"Of course."
"One more thing."
"What's that?"
"Smoot will be second in command."
"He belongs to Mosby."
Balthazar said nothing. The beads clicked.
Early spat. "What do you say?" he asked the cavalryman.
Smoot felt his scar, smiled and said, "John Mosby has a lot of men."
Early laughed, tilting his head to one side as he did so. "He's yours. Mosby will raise hell, but I'll ignore him. He's yours. What'll you do with them?"
"I will make of them a Corps D'elite. They will be your personal reserve."
"Thank you. Thank you. Major Hale will show where they are." He shook their hands, and walked away.
Justus held his horse by the embers of the cook fire.
He took the reins from the black man, and mounting rode into the woods, going south, away from the Rappahannock.
All through that cold and windy day, the army fell back along farm roads to the southwest. The rear guards held the enemy at arms length without much trouble.
The Yankees seemed disoriented by their success. They did not push hard and the greatest menace was the frost.
At one point a company of Carolinians looked back from a low ridge near Brandy Station to see an astonishing thing. Coming across the vast plain east of the station were Federal troops in line of battle behind their cannon and flags. Their front was a mile and a half wide.
The ragged Southerners stopped to watch in admiration.
On they came in unending precision, the lines expanding and contracting around obstacles in the ground.
The Rebels turned from them to continue their retreat to the south.
Balthazar took charge of his new command the next day.
The division provost marshal was happy to give them up. They were an embarrassment. These men said they wanted to fight for the South, but what could one believe of some of these? Among them there was little common ground.
The soldiers who had lost their regiments did not want to be with the Northern deserters. No one knew what to think of the Confederates who had come back wearing blue.
The Frenchman got them all together around a big fire in a crossroads settlement outside Culpeper. It was dark and cold. Men stood silently, shivering and beating their hands against their sides. Some still wore Union Army overcoats, but that was not unusual in Lee’s army. A number had wrapped blankets around themselves to keep the heat in. Too many breathed raggedly and coughed with a sound that made you know they were on the edge of sickness from exposure.
The fire burned huge in the night. It was so big and hot that some moved away from it to get relief. Because of this, the circle around the hill of flame was large enough to hold them all.
Balthazar stood facing them in a brown mackinaw coat, a smile on his face. In one hand were the red beads.
At first they could not see his eyes under the brim of his hat. He noticed that and looked around for a place to lay it down. In the end, he gave it to a soldier in a blue coat who stepped forward to take it.
They had eaten well. Smoot knew people in the neighborhood. Smokehouses were not as empty as the commissary department thought.
Balthazar began to speak. It wasn't much of a speech. He told them that he was glad to meet them, and that the circumstances that brought them together were remarkable. He said he knew that they must feel very much alone in this new place and with these new people. He said that he was as much alone as they, that he had come to America to see the war, and now knew that it was not right to stand to one side and watch. He told them that he had been at war for a long time. He mentioned the places where he had fought, and the men with whom he had served. He introduced Smoot. He said that Smoot would be the only other officer for a while, but that the most experienced among them would be made leaders for the time being.
Smoot's faded chevrons made some frown in puzzlement, but they said nothing.
A red faced soldier in butternut wanted to know why he sounded like an Englishman.
Another, a young man in grey with a Louis Napoleon beard, asked him a question about Zouave drill, a very technical question.
A third asked if they could go back to their home regiments, if they could find them.
"Certainly. I will be happy to help any who wish to do so, but for the moment General Early asks that we make a 'battalion of demonstration' to see what is the good of applying the methods of training which I have used in the Army of the French."
He was pleased to see that Early's name meant something.
"What's that mean?" a soldier asked. His voice was empty of Dixie's music.
"It means," said the young man in grey, "that you are going to work your ass off."
Balthazar smiled at him. "Quite so. We will all 'work our asses off'. Company and battalion drill, route marches, battle drill of a kind I have myself devised, much time at marksmanship practice...”
Several laughed derisively.
"We know you boys can shoot," Smoot said from nearby, "but you ain't never seen this man shoot."
"And what do we get in return?" a man with a New England accent wanted to know.
Silence ringed the fire under the stars. The wind whistled in the bare trees, sweeping down on them, pushing the flame far out over their heads for a second. The wind was a knife between the shoulders.
"You will have whatever it is that you came for," Balthazar said in a voice so low that they leaned forward to hear, "You will have whatever it is that you have stayed for, or have come back for. That is all that you will have. Now! We are so lucky this night as to have the use of the buildings of this lovely little village." He swept the dimly seen outlines of the houses with a gesture. "The inhabitants have left for the time being. They, quite understandably, do not wish to offer their hospitality to our Yankee friends. I would ask you to remember that the absent villagers are our countrymen. Good night."
The words hung in the air among them, an emblem of their shared purpose.
They drifted away to the buildings, some looking over their shoulders, their faces indistinct in the darkness.
Smoot brought the soldier in grey to Balthazar.
