Joe watched him, puzzled until the massive figure turned to face him, a broad smile on the strong features.
In his fingers, Balthazar held another string of beads. These were black with silver tracery on their surface. Three small coins trailed from them. "Joseph, I would give you the red, but they are a gift from a true friend...” He handed the ebony beads to the black man.
Joe looked at the coins. They were inscribed in a language which was both beautiful and alien. The beads were smooth to the touch with just the suggestion of the heads of the silver pins which made the inlay.
"A rosary?"
Balthazar nodded, pleased. "Just so! Very good, but they are for the mussalman!" Balthazar looked around searching for his jacket, turning back to find Joe holding it.
The courting couple chatted amiably through dinner.
Balthazar could not recall afterward what it was that they ate. There was much to say of family life in Alexandria, much to say of what had passed with him since their brief encounter. He was careful not too speak too much of death.
It did not seem to matter that they had been together so little. There was between them an instinctive recognition that they somehow meant something special for each other. He talked to her of the battalion, of Smoot. She seemed to think of Smoot as yet another member of the family. She told him that his second in command was a favorite of Hope's, and that to have Hope for a friend was a powerful asset in the world of the Devereuxs.
He told her how much he thought Smoot cared for Hope.
She frowned a little at that. “Perhaps it is better that he is here with you…”
Joe stood out in the hall while they ate, knocking to admit waiters, waving them out when they had served a course. Finally, he entered to find them deep in conversation, and reminded that the curtain would rise in fifteen minutes.
Balthazar helped her into a coat. His hands held her shoulders from behind. She smiled over her shoulder, patting his hand and walked to the door.
They descended the grand staircase to the lobby. A few heads turned to look.
Among them was Harrison. He stood by the porter's desk with another man. Both wore civilian clothes. Harrison bowed slightly to Victoria.
She nodded in recognition.
The signal officer and his companion followed them up the street at a discreet distance.
The lobby of the “Richmond Theater” was spacious but not impressive to a European. They swept through it without a glance. Balthazar afterward remembered a few potted plants and some marbleized paneling. To his surprise only a handful of army and navy men were present in the foyer. Evening clothes were very much in evidence. Some of the fashions worn by both men and women were things that he remembered to have been this season's creations in Europe.
A Black usher in tails and white tie saw them up narrow stairs, held the door for Victoria and seated her.
For just a second, seated by her side, he felt they were alone and began to relax, absorbed in her profile. Then he remembered, and turned to look out into the auditorium. It was surprisingly grand. There was a lot of gilt, a lot of dark red velvet, and many chandeliers glittering with facets and candlelight.
The show was not a drama. It was a collection of musical selections, of songs that were mostly by Stephen Foster. Balthazar loved music but it was Victoria who really interested him that evening. His inner self drifted steadily toward her as the singing went on.
Nevertheless, the music was compelling. He found the melodies to be something that felt for a place in the heart. There were several comic sketches, many of them satire of the political life of the capital.
As he watched, it became clear that while politicians were fair game, the army and navy were not. Lincoln received a fair amount of humorous abuse and the stereotype of the New England Puritan hypocrite appeared several times to the universal amusement of the audience.
His attention drifted back and forth from the performance to the woman by his side. He did not want to lose this chance to talk to her.
She was acutely aware of his attention. It told her something she wanted to know, something she had crossed enemy lines to learn. She thought of her sister-in- law, Hope. She thought of the essential faithlessness of Claude Devereux, of the worthlessness of his love for any woman.
His father has much to answer for she thought. Isaac Smoot is a better man. She needs to know that he loves her. I must tell her. It will help, but Isaac must stay with John…
The family grieved for Hope’s devastated life. It had seemed for a time that Claude had reformed, but now, it was clear that he had not. Victoria did not wish to bring another family tragedy into the house on Duke Street. She needed to be sure about this nearly unknown man beside her.
She leaned close to whisper. "Watch the show!"
Feeling foolish, he concentrated on the audience. There were men in the theater whose presence he could not understand, young men, well dressed and formed, sitting and laughing with women, women who did not look to be better than they should be. Why aren't they in the military?
The curtain rose on a new group standing before a painted backdrop depicting a sylvan scene. There were three characters in the group. All of them were instantly recognized by the audience. The balcony hooted derisively. Balthazar looked up and was relieved to see that this part of the theater was filled with soldiers. All of them were enlisted soldiers, many of them with arms still in slings. Canes were propped on the balcony rail.
He looked down at the stage, and listened for a few minutes. It was a parody of war profiteers. There was a Jewish merchant in dark clothes with a silly nose. A second was a large and pompous man who proved to be a grasping transplanted Yankee industrialist. The third was a British blockade running captain.
All were favorites in the balcony. The convalescents reacted with spirit to every line spoken on stage.
