Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services

by W. Patrick Lang

  She turned her head from him.

  The young man looked as though he had been slapped. He hurried away. Balthazar was a little shocked. "Was that necessary?" he asked.

  The auburn head snapped around. "If they want to be treated nicely, they should get out of our country!" The fire in her burned brightly before him.

  They stopped on the brick sidewalk. The bricks had an interesting pattern of entwined leaves molded into some of them.

  Victoria looked at him waiting for a reaction. She wore a woolen shawl with a long, tasseled fringe. "They are no good, major, no good at all!" she said.

  "If they are your enemies,” he replied, “then they must surely be without virtue." He grasped the fringed edges to either side of her neck, and tugged it higher. His knuckles touched her throat for a second. "You must not catch cold. The two young men we left in your house just now need you. Do not provoke your enemies. They are so strong, and they are everywhere."

  She shrugged. "We are going to lose, and then nothing will matter, nothing!"

  They walked on in silence, away from the river, up the rising breast of the street to the glowing windows.

  Dinner proved to be something less than a joyous occasion. Balthazar could think of no decent way to place himself near Victoria. He was not, in fact, sure that this would have been welcomed. Then there was the matter of his countryman, Colonel Edouard Jourdain. The man did not like him. That much was miserably clear. Balthazar knew instinctively what the problem was. Jourdain did not like that Balthazar represented something older and deeper in the French Army than Jourdain could become. Jean-Marie Balthazar d’Orgueil was a man of the soil. He came of a race wedded to the stony plateau of their dreams, the goat pastures of their destiny, a place in which they clung to their own people and their way of life. War came to them as their calling not as an alternative to the soil, but rather as an expression of their acceptance of nature's plan.

  The colonel wanted nothing like that. He was a modern man. He did not think of himself as a Bonapartist. In truth, he was republican to the core. His wife, Helene, claimed descent from one of the great baronial houses of eastern France, but he insisted that the title of “bourgeois" should be thought the noblest of all. He did not think Balthazar a Bonapartist either, but he saw in him something worrisome. Jourdain had passed the years of his career in a miscellany of postings throughout metropolitan France. He had endured the pitiless weather of Lorraine and the Pas de Calais for an eternity. The petty backbiting of garrison politics had worn at the corners of his soul. At last he had escaped to the General Staff and to Paris. The romantic “posturing” and “juvenile adventurism” of the Army of Africa was to him an evasion of duty.

  What right did these madmen have to think themselves better? They should try some real soldiering!

  The younger felt the elder’s disapproval. His perception of it had grown throughout dinner. At first he simply ignored the feeling of oppression that came with this empathy. It seemed unimportant. Claude introduced them in the salon, and brought them together in the music room for a few minutes, believing that they would be happy to see one another. The three men found themselves in the center of the room, standing closely enough that whispers would suffice. The heavy window hangings made it impossible that anyone would hear them in the street. A fire spat and hissed in the brick hearth of the white, wooden fireplace.

  Jourdain wasted no time in small talk. "Welcome!” he whispered. “Your arrival here comes a little late, but that is no fault of yours. Claude has delivered you to us with his customary dispatch and competence. As your superior officer, I wish to be certain that you understand what is expected of you...” The tall, grey haired and elegant figure peered at him with something in his face that looked like suspicion.

  Irritation began to grow in Balthazar's heart. He knew from long experience that the men of southern France were thought to be not quite "right" by some Frenchmen. They were thought to be a little too "uneven" for tasks requiring qualities of calmness and persistence. He saw that the military attaché of France might be one of those who held such opinions. "I am to attach myself to General Lee's army, conform to its movements, and to render such reports to you as will enable the Emperor's government to formulate its ultimate policy with regard to the Confederate States of America." The last words were spoken in English. The sound of them struck suddenly home to him. There was something in them that brought foreboding.

  "And what of your communications, D'Orgueil?" the colonel demanded. "How will you send me these reports"?

  "What is your regiment, mon colonel?" Balthazar asked, unwilling to be dragged around by the man.