The young man stood at "attention" before the battalion commander. He looked as though he might be twenty-five years old. He was darkly handsome and clearly something of a dandy by his dress.
In the flickering light of the log fire, Balthazar saw the red braid on his trousers and a metal cap badge. It was a pelican. Looking at the uniform he thought to himself, This man has private means.
"What is your unit?"
"The Louisiana Guard Artillery, sir. I was at Rappahannock Station...”
"In the redoubts?"
"Yes, major. My piece was dismounted by fire... I believe you were there as well?"
Balthazar nodded. "You are professionally trained?"
The man grinned. He had a lot of white teeth in a deeply tanned face. "I was dismissed from West Point in December of '60 for making insulting and disloyal statements about the president-elect. I went home and joined the militia."
"You are a cannoneer?"
"No. I am a sergeant gun captain. I've never gotten around to sewing the stripes on."
"In most armies that would be reason to reduce you to the ranks."
The gun captain smiled.
Balthazar looked around at Smoot.
The Virginian seemed busy pushing things around in the fire.
The French soldier returned his attention to the man before him. "Your name?"
"Harris, Raphael Harris."
"You are from New Orleans?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sergeant, I would like you to accept the position of acting adjutant of this battalion. Lieutenant Smoot and I will need your help in this matter. There is little time. We begin to make order and to train in the morning. Do you accept?"
Harris opened his mouth, closed it, looked at Smoot, and said yes.
"Good! Bring your kit to that farmh
ouse. We must talk of other appointments. Do you know anyone who might make an adjutant-chef, a sergeant-major?"
Harris seemed rooted in front of him. "Sir," he began. "I am not seeking advancement…"
Balthazar's face contorted in irritation. "Yes! Yes! I know. You do not wish to be an officer. Smoot has told me of this divine madness which infects you gentlemen. I find it fascinating, perhaps enchanting. Seductive might be a better word. We can discuss it later. I will force this on no one, but I need your help. D'accord?"
"D'accord, chef."
- 9 November (Washington, D.C.)
John Wilkes Booth was in exceptional form. He was not hoarse. His tendency to declaim was under control. His voice could be heard throughout the room. Ford’s Theater was not very large and Booth’s tenor filled the hall. “The Marble Heart” seemed to have been written with him in mind.
Charles Devereux and his family had seats in the middle of the orchestra section about half way back to the overhang of the balcony. They made an attractive picture. The beauty and style of the Devereux women were well known in the city. Claude’s Army Blue figure seated among the ladies made a pleasing contrast. His mother had decided that they would not wear mourning colors any longer. She said that there was “just too much sadness” and that they should not contribute to it
Claude tried to avoid this evening’s entertainment. Lincoln was certain to attend the Washington opening of the play’s “run.”
He did not want to spend any more time with President Lincoln than he could avoid. He felt, beyond reason that Lincoln would see into his soul if they were too much together. He knew that was foolish and that his secret work demanded that he seek Lincoln’s company but could not force himself to do it. The man’s face haunted his dreams. There was no escaping him. His annoying mid-western twang filled the corridors of the War Department building on 17th Street. Devereux’s office was a few doors from that of the Secretary of War. He was lodged there in a row of rooms occupied by, John Hay, William Davenport and Nikolay, the president’s secretary. The four of them often gathered in the afternoon for a glass of Claude’s excellent whiskey and a chat. Devereux’s little suite of rooms was the favored meeting place
Lincoln’s voice haunted the building. He spent much of his time reading reports in the War Department telegraph office on the fourth floor and had developed the annoying habit of “dropping in” on groups that interested him. Devereux dreaded the day that the president would discover the afternoon meetings.
Seated on the main floor of the theater below the presidential box, Claude felt that someone in the box above was looking at him. He was certain it must be Lincoln. He had stood with the audience to greet the arrival of the presidential party, but avoided looking directly at them. He knew that people are more likely to remember those with whom they have made eye contact. Nevertheless, the feeling that he was watched had grown in him for some time, and the faint, ghostly pressure on the side of his face was becoming so strong that he knew he could not ignore it much longer.
On the stage Booth delivered a line with exceptional force and then turned to point at the president. Devereux had not listened closely enough to remember the line, but he instinctively turned to the box.
There, seated just beside Mary Lincoln, was Amy Biddle staring down at him with a face heartbreakingly devoid of the guile that would have been needed to disguise her love.
Lincoln and the rest of his group were focused on Booth.
Devereux turned to his left to look at his wife. She seemed to be absorbed in Booth’s performance. He then turned back to the box.
Abraham Lincoln was looking first at him and then Amy in turn, first one and then the other. He nodded very slightly to Devereux, and then shook his head in the slightest of gestures.
In their carriage on the way home, Hope said nothing for half the trip and then remarked, while looking out the window, “if she is going to moon at you in public then you will be attending events without me...”
“I have no control over her actions or yours. I do not encourage her.”
Now she looked at him. “Swear that is true?” She looked incredibly beautiful in the lantern lit interior of the carriage.
“Yes.”
She made a small face and then turned fully toward him. “What did you think of Booth this time?” she asked.
He was at a loss for words. The magnitude of his lie to this woman who loved him so pressed down on him even as he knew that he would persist in the lie.
“Are you going to answer me?” Her face was unreadable. Her face was often unreadable lately.
“I have mentioned him to our people.”
Will they use him for something?” She looked impatient now.
“I imagine so. He travels widely without anyone questioning the need. That must be useful.”
“Should we invite him for dinner? He would seem a “catch’ for the kind of social set we are creating...” He looked at her speculatively contemplating the thought of Hope and Booth as a couple, and then dismissed the idea.
“Certainly. He should be amusing. Have we received an invitation to the Chase girl’s wedding to Sprague?”
“It came a few days ago. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Now she looked mischievous.
“Why?”
The beautiful blond creature laughed aloud. “She is such a nitwit and can’t shut up to save her soul. You didn’t hear her lecturing Senator Sumner last Sunday at his wife’s tea?”
“I missed that. I suppose that since her father is Treasury Secretary and her fiancé is also a senator she can say what she pleases.”
She sniffed and lifted her little chin.
Looking at her, he decided that he had not been spending enough time at home.
The Army of Northern Virginia halted its retreat just north of the little town that was the seat of Culpeper County. Lee would not have admitted that he stopped his retreat there for other than military reasons but in fact he could not yet compel himself to abandon the loyal Virginia people of this town, and so the army turned for a few days to face the Northern forces that followed.
The troops fanned out in the shops around the old court house. Some found old friends. Some bought whatever Confederate money could still buy. In this third winter of the war, it was surprising how much it would buy. Perhaps the buyers' faded, shabby uniforms had something to do with the money's value.
After a few days they moved on again, filing out through the streets in silence, leaving women, children and old men standing in their doorways watching. Many held small flags. When the troops had passed, the townspeople went indoors to wait for the enemy. They went on south, beyond the Rapidan to a line Lee believed they could hold.
Throughout the army, soldiers started to construct their winter quarters. They had lived so long in the forest that they could build solid little houses of sticks and mud if they had a couple of weeks in which to work. Small towns rose in the woods, filling the forest that stretched south from the foot of Pony Mountain.
Smoke drifted in the wind, eddying and streaming, bringing an acrid bite of wood to the nose. Oak and hickory, maple and poplar, the smoke carried with it the smell of the little communities, these villages so like those that the ancestors of the soldiers had made in the beginning of their life in America.
The men thought of Thanksgiving; and some reached out beyond that to remember Christmas. Balthazar watched his troops build their winter town. He had never seen soldiers do such a thing. In Europe, soldiers on campaign lived under canvas or in requisitioned houses.
He thought their skill a marvelous thing, and told them so. He and Smoot and Harris kept them occupied throughout the shrinking hours of daylight.
They began with "The School of the Soldier". The training began with the manual of arms and bayonet drill. That lasted a week.
Then they moved on to company drill under the men he picked to command the four companies.
One had been first sergeant in a Union New
York regiment. His name was Seamus O'Brien. Short, robust in physique with a “bull neck and black hair, he was the very type of a “Gael.” He said that the Draft Riots in July had been too much for him. There had been too many Irish killed, far too many. He said he would not fight to free “the niggers,” and that was what it came to now. Balthazar watched with interest the discomfort with which Smoot and Harris listened to this. O’Brien had been a laborer before the war, first in Dublin, then in New York City. He said he had voted for Breckinridge in 1860. He received command of “A Company.”
Another was a former Confederate officer, reduced to the ranks in a reelection. He said his name was Taylor Randall. Blond, blue eyed and slim, he was from Tennessee, a quiet, soft spoken man who led by example. His unassuming manner won friends easily. “B Company” looked pleased at the news that he would lead them. Balthazar was not surprised. In his experience the men really did “love a gentleman.”
- 12 November – (Kate’s wedding)
“We seem to be moving in similar circles, Colonel Devereux,” the voice said. Lincoln had a distinctive voice. It was throaty, but also nasal in a Midwestern sort of way.
Claude turned to see the smiling face and looming black figure surrounded by the usual group.
Stanton stood slightly to one side and a step behind.
John Nicolay was at the president’s left hand as a good secretary should be. Stanton was beaming. His round steel glasses reflected one of the gas lights. His ragged, long spade beard was as unsightly as usual.
Nicolay looked serious, but not harried.
Things must be going well today, Claude thought.
He looked around for his wife and found her. She had walked away from him to stand with his parents. They were at the other end of the room chatting with the bride by the big black marble fireplace. The gaslight sparkled on the women’s jewelry. His father did not seem as morose as usual in this situation. Charles Devereux rarely came into Washington City from Alexandria anymore. He left that to Claude and the bank’s employees. Today seemed different for him. He was actually smiling.
He has known Salmon Chase for many years and the senator’s residence is a familiar place. Perhaps that is the reason, Claude told himself.
Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services Page 11