Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services

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Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services Page 12

by W. Patrick Lang


  Kate Chase was a beauty. On her wedding day she managed to seem almost as pretty as Hope. The white silk of the dress shimmered in the flickering light.

  Senator Sprague, the groom, appeared resigned to several more hours of conversation with official Washington. He did not look really happy with that, but he could be forgiven for wishing that he was somewhere else alone with his new wife... He was a rich man, rich enough to have given his bride the diamond tiara that she wore for the wedding. His attention kept shifting back and forth between Hope Devereux and his bride. Claude recognized roving lust when he saw it.

  Not a good omen, he thought while watching Sprague.

  You would know about that, a voice in his head reminded him.

  “You have been hiding something from me, Colonel Devereux,” Lincoln persisted.

  A wave of fear swept the spy. Then reason assured him that the president of the United States would not confront and arrest him at a society wedding.

  “Sir?”

  Nicolay says you and several of your friends are conducting an afternoon “Lyceum” on the war?

  “Yes, sir. We are doing that. Just a few friends talking over the day’s events…”

  “Might I be invited?”

  Devereux carefully avoided looking at Nicolay. He knew that the mask would not hold firmly in place if he looked the man in the eye. At the same time, he also knew that the president’s desire to be included in the group discussion was the greatest gift that Nicolay could have given the South. Claude’s instinctive desire to avoid Lincoln warred with the needs of his mission in Washington. He continued to be both repelled and drawn to the man. “We would be honored, sir. I had no idea that you would be interested.”

  “Oh. I am. I am. John, please tell me when the group sits together.” Nicolay nodded faithfully in a “nice doggy” way...

  Lincoln moved toward the bridal group, perhaps to go and take his leave, but after a few steps returned to speak to Claude again. I forgot,” he began. “You were at the theater a few days back.” It was not a question. “I did not care for the play and you did not seem to either. What do you think of Booth as an actor?” The subtle reproof was clear to them both.

  Claude shrugged. “He is over rated. There is too much marching up and down. He is too loud and it is all in the same tone.”

  Lincoln smiled, “Mary likes him. She wants to invite him to a luncheon...” He did not seem to relish the thought. “I am taking the cars to Gettysburg in a few days for the cemetery dedication. If Edwin can spare you I would like you to go with me. I have to write something to say at the ceremony. I have seen some of the papers you draft for the War Department. Perhaps you could help me with this? I need to talk to someone who was there about the battle, chiefly concerning the last day.” He glanced at Stanton who bowed slightly in the inevitable assent.

  --------------------------------------------------------The “C Company” commander was an English corporal from Manchester. He deserted his regiment in Canada and made his own way from the border near Detroit to Lynchburg, Virginia seeking a place to enlist. He arrived at the "Camp of Instruction" there wearing a cloth cap, corduroy pants and a canvas coat. He had about him the air of an “old sweat,” one of the sort of men who had made Napoleon’s Grognards earn their pay.

  Balthazar asked where he had served and in what ranks. “Royal Marine Infantry, sir! Fifteen fucking years! Was up to sergeant-major twice, and back down as fast! I reckon I was in a hunderd little fights with the ‘Jollies.’ Then I hit a officer, a little poofter of a leftenant. It was in India outside Lucknow, the Mutiny, you know...” He looked at Balthazar to make sure he knew.

  The Frenchman nodded.

  “He was a ass,” the Englishman offered in way of explanation. “So I run from the hangman, run all the way to Goa, where the Portugee run things, and shipped out on a merchant ship to Montreal. I knew a lot about ships from the marines. Was rated ‘able, I was. I took the King’s shillin’ there again, in Montreal.” He was watching Balthazar for a reaction. “I didn’t know what else to do... This looks a good fight...” He looked at Balthazar again in search of an opinion.

  The captain who had given him the oath in the little Piedmont town that he finally reached in his long trip from the border had no right hand and a patch on one eye.

  The Britisher, William Fagan was his name, grasped the officer's left hand firmly afterward, thanking him for the chance to serve.