  "6th Hussars," Jourdain responded with satisfaction.

  Balthazar did not relish cavalrymen. He found their jumped-up air of superiority unacceptable. "I will send you reports through the responsible officer of General Lee's staff...” He looked inquiringly at Devereux. "That would be either Marshall or Charles Venable."

  "When I meet these gentlemen, I will have a better idea...” Jourdain examined him closely.

  The evident lack of friendliness was clear to Devereux. He cleared his throat. "Ah, we'll deliver these dispatches to you, Edouard. Never fear. I'm sure that Jean-Marie can handle that cipher machine that you gave us as well as we can. Actually, I'll leave the room if you'd like to discuss this sort of thing."

  Jourdain raised a hand in protest. "Pas du tout! You are a subject of the Emperor, one of us!" He turned back to Balthazar. "If it is not possible to send letters to me through the Confederates, then you should seek the aid of the Papal Nuncio here. He has been instructed to offer you the hand of the church in friendship. I believe you are in funds from the foreign ministry?"

  "Yes."

  "If you should run short..."

  Devereux gathered up the two men, holding each by an elbow, guiding them toward the door. "Not to worry, Edouard. My cousin will not lack for means in my country... Let's go in. The ladies are waiting."

  Like most Frenchmen, Balthazar liked to talk at table. An animated discussion of life's minor incidents, and the events of the day, ranked high among his expectations at table. He found this gathering to be captivating. The Devereuxs and their Alexandria friends were among the most engaging people he could remember. Their conversation was both frank and amusing. Regrettably, he found his own people, as represented by Colonel and Madame Jourdain, to be less interesting. His attention kept wandering back to Victoria. He was pleased to see that she took part in the spirited occasion, in fact, seemed at the center of it.

  In the midst of the fish course, a sensation of touching against the side of his face caused him to glance to the left.

  He found himself looking into her brown eyes. She smiled and looked away.

  George White and his son had just removed the remains of several fowl when Balthazar sensed that there was some disturbance at the back of the house. There was a persistent knocking followed by muffled exclamations of surprise. He had not seen the kitchens, but the general logic of domestic architecture told him that the commotion must be there.

  Clotilde appeared not to hear, but Claude excused himself, returning after a moment. He took his place, responding to his mother's inquiring glance with a small shake of the head. The incident did not interrupt the smooth progress of service.

  Hope stared at her husband.

  He eventually looked at her, and in reply to her mute demand formed a word with his lips that to Balthazar looked impenetrably to be "smood".

  She looked surprised. Her eyes widened in shock.

  Claude grinned at her confusion.

  She covered her mouth with her napkin, turning to listen to the man at her right. A moment later Balthazar heard her laugh a silver laugh, evidently in approval of some witticism. A little later, after making what seemed to Balthazar a rather weak excuse, she left the table.

  Finally, mercifully, Clotilde, Charles, and Victoria shepherded the other guests into the salon.

  Claude l
ed him through a swinging door. The butler's pantry bulged with the debris of the meal. An inner door opened into the kitchen. Over Claude's shoulder, Balthazar could see four people seated at a large, wooden table. Hope, and a pretty white haired mulatto woman sat across from each other. Lieutenant Frederick Kennedy occupied a third chair. At the head of the table was a stocky, sun tanned man in his mid-thirties. His rough clothing made you think of a farmer. A bright, new scar ran down one side of his face, down from his forehead, across the eyebrow, into the cheek, disappearing in the red-brown beard. At the sight of Claude, he put down his fork to stand.

  Devereux crossed the room to seize him in his arms. "My God, Isaac!" he cried so loudly that Kennedy went to the pantry door to listen. "I thought we had lost you forever!"

  The recipient of this attention squinted at Balthazar with growing alarm, unable to place the face. He gently detached himself from Devereux's embrace. "Good to see you, sir! I wasn't too hopeful m'self. I just thought to drop by for some of Betsy's apple pie. It's as good as ever."

  The older woman smiled at him.

  Devereux looked puzzled at the expression on Smoot’s face.

