagstaff positioned himself in front of the steam carriage exit. The door swung open to reveal a soldier in Confederate gray standing just outside.

  “One minute, sir,” Wagstaff said, his thick accent reverberating from a chest the size of a beer barrel. “Just need to make certain we’re all secure.”

  Smythe watched as the man maneuvered his tremendous bulk through the carriage door. He observed Wagstaff assess the clearing around the inn before turning back toward Smythe with a nod.

  Primm hopped out first, papers in hand and one eyebrow cocked as he took in the sight of the rundown inn. Smythe shifted his weight and made his way to the carriage door, where another uniformed soldier waited to offer his president a hand down the carriage’s iron steps, a hand Smythe gladly accepted.

  Wagstaff entered the building first. At his signal, the security detail encircled Smythe and Primm and walked them across the clearing and through the entrance.

  The smell of lavender clashed with the smoky scent of pure Virginia leaf tobacco, catching Smythe smack in the middle of the confrontation. Smythe wrinkled his nose in displeasure, the competing scents hitting him square in the face as he entered the old tavern’s great room. Two men, both flanked by lackeys and bodyguards, sat at a beaten, dust-covered wooden table.

  Smythe watched Silas Worthington squirm in his seat. Smythe knew the source of his old ally’s discomfort. It sat right next
to Worthington in the form of one Maurice Legree, a man more commonly known as the Gambler.

  Legree ran the largest organized crime syndicate south of the Mason Dixon, his hand in everything from extortion to prostitution to murder. But as his name implied, Legree’s main source of income was games of chance. As Smythe understood it, Maurice Legree owned the lion’s share of all the action in every region outside of New Orleans and the Louisiana Territories. If Smythe had to guess, that was why the Gambler had risked calling them together.

  Legree and Worthington’s hatred of one another had been evident from the beginnings of the Cabal. The hatred burned with such intensity that only one force existed powerful enough to eclipse it — their mutual lust for power. It had been the glue that held the Cabal together. It would have seemed more likely the Atlantic would overflow and swallow the wilds of Alabama than that these two would be here together. Other than Smythe, they were the only surviving members of the fragile alliance they’d dubbed the Cabal, and, much like politics, dire times also made for strange bedfellows.

  Smythe watched Worthington and Legree bicker. Waves of animosity flowed from them like heat from a brick oven. Smythe had acted as a counterbalance between the two since the beginning. It was a role he’d long since grown weary of. Now, even with the newfound authority of his office, even with all the power they’d amassed individually, it looked as though nothing had changed. There was an empire to be built, for the Healer’s sake. Had the two of them nothing better to do?

  “Gentlemen!” Smythe shouted, interrupting their argument.

  The room fell silent at the President of the Confederacy’s raised voice.

  “Ah,” Smythe said, exhaling, “that’s much better. Now then…” He flashed Worthington and Legree his best politician’s smile. “So good to finally be able to see you both again.”

  Worthington eyed Smythe and the Confederate soldiers with a look of derision. “Really, James, is all this,” he waved his hand, encompassing Smyth’s security detail, Wagstaff, and Primm, “truly necessary?”

  Primm frowned at Worthington. “You should really address him as ‘Mr. President,’” he said. “‘James’ strikes me as a bit too familiar.”

  Worthington stared at Primm for several seconds, looking at Smythe’s aide the same way you might inspect an insect that had happened to land on your sleeve. “Do you know who I am, young man?” he asked Primm.

  “I’m well aware of who you are, Mr. Worthington. I'm afraid it is you who do not realize whose presence you are in.”

  Worthington turned several shades of red. “Why I — the nerve!”

  Legree puffed his cigar. “Now, now, Silas. Calm yourself.”

  Smythe noticed the Gambler seemed torn, likely between annoyance at Smythe’s own repeated ignoring of their summons and amusement at Worthington’s outrage.

  The Gambler hooked a thumb at Worthington. “You’ll have to excuse the old bitch,” he said to Primm. “He’s been too long in control of the game to remember what it feels like to be on the otherwise.”

  Primm smiled and nodded, taking the opportunity to scratch out several lines of notes.

  “It’s quite all right, Trevor,” Smythe said. He waited while a soldier pulled out a chair for him before he joined the other two men at the table. A glass of wine, warm from sitting too long, had been set for him. Smythe smiled. “These are old friends and allies, Mr. Primm. Why, if not for them, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Let them address me as they will.”

  The Gambler grinned. “Most kind of you, Puppeteer.”

  Smythe’s smile faded. “Perhaps I should have been more clear, Maurice. You may address me any way you will, other than that way.”

  The Gambler’s grin widened. “So, you’ve been in New Orleans?” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Yes,” Smythe answered. “My administration had business there.”

  The Gambler chuckled. “Your administration, is it?” He shook his head. “How you plannin’ on making sure Therese wins this thing?”

  The Gambler’s knowledge of his meeting with Senator Truveaux caught Smythe off guard. His cheek twitched.

  Legree smiled. “Come now, James. You didn’t think she’d tell me what y’all discussed? Therese and I are old friends. Hell, I’m the one who set up the meet!” The Gambler took a puff from his cigar. “That deserves a little credit, don’t it?”

