“Yes, that’s right also,” Rodes said. "With a regular commission comes citizenship, colonel. Now you are fighting for your own country. Now you belong to us…"
A cheer went up.
Balthazar looked up into the eyes of his men. They had crowded forward, elbowing their way through.
A member of Rodes' staff handed him a triangular, oilcloth covered packet. "Your battalion flag, sir", he said diffidently. "It came with the papers."
Balthazar held it up for them to see.
They carried him back to their camp.
Chapter 12
Victoria
- 18 December
"When you come back, I'd dearly like a few days to see the family...” The words stayed in his mind, slowly dissolving with the passage of the miles and the song of the rails. Smoot's face stayed longer, lodged in the brain, appearing again and again when he turned to the dirty, cracked window. He couldn't get it out of the back of his head. The wooden seats were hard. Sleep was not a possibility.
Soldiers sat on the floor; their backs against the vertical walls, their possessions were piled among them.
His rank got him a place above, among the women, and convalescents. The train carried them southwest to the junction with the Virginia Central.
It was cold outside. The windows were frosted around the edges. A pot bellied stove glowed red in a box of sand at the center of the car, tended by an elderly black man.
Balthazar waited an hour and a half at Gordonsville, moving restlessly back and forth from the platform to the little station’s only room. The stationmaster and telegrapher waited with him, surprised and pleased to have a foreign gentleman volunteer with whom to visit. They walked up and down the platform talking about Europe and the war.
A freight train came at midnight. There were twenty-two slat-sided cars filled with sides of bacon and livestock. The conductor swung down to stand in conversation with the stationmaster. The two faces were golden in the lantern light. The conductor finally looked at Balthazar, and raised a gloved hand to beckon.
He played poker with the trainmen on the way to Hanover Junction They sat at a table built into one wall of the caboose. Poker wasn't really his game. He had taken it up in America to amuse the senior officers who often invited him to play. In these games, he lost a fair amount of money at first until Sergeant Harris explained that the game was largely a matter of bluff. After that, he began to break even over the course of an evening, his heavy winning balanced with streaks of suicidal plunging. He seemed more interested at such times in watching the opposition than the cards.
From Ashland the train rolled south through flat, wooded country broken with open fields. At one crossing there was a battered wooden sign lettered with the words, "Yellow Tavern." It hung from one nail, swinging in the wind. Behind the sign post stood a rundown, rambling structure. Half a dozen horses were hitched at a rail outside the front door. Balthazar wondered if this was the tavern. The building was really more white than any other color.
After another hour, the countryside changed as the train entered a substantial town. Destitute shanties housing crowds of Negroes crowded close against the track. They watched the moving machine. Children waved.
He waved back. This seemed to amuse the trainmen.
The freight rumbled up Broad Street to the Richmond, Fredericksburg & Potomac depot.
Balthazar examined the buildings to either side of the tracks along the avenue. He decided that their state of repair had declined in the last few months and then, having seen what there was to see, he paid them no further attention.
The station was in the heart of Richmond, three blocks from the capitol of the Confederate States. A Signal Corps lieutenant waited on the platform. Telegrams from Lee's Headquarters had brought him to meet each of the last three trains from Hanover Junction. He stood impatiently in the cold, stamping up and down, swinging his arms, and striking one fist into the palm of the other hand from time to time. Tall and blond, he was perfectly dressed in the prescribed uniform color, French Grey. His overcoat was of the finest English wool. Its brass buttoned half cape was thrown back negligently over his shoulders.
The freight train groped its way to a screeching halt beside all the other lines of cars.
The lieutenant leaned on a baggage cart to see down the line of boxcars. He did not think his man would be on a train like this,
but one never...
Then, he spied a burly, mustachioed figure climbing down from the high step of the caboose.
As he strode down the quai toward the newcomer, the signal officer watched the new arrival shake hands with a brakeman and wave at others inside. He then picked up a carpet bag with one hand and carrying a cavalry carbine at the “balance” with the other, walked away from the caboose. A sword rode comfortably strapped to the bag. As they approached, the lieutenant found his probable “guest” more and more interesting. He wore a brown leather mackinaw coat lined in fleece. A round felt hat, canvas pants and a red and black shirt completed his uniform. His face was ruddy with outdoor living. A black bandanna around his neck was tied into a neckerchief. It looked like silk. The signal lieutenant had some knowledge of the theater. The closer the other man came, the more he looked like Cyrano de Bergerac. A smile transformed the lieutenant’s expression. He stopped and stepped aside to let a group of railroad men by.
The newcomer approached to within a few feet.
Drawing himself up the lieutenant saluted gravely. "Harrison, Signal Corps, sir. Major Jenkins sent me to receive you."
The visitor looked at him. Grounding the carbine butt in front of him, he leaned its muzzle against his belly and held out a hand. "John Balthazar, 2nd Infantry Battalion. Awfully good of you to meet me... You must have been here all day? Very grateful!"
Harrison pulled off a glove to shake the large fingered hand. He had not been warned about the English accent, and was so surprised by it that speech deserted him.
The freight's locomotive hissed mercifully, covering his confusion. It spouted white steam from somewhere in the depths of the machinery. The whistle blew with shrill force from beside them as the train began to back from the station.
Harrison replaced his glove, took the carpet bag and led the way to the street. "Yes, well, we got Venable's telegram last night... You didn't waste any time coming back," he commented while peering around for their vehicle and driver.
Balthazar looked sideways at him. "No. A summons to meet a courier from my embassy is something I will treat with some urgency."
Hearing the tone of this statement, Harrison's confusion increased. "I meant no criticism, colonel."
The other nodded.
They reached the sidewalk and Harrison peered around for the driver. "It looks as though that black ape has taken himself off somewhere. Damn! I asked for one of our better drivers, but he's sick. I've never seen this nigger before in my life! What do you say we walk? It's only a few blocks."
They started off down Eighth Street together, turned on Franklin, passing in front of the Mechanics Hall, the building which housed the War Department's main offices.
Striding along beside Harrison, Balthazar soon began to feel himself the poor relative come to visit his city cousins.
Women on the street found opportunities to peek at Harrison whenever they could.
Soldiers saluted the lieutenant, not seeming to see his superior until so close that the two corroded gold colored stars were impossible to miss.
"Did you bring some other clothes, sir?" Harrison asked after watching the street’s reaction.
Balthazar thought that reaction both odd and sad. He contrasted in his mind's eye the winter camps of the Army of Northern Virginia with the scene which now surrounded him. This situation was something new to him, a war fought by a volunteer citizen army so close to its own capital. "Yes. I have the civilian suit in which I first came to Richmond. It is in the bag you carry."
"Would you like a service dress uniform in grey?"
<
br /> "No."
They said nothing for a block.
Balthazar looked up the hill to the left, at Jefferson's capitol. "You are a staff officer?" he asked.
Harrison's head came up. He was stung by the implied disparagement. "No. I've been a scout mostly. I worked for Longstreet a lot. Now, he's sore at me for something that happened last summer. It looks like I may be going out to the Trans-Mississippi... I'd be glad to get out of here. Richmond is beginning to depress me."
"Why?"
"You'll see."
"Do you know my cousin, Claude Devereux?" Balthazar asked seeking to repair the atmosphere between them.
"My God! You're his cousin?" Harrison whistled a few bars of something unfamiliar. "Yes, of course I know him, a phenomenon. He brings to mind Melville's description of Captain Ahab, 'a grand, ungodly, godlike man'. And that wife of his! Don't wrap her up! I'll take her just as she is!" He glanced at his companion to see if he had taken offense at that, but the Frenchman was smiling at some private joke.
Actually, Balthazar was thinking of Smoot and the feeling that the man obviously had for Claude’s wife. Smoot had done his best to conceal his emotional attachment for Hope but the depth of his feeling had become clear in the course of Balthazar’s constant association with him. How that would end was a worry for Balthazar, but in the context of the war…
Encouraged by a lack of reaction to his mention of Hope, Harrison went on. "But then, you know the courier. It's his sister-in-law, the widow." He stopped, halted by Balthazar's hand on his arm. Swinging around to make some light comment on the lady, he knew from the other man's face that to do so was to make an enemy.
"Where is she?"
"The American Hotel. You are staying there. We expect that she will pass on to you whatever it is that Colonel Jourdain gave her. The note she brought from Devereux made it clear that we should stay out of this...”
"How did she come?"
"Across the lines at Fredericksburg. She had some very fancy papers. Signed by Edwin Stanton himself they were. It seems she has an aged maiden aunt in Henrico County who has reached her last days... She'll be here a week, colonel, a week." Harrison continued down the street, stopping in front of a big building with a marquee. "Here it is! Let's go in and get you registered. She's in room 224.” He paused in the space made by a door held open by a liveried Negro. "Jenkins told me he would like to talk to you sometime tomorrow."
Balthazar looked at him seeking guidance on the urgency of that request.
Harrison stopped smiling. "You do what you want, sir. They're all scared to death that you'll write something bad about us. You do whatever you want, and then escape from this God damned place!" With that he waved Balthazar through the door, and followed him in.
At the reception desk, Balthazar stood with pen in hand signing the register while a clerk searched in a cabinet for his room key. Having finished, the Frenchman waited quietly. He was not really thinking of anything. The night had been long and cold. He looked at the cubbyholes behind the counter. The rectilinear framework held a variety of envelopes and notes. Eight or nine keys hung on hooks in front of the openings. "You have the custom of asking guests to leave their keys when they are away from the hotel"?
The frock coated clerk found it. It had a paper tag attached to the copper disk from which it normally would hang.
Balthazar could not read what was written on the tag from where he stood.
Behind the counter, the hotelier stood irresolutely with the key in hand. Frown lines of confusion showed between his eyes. "No, sir. We don't ask that. Perhaps in London...”
Harrison reached across to take the key from him. "We thought you might want a suite, colonel. We have several here that “belong” to Jenkins’ office."
They moved away to stand under the chandelier in the middle of the lobby.
Well groomed men and women passed around them. A middle-aged woman in a fur trimmed cape drew in her skirts to pass Balthazar. She saw the two stars and smiled.