  “You’ll do,” Balthazar told him. “But, a word of caution... From what I have seen thus far, I would say that if you strike one of these...” He waved at Smoot and Harris. “They will probably kill you.”

  The fourth company commander was no one in particular. He was a beefy, brown haired man of medium height. They all just liked the look of him and the way he had of getting other people to help him. He would not tell them where he came from, and insisted that his name was John Smith. There were endless arguments about this man. He would not even tell them from which army he had emerged, and no one seemed to know. After two weeks of indecision, Balthazar took Smoot’s advice and asked “D Company” to vote. Smith won hands down.

  They moved on to battalion drill after two weeks.

  Balthazar taught the battalion things they shook their heads at, muttering threats of disobedience if ordered to perform such foolishness. Many complained bitterly to their new leaders.

  Sergeant Harris listened, shrugged and walked away.

  The Britisher, Fagan, laughed at them, saying that at last they were really learning to soldier.

  Balthazar set Smoot to the job of finding them all bayonets.

  A grindstone was set up in a farm yard. There, they sharpened the long sword bayonets, grinding them to a fine edge.

  ---------------------------------------------------------------Edwin Stanton was not a generous man. He hated anyone who might possibly prove to be a rival for power and position. He worked late and alone, brooding constantly on the threats presented to him by wartime Washington.

  On a particular November morning he reflected on his enemies. He believed that Washington was filled with enemies. The Confederate underground was not among his pre-occupations. He reckoned that Colonel Lafayette Baker would deal with them.

  Stanton was more concerned with his rivals within the Lincoln Administration. They are all jealous, he thought. There are so many, so many from before the war. They are waiting for a sign of vulnerability, a political weakness, a chance to make me look inept before the president.

  On this day he had something new to worry about. He was not happy with Lincoln’s invitation to Devereux to accompany the official party to the cemetery dedication. This man worked in Stanton’s own office and because of a presidential whim, would have several days with Lincoln.

  Who could say what sort of foolishness the man might speak to the president? He looked out the grimy window of his office. Leaves fell and rattled against the cold glass. A hopelessly lost cardinal landed on the sill and looked in. It pecked the glass hoping for food, hoping for anything.

  Stanton looked away.

  The bird flew on.

  Stanton brought his attention back to the matter at hand. It was his way.

  The need to survive and prosper was always foremost in his mind . After all, he thought he is still a Virginian, even though a loyalist. How

  much can you ever really trust these people?

  Nevertheless, innate caution made him carefully consider Claude

  Devereux.

  In civilian life he is a merchant banker. What sort of schemes will he press

  the president to support either now or after the war? After the war… The Devereuxs were rich, rich beyond the dreams of most Americans. Perhaps it would be a good idea not to antagonize him… I wonder if he

  has political ambitions. Let him talk to the president. I should talk to him

  now…

  He sent for Devereux.

  “Have you thought of politics, perhaps a senate
seat from Virginia, once this war is… over?” Stanton’s question seemed normal in the context of conversation with the elegant figure in dark blue before him. The silver eagles inside rectangular gold braided shoulder straps looked very natural on his uniform tunic. Salt and pepper hair added to the air of restrained dignity and discreet power that hung comfortably about the shoulders.

  Claude smiled, basking in the comfort of Stanton’s uncertainty and insecurity. “No, sir,” he replied. “I have been planning to take my wife to Europe to live in Paris and to run our company’s office there. We have kin in France. She has never lived in Europe. My father does not intend to retire and we are hoping that my brother, Joachim, will come to his senses and soon appear at home where he can be of help to father. My mother misses him deeply, as do we all.”

  Stanton looked blank, and then remembered. “Ah, the rebel, he is an officer now if I recall correctly from…

  one of Baker’s reports on you Devereuxs.

  The last phrase was unsaid but the obvious source of the knowledge lay between them on the Turkey carpet covered table. “I heard…”

  “I believe that is true,” Claude interrupted, “although we seldom get news of him.” What do you want to tell me? Devereux thought in the space inside his breast that was now filling with fear of family disaster. What would I tell father? He despises me for leaving Jake behind with the army. What will he think if I bring him news of his beloved son’s death?