  "Claude," his wife prompted. "They haven't met!"

  Devereux did not answer. He still seemed absorbed in the other man's presence.

  "Major Balthazar, this is Sergeant Isaac Smoot, 43rd Battalion, Virginia Cavalry," Kennedy offered.

  "Here?" Balthazar could not believe his ears. "We are in President Lincoln's back garden!"

  "An Englishman?" Smoot rasped in surprise.

  "No! No!" Devereux said. "This is Major John Balthazar of the French Imperial Forces. He will visit our army. I have written Richmond about him. He is expected. What are you doing here, Isaac? I have a sudden presentment that you have not come to rejoin us.

  Smoot still watched the stranger with guarded attention. He did not reply.

  Hope reached up and held one of his hands.

  Smoot looked down at her.

  "He is our cousin, Isaac," she said.

  Hope Devereux had the gift of attracting affection.

  Isaac Smoot loved her more than a little. He squeezed her hand, and then let it go. "The major and young Dulany have decided that Pierpont must be silenced,” he said, “and an example made for Tories...”

  "They are coming in?" Devereux's eyes flashed.

  "Tonight. They sent me on ahead to warn you, so you could stay clear."

  Hope saw a look of bewilderment spreading across the Frenchman's face. "Francis Pierpont is a misguided fool," she said. "He is also Governor of Virginia in the view of Lincoln's government. None of them care that we already have a governor, and legislature, whom we elected, and who sit in Richmond, where they are supposed to be. Francis lives and has his 'capitol' over on Prince Street about four blocks from here. Oh!” She smiled up at him. "French Dulany is with Mosby. He is an Alexandria boy. His father is Governor Pierpont's military aide, and a volunteer colonel."

  "Yes, rather like myself", Devereux suggested.

  "Not exactly like you, dear," Hope said sweetly.

  "And Mosby, the partisan leader, I have read of him in France. What has he to do with this?" Balthazar pressed.

  "He is 'the major,'" Kennedy said somewhat impatiently. The 43rd is his battalion."

  "Ah! Mon Dieu! I understand now! Why did you not say so at once? Ah, but all of you know these things. I must not forget! They are coming here tonight! How splendid! But Claude, this solves your problem of my movements. I will leave with them!" The elegance and simplicity of this arrangement so appealed to Balthazar that a wide smile animated his face as he turned from one to another, expecting approval.

  Devereux watched Smoot for an indication of his opinion.

  "He won't like it," the sergeant decided aloud.

  "But, why not?" Balthazar demanded.

  "He doesn't like to be taken unawares like this, especially when he's in the midst of something serious."

  "Ah! But this is only to be expected! The temperament of leaders of 'guerilleros' is a well known thing. I have encountered it elsewhere. Not to worry."

  Smoot looked at the big foreigner with growing interest. "Well, maybe."

  Chapter 7

  Mosby

  The streets of Alexandria teemed with Union military men. The army's somber blue mixed everywhere with the dark jumpers and colorful neckerchiefs of the crews of ships at anchor in the river.

  Devereux stalked along the sidewalk, the very picture of a purposeful senior officer abroad on the nation's business. He and his large companion chatted amiably, evidently forgetful of their surroundings. The soldiers parted before them turning to watch the two men after they passed. Ahead of them, Joe White led two horses, turning as he went to greet passers by and to lift his hat to ladies out for an evening's walk.

  The little procession went south along Fairfax Street passing the well lit houses of substantial citizens, then a firehouse five blocks from the Devereux home, and finally a roaring bawdy house overflowing with soldiers of the garrison. A provost officer stood in the road with three of his men. His hands clasped behind him, he studied the place purposefully.

  Devereux came upon him unseen. "Evening Dodge, from your expression I’d say that you are going to break up the fun."