  Smythe chose his next word with care. “Your efforts on behalf of the Confederacy will not go… unrewarded.”

  Legree nodded. “Oh, indeed, that is a certainty of which I am sure.” He grinned. “You shoulda’ gave me some notice you were headed down to New Orleans, James. I could’a met y’all down there. Maybe sat in on your little ‘talk’ with Therese.” The Gambler whistled. “The things I could do if my reach extended into Louisiana and the territories beyond. Healer above, but it whets my whistle just thinkin’ on it!”

  Smythe sat stock-still. He felt his cheek move a second time and he willed it to cease.

  Legree’s eyes narrowed. “I got you what you wanted, James, an ‘in’ to the Crescent city. Now, it’s time to return the favor,” the Gambler continued. He took a puff of his stogie and exhaled a cloud of blue-gray tobacco smoke. “If you’d only answered any of my correspondences.”

  “And just what is the meaning of you not answering us, James?” an indignant Worthington asked, butting in. “Have you forgotten what it means to invoke the order?”

  Smythe observed how Worthington looked a little worse for wear than the last time they’d met. That had been just before the election.

  The President of the Confederacy grimaced as if he’d been physically wounded. “I have not forgotten,” he said. “We all swore a sacred oath when we embarked on our journey together, and I promise you I have tried my best to maintain that. However—”

  The Gambler laughed, the sound like the rasp of dried bark rubbing together. “Here it comes.”

  “However, the duties of my new office prevented me,” Smythe finished.

  “Next, you’ll be telling us about how the Mexican Empire, and the Freedmen, and the Croatan Nation are all nipping at your heels,” the Gambler said, his voice beginning to rise. “Then, it’ll be the economy, the children starving in the streets, or some other horse shit!” The Gambler lowered his voice to a whisper, the effect somehow more menacing than the shouting. “We want what you promised us, James. We want what’s ours!” Legree finished with a shout. Smythe actually jumped as Legree slammed his fist onto the table.

  As one, eight Confederate presidential guards instantaneously leveled their rifles at the Gambler. Almost as quickly, half as many of the Gambler’s associates pointed their pistols back.

  Smythe recovered himself quickly, holding his hands up for calm. “Everyone, please,” he said. He signaled for the soldiers to lower their rifles, which they did with no small measure of reluctance. Smythe eyed the only other surviving members of the Cabal in turn. “Maurice, James, I promise you both on the oath we all swore that you’ll receive what you’re owed. You have my word.”

  Worthington’s eyes became slits. “And how well did that oath serve Horton?”

  Smythe wondered when they would get around to mentioning the Cabal’s missing fourth member. “Missing” was a polite way to put it. There was no doubt in Smythe’s mind that Horton was well and truly dead. The fact that the Union capital hadn’t been turned into an aether-blasted crater the previous year was testament to that.

  Smythe, always the master politician, had an answer prepared and ready for his allies.

  “General Horton was a patriot,” Smythe said. “His sacrifice helped us to achieve the power we currently enjoy.”

  “I imagine he’d have liked to have seen some of it for himself,” the Gambler growled. “But what’s done is done, I reckon. I think I got something else that might interest you, though.” The Gambler snapped his fingers at his associates behind him.

  One of his men, a smallish figure wit
h a rat-like face and a mangled left ear, stepped forward, a fat stack of bound paper in each hand. He bared a mouthful of sharp, rotten teeth at Smythe in a corrupted attempt at a smile. “Been a long time, Mr. President,” he said. “Good seein’ you again.” He tipped his beaten bowler hat.

  “Shoo, Mouse,” the Gambler said, taking the bound files from the man without bothering to turn around. “If I’d wanted you speaking to the president, I’d have ordered it.”

  Legree tossed the files onto the table toward Smythe, where they landed with an audible thump.

  Smythe waited for the dust to settle before he reached across the table and untied one of them. He flipped through several pages, raised an eyebrow, and then looked up at Worthington. “I take it you’ve already seen these, Silas?”

  Silas Worthington, known within the Cabal as the Pious Man, nodded. In that moment, Smythe realized Worthington was no longer the staunch ally he’d depended on when the Cabal first came to be.

  Smythe returned his attention to what he held in his hand. A daguerreotype showed a young woman. He couldn’t tell from the sepia tones of the image, but Smythe knew the young woman’s eyes were sapphire-blue, and her hair was as red as a burning flame. He recognized her instantly. She’d been at the fundraising gala he’d held at his Rosetree estate in Greenville just before he won the presidency.

  He handed the first file to Primm and reached for the second, a sneaking suspicion of what it contained already forming in his mind. Smythe unwound the thread and opened the file. James Smythe never forgot a face. It was just one of the many talents required to win at the game of politics. He recognized, almost immediately, the stern man staring back at him. He knew him as Arthur Hargrave, a wealthy planter from Kentucky and a generous contributor to his campaign. This file revealed the man’s real name as Agent Nathanial Faraday, Department of Strategic Intelligence.

  Smythe clenched his jaw and read on. Faraday’s moniker was “Copperhead”. Looking at the bottomless black eyes of the killer staring back at him from the daguerreotype, Smythe thought the name of the deadly pit viper seemed fitting. He handed the second file to Primm as well, who tucked it neatly under his arm alongside the first.