  Stanton changed the subject. “I think it is a good idea that you should ride up to Gettysburg with the president and help with his speech. You write well… You can tell me what his intimate thoughts are on the War Department. He does not talk to me very much. I wonder why…” He smiled. The smug superiority that he felt toward Lincoln was visible for a second. Then it was gone, replaced with his usual, unreadable facade.

  I write well? Devereux thought.

  I am a credit to my people? Thank you, master. Perhaps Yale had something to do with that.

  Stanton was intimidated by Devereux. He did not like that. He reacted to such feelings with murderous hostility. Somewhere down inside him he knew that Devereux laughed at him, detested him, and thought himself superior in every way.

  I hate this man, Stanton thought. I always have. Why did I take him into the office? Ah, the bank. Now, I remember. His father knows everyone who is anyone. These damned slave beating “gentlemen,” how dare they talk down to me? How dare they?

  Devereux’s uniform showed the difference in class between them. The fine broadcloth fit perfectly without being tight anywhere. The double row of gold buttons had a suspiciously soft glow. The shoulder straps were definitely bullion.

  Bullion?

  Stanton seethed. Looking down at Devereux’s feet, he saw black half boots that spoke of a London maker. Small, rounded silver spurs without rowels were built into the back of the heels. Mastering himself, he smiled. “I hope you have a nice trip.”

  Devereux did not like the implication. “Are you not coming, sir?” He did not take pleasure in the thought of days on end in Lincoln’s company.

  What on earth will I say to him?

  “No. I have not been invited. Let me know how it went...”

  Watching Devereux’s retreat through the office door, he gloated over the conviction that no one liked Claude Devereux, no one at all.

  Stanton was a good judge of people, but this time he was wrong. Abraham Lincoln liked Devereux very much. Claude’s graceful presence, fine wit, and unshakable calm re-assured him. He had liked both the Devereux brothers. He was hurt in a personal way by Patrick’s death. The loss came at a bad time. He had been open to new hurt because of the sudden death of his son, Willie. And there was always the matter of his wife, her perpetual illnesses and physical weakness. She blamed him. She blamed him for everything evil that happened.

  There were so many deaths in the war and he felt responsible for all of them. The statistics of combat deaths injured him personally. He could not absolve himself of feelings of guilt for Confederate deaths. He still thought of the rebels as fellow Americans temporarily gone astray and yearned for their repentance. The guerrillas for whom he approved death sentences in Missouri did not affect him the same way. He believed that these were evil men who had injured the innocent, but the death of soldiers, any soldiers, wounded him.

  Unfortunately for all concerned, Claude Devereux increasingly liked Lincoln as a person, and as someone who unaccountably was worried about Devereux’s own state of mind and well being. Why the president would take a personal interest in him was a mystery to Devereux. He had no idea of the cause, but the feeling of being appreciated was strangely comforting. Devereux’s father remained a distant and disapproving figure whom he had never been able to please. The knowledge of the dangerous and demanding mission that Claude had accepted for what they both saw as their country had done nothing to improve that. Devereux had seen Lincoln in the company of his father several times.

  The contrast in feeling toward him was painful.

  On the 18th, Devereux settled into a big parlor car chair reserved for him on the president’s train. Mercifully, someone had placed him two cars away from Lincoln. Sgt. John Quick rode with him to the station in Washington, and then boarded a car for orderlies farther back in the train.

  Black smoke surrounded the engine and cars as the train left the station. The city looked terrible in the early morning light. It was sooty, rundown, overly rich, and vulgar. Thankfully, the Maryland countryside was still green. He could concentrate on that as the train rolled north. His welcomed solitude lasted until the Baltimore station.

  Then, John Hay came walking back through the train looking for him. “The chief wants you,” he said in his usual pleasant way. “He says he needs help with the draft remarks he has been writing.” He frowned a little, seeming to find that odd.