"Perhaps I should find something more suitable to wear” Balthazar said.
Harrison laughed silently. "I'll send my tailor. He's an oily little fellah, but he'll take good care of you." Picking up the carpet bag and the Sharps, he looked around. "Porter!" When the bellman came, he handed the gun and bag to a grizzled old black man who lifted the carbine to look at it. "Take the colonel's bags upstairs, Room 226. Thank you." He tucked the key into the pocket of the man’s flowered waistcoat.
"By your leave, sir". He said to Balthazar, and with a slight bow he was gone.
The American was a fine hotel. The blockade had bitten deeply into the way people were able to live in Richmond, but the staff there still took pride in the quality of their efforts. A copper tub came out of a closet to be filled with hot water by a series of waiters pushing carts covered with steaming buckets. A barber shaved him and cut his hair. Someone took his civilian suit away to clean.
The Italian tailor arrived, took his measurements for several uniforms and left promising to return for a fitting in the morning.
Balthazar managed not to smile in disbelief.
He showed the tailor out, thanking the man for his promptness, and was standing in the doorway wearing the hotel's monogrammed dressing gown when Victoria Devereux turned the corner at the head of the stairs and walked down the hallway toward him between the potted ferns.
Joe White was behind her. He looked sideways at the tailor as the man went by ducking his head and lifting his hat to the lady.
Balthazar became aware of his bare feet. The carpet fringe between his toes seemed thick as rope.
She stopped in front of him. Her brown eyes were filled with mischief, but they resolutely focused on his face. She offered her hand.
He raised it to his lips. She had that quality found in some women of not needing artificial scent. Her skin had a warm, healthy fragrance beyond the ability of human skill to imitate.
With some reluctance he released her hand. Lifting his head, he saw, or hoped to see, something for him in her expression.
"I am in luck,” he said. “Out of the field for a week in the dead of winter, and the privilege of your company as well! It is too much!"
She smiled a little. "John, I think Claude has more to do with it than luck. I have enjoyed your letters..."
Now, he knew that he had not hoped too much. He took her hand again.
Behind her, Joe White cleared his throat.
Balthazar looked at him over her shoulder.
Joe looked expressively up and down the corridor.
"Ah, Yes! Thank you." He returned his attention to Victoria. "May we have dinner?"
She nodded. "Actually, I have two tickets for the theater tonight. Lieutenant Harrison left them in my room. Would you join me?" Balthazar automatically felt for a watch in his missing trousers. "Ten after five, colonel," Joe said.
"Thank you, again. "I see that my secret new status is not very secret...”
"It's surprising what Claude knows," Victoria said seeming pleased with the thought. "He told us of your appointment before we left."
"Would six-thirty in the dining room be good?"
She was nodding and about to agree when Joe spoke once more.
"Major Jenkins said that the two of you should not be seen in public together, sir...”
"Yes, Claude said the same thing...” Victoria added.
"But the theater?"
"Box seats, sir. May I suggest dinner at six forty-five in Mrs. Devereux's rooms? Is someone doing your clothing for this evening? Good. I'll find them and come around to help you dress."
"I can dress myself."
Victoria's face was a study in wordless communication commanding him to obey, to give Joe what he wanted.
Balthazar looked at Joe. "Very well... Be here at six, I should like to talk to you...”
"Yes, sir."
She lowered her chin slightly to hide the smile, and was gone down the hall to her door.
&nbs
p; He went back into his sitting room and sat for ten minutes with a tumbler of Bourbon in one hand facing the connecting door
"And what was he like, my cousin Patrick?" Joe seemed puzzled by the question. "But, I believe you knew Mister Patrick, sir...” The Black man stood before him in a pose of respectful attention.
"Of course. He visited us in Soturac. I was on leave. My wife thought him easily the most charming man she had ever met...”
"Not Mister Claude?" Joe inquired.
Balthazar studied him and then spoke. "Claude, she believed to be a genius perhaps, but not someone she would wish to be close to."
Joe nodded solemnly after a moment's thought. "Mister Patrick was a fine man. They all are fine men, but the ladies are the finest of all. Madame Clotilde...”
"I know, Joseph. I had only a few hours with her, but...” Words left him in the confusion of the memory of his own childhood.
"She is another mother to us all, sir."
Balthazar looked around at the room, at the wallpaper with its English design, and the stain from a rain leak around the casing of a window. He turned back to Joe, now busy with his shoes. "I see that you want something, Joseph,” he said. “What do you want of me?" he asked. "What is it?" They had been talking for fifteen minutes and a growing sense of the other's unspoken question had built in Balthazar.
"War is a cruel thing, sir, a cruel thing."
Balthazar waited in his chair.
"I want you to be kind to her, sir. That's what Mr. Claude wants, that is what we all want...”
"You presume a good deal. There are many who would think that…"
"No. You know the truth, I think."
"Do I?"
Yes, I can see the truth. It is surprising that there are those who do not.
The French soldier and the mulatto footman faced each other wordlessly across the empty place between them. The carmine misbaha clicked in his fingers.
"Those are mighty nice beads, colonel," Joe said at last.
Balthazar rose from his seat to rummage about among his things, searching.
Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services Page 16