  The captain spun on his heel, and straightened to attention as he recognized the voice as a colonel. "Good evening, sir! The neighbors have complained three times tonight. One of those damned Pennsylvanians from the new artillery on Shuter's Hill broke into a house over there, and raped a servant girl! At least she says it's rape. You never know... They're apt to say anything to make difficulties for us. I wouldn't give you ten cents for all the Alexandrians who ever liv..." He clearly had forgotten to whom he spoke. He looked abruptly at Balthazar and Devereux. "Oh! I am sorry, sir! I was not speaking of loyal men!"

  Devereux waved vaguely at him in passing as he walked away. "Of course! Of course! I know exactly what was meant. Carry on." Balthazar kept out of the light, passing behind the group of soldiers while inclining his head in an apparent salutation which hid most of his face. They walked on in silence for a time until Balthazar could contain himself no longer. "Claude, I have not much time... I would ask your permission to, to write to...”

  "To me? My word, Jean-Marie! Why of course you'll write to me!"

  Balthazar said nothing for a minute, trudging along quietly until he glanced at his cousin.

  My God! The vile creature is grinning at me!

  "What is so damnably amusing, Claude?" he demanded.

  "You! You're just off the boat, headed off for God knows what and asking me for permission to correspond with my recently widowed sister-in-law." Devereux scratched the side of his face. "You should. We, none of us, have time to fool around with the niceties. Go ahead! Write to her. She needs some other interest than the boys. She needs to think about something other than Pat."

  "I had not thought I was so, obvious. My apologies, your brother...”

  "We all miss him of course, she most of all... He was standing at my side when he was killed. He never should have been there of course. We chased him up the hill. You'd never think a man on crutches could move that fast, and there we all were, Pat, me, Fred Kennedy, Bill and Quick. We reached the top just in time to watch the whole thing, the whole damned thing. Pickett’s attack, you know." Devereux coughed into a closed fist. "You write her, Jean-Marie. I insist. Send letters with your dispatches. I'll see that she gets them."

  "Colonel Jourdain?"

  "To hell with him! He doesn't have to know everything about us. We don't belong to him, do we? Actually, I believe that is something of a family tradition?"

  "Yes, we give ourselves with some discrimination."

  Devereux laughed deep in his chest, laughed from emotion, filled with the anticipation of what must come soon for his cousin. He stopped walking, standing quiet, listening.

  "What now?" the French soldier asked.

  "Here we are. Smoot and Jo
seph are waiting in the shadow of the barn across the street."

  Balthazar held out a hand. "A bientot."

  Devereux gripped the hand hard. "You were not obvious," he said. With that he turned on his heel and walked off down an alley, limping in the chill night air, disappearing almost at once in the darkness of the shadow cast by the houses.

  Balthazar crossed the cobblestones, going directly to the barn door.

  It stood slightly open, inviting him.

  Ingrained caution stopped him three feet from the blackness. He inspected the featureless opening without enthusiasm.

  "Go on in, mister," Smoot's voice suggested.

  "Yes, do," someone urged from within. The voice had a curiously flat quality about it.

  Balthazar remained where he was, unwilling to jump into the unknown.

  "Whoever you are, we don't want you standin' out there in the street!" a third man whispered loudly. The tension in his voice was plain to hear.

  "Devereux looks well, even in his costume," the flat voice remarked. "You must come in, and tell me who you are. Smoot!"

  "Yes, Major."

  "Walk the man in."

  Isaac Smoot's stocky form came around the corner of the barn.

  Balthazar held up a hand to stop his forward motion. Satisfied that he had paused, Balthazar strode directly into the darkened interior of the barn.

  The door closed behind, making the blackness yet more complete.

  Feet moved about in the straw. The odors of horse and soldiers hung all about.

  A match was struck, revealing a tall, dark man engaged in lighting a candle. With the light in hand, he came close to Balthazar, staring in his face for a moment. "And, who the hell are you?" he finally inquired.

  "You are not Major Mosby," Balthazar stated with certainty.

  "No? Look, fellah... I'm whatever I say. We don't need no Englishmen stickin' their noses in our business." The candle moved from side to side passing perilously close to Balthazar's considerable nose.

  "You are not Major Mosby," Balthazar said again without much interest.