  Devereux sat across the carpeted aisle from Lincoln with the notes of the speech in his right hand and a pencil in the other. “It’s too long,” he said looking up at the bearded face.

  It’s not too long he thought to himself. The damned thing is perfect. Perfect. His reasoned arguments will carry the people even farther in deciding that we are criminals. This will be in every newspaper in the country tomorrow. It is a perfect piece of preaching for their cause.

  The president squinted at him. The red and black curtains draping the windows swayed behind and around him. “I thought it was rather good,” he said. He seemed puzzled. “Senator Everett will speak at length. He wrote last week to give me the skeleton of his remarks. It will be most elegant, dignified and written to be something like that fellow Pericles’ funeral speech.” Lincoln always risked ridicule when he attempted classical reference in his rural Kentucky voice. The high pitch of his speaking apparatus only made it worse.

  “Sir, that is why I think you must concentrate on the elegiac quality of a lyrical and poetic expression, something that will sing in history rather than to preach of politics. We Americans need to be reminded of first things, of the founding principles that have made us the one people that the rebels are trying to drive apart…”

  Not too far. Don’t go too far. Let us see if he will ruin it by over reaching. His ego may do that if you don’t push too hard.

  “Think so? The tall man contemplated him. “Tell me what it looked like from the ridge when Lee attacked the third day? I need to see it in my head to finish this, to make it sing.”

  Can I do this? Claude asked himself. I pushed Joe Hooker into sending this man a telegram that got him fired. Can I hope to do that now and strike a subtle blow against them, or will I over reach rather than he?

  ------------------------------------------------------“…the graves of our brethren beneath our feet call out to us. It is with hesitation that I raise my poor voice to break the eloquent silence of God and Nature. But the duty to which you have called me must be performed; — grant me, I pray you, your indulgence and your sympathy.”

  Everett sound
s good, Devereux thought. He is in fine form, just as Wilkes Booth was when we saw him. Last week was it? Booth, Hope sees something in him, something that I do not. If Everett keeps this up, he is bound to make Lincoln look bad...

  It was cold, cold in a confused, Pennsylvania November way. “A day so fair and foul.”

  Macbeth.

  Claude felt momentarily happy with himself over the line. It was freezing

  cold on the platform. The wide, wooden structure faced south, toward the length of what had already come to be called Cemetery Ridge. He could see the little patch of tall trees where his brother Patrick had died and where Devereux would have shot George Meade if only the man had been closer. Lincoln sat at the middle of the platform, near the bombast, Everett.

  A thought came over Devereux;

  I could shoot him from here…

  Claude’s service Colt was in its holster at his side. It would be an easy

  shot. The pistol was a custom order from the factory in Connecticut. Old man Colt owed “Devereux and Wheatley” money. This was a special gun. It would be a very easy shot. Claude contemplated the back of Lincoln’s head.

  Why not do it now?

  For some reason Abraham Lincoln turned, looked at him, and then smiled. It was one of those moments when staring at someone for a while becomes a kind of spectral touch. The expression on his face told Devereux that Lincoln was bored and frustrated with Everett’s speech.

  In that moment Devereux knew several things. Most importantly, he knew he would never kill Lincoln himself. He had killed before. He had killed many and except for the death of George Dangerfield, a friend who had died by his hand in a foolish duel, he had little difficulty in living with the memory of the rest. He had come to understand that Lincoln would have to be removed from government if the South were to live as an independent state. Unfortunately, he now saw that Lincoln was both the best and the worst of things for him personally. Devereux searched all his life for acceptance and friendship. Something in him demanded it, screamed for it, but some other part of his being kept him from finding that friendship, that brotherhood. He had sought and found what he wanted in the Confederate army. That was taken from him by the Confederate government. He had not wanted to be sent away from his regiment. Judah Benjamin forced his exile from his friends. He had sought real intimacy in his marriage. His wife tried so very hard to give it to him. Even now, he thought of her flesh and her warm bed with longing. It was not enough. This man was the father he had always needed. He was unlike the distant, cold man who lived on Duke Street in Alexandria.

 

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