The three characters engaged in a lively discussion of the risks and profits provided by the war.
"When can I haff dose bolts of zilk you brought me from London?" the Jew asked rubbing his hands together. Balthazar noticed that the actor wore a strange conical cap of the kind that Jews wore in cartoons in Punch.
"To hell with your fripperies, Mose!” the industrialist roared. I need those stamping dies you have on board from Germany. There's no way I can keep up with the demand for new carriages in Atlanta and Savannah! Some people have made a little money in all this, and they want their barouches!" The factory owner smiled with deep satisfaction at the thought. The twang of his Yankee voice sounded very authentic. The gallery roared with catcalls and rude noises. "I've sweetened up the railroads to haul them for me 'priority freight” the factory owner announced.
Another cacophonous clamor descended from above.
The "English Runner Captain" was dressed in such high style that he could have just arrived from his club on Pall Mall. "I saay, old thing," he drawled. "You will just have to contain yourself until after the week-end. I cahn't possibly do anything about unloadin' the ship till then, don't you know? Been invited up to the country for a spot of grouse shootin'."
"See here, Percival!" the carriage maker pleaded. "I have customers waiting. I'll give you a thousand dollars Confederate to unload your damned boat today!"
The "Englishman" yawned behind a hand gloved in suede.
"Dat will do no good, Hiram," the Jew declaimed. "Dese vellows make zo much in gold that ze money iss nutting to dem."
In the orchestra seats many backs were rigid and heads did not turn in response to catcalls from the balcony.
The scattering of military men among them, mostly officers, laughed openly, clearly in sympathy with the convalescents.
After a while he looked at her. "Do you agree with this?"
She grimaced. "The Jewish thing is wrong and unfair from everything I know but probably inevitable. The remaining two are exactly correct."
The convalescents continued to hoot.
Mercifully, the skit ended and the music
al review began again with a song about a log cabin performed by several men in blackface. After listening to several more selections, Balthazar found paper and a pencil in his pockets and began to make notes, asking Victoria for the names of pieces he particularly liked. This proved to be a pleasant way to learn. As she leaned toward him he caught the scent of her skin. She smelled wonderful.
The performance ended in a finale of massed singers and "My Old Kentucky Home." The "Jew", the "Yankee", and the "Runner" were on stage with the "Puritan" and "Old Abe." Applause was hearty and the performers returned for an encore and several bows.
They left the box to find Joe waiting for them.
"Did you see the show?" Balthazar asked.
"Yessir. I watched from up behind the second balcony seats, behind the soldiers...”
They reached the lobby, and passed through double doors into the street. It was cold and Balthazar was wondering if she would accept his overcoat around her for the walk back when he heard loud voices behind them. He turned to see one of the convalescents sprawled on the sidewalk, a crutch beside him.
The man's friends began to help him up.
Facing the group of soldiers were three of the dandies from the orchestra seats. All were flushed and appeared upset. Of the three, the man in the center was clearly the angriest. He moved restlessly, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for the soldier to get back on his feet. "I'll teach you your place, damn you!" he said to the wounded man who was now on his feet. With that, he raised a walking stick to strike.
They made an arresting group in the yellow gas light. The wounded man raised a hand to protect his head. Cavalry chevrons covered his upper arm. He had lost his hat and from the blood beginning to ooze through brown hair, it was clear that the dandy's cane had been in use. The man with the cane wore an exquisitely tailored Chesterfield coat. It had ridden up as he raised his arm, and hung open in the front. Beneath it there could be seen a waistcoat of dark, flowered silk. He was shorter than the soldier and had to look up at him. From the look on his face it was easy to guess that he did not like that.
Harrison stepped through the circle of wounded to seize the civilian's wrist. Outrage showed in the man's face as his attention shifted.
One of his friends felt in an inside pocket for what could only be a pistol.
The cavalryman was unrepentant. "You blood-suckin' limey bast'rd! I'd shove that stick up your aiss if I didn't have this laig!," he snarled.
Balthazar opened a path for himself by gently pulling men apart. "Actually, it is their place; you know...” he said in a conversational tone to the little man.
His cultivated English voice confused the other man. The Britisher focused on him. "I will not be spoken to in this way by a common soldier! These bloody Americans will learn respect for their betters!"
"I rather doubt you are better than they," Balthazar remarked, "and I have found them to be anything but common...”
"Colonel, we'll handle this," Harrison said. "Why don't you take the lady and go back to the...”
The Englishman stood on his toes to see over the crowd. A sly grin came over his features. "Yes, colonel.” The sarcasm was unmistakable. "Why don't you take the lady...”
Balthazar's left hand slipped under his coat and around into the small of his back. The cool, dry bone of the khanjar's hilt fit comfortably into his hand.
The Englishman's associate began to draw his pistol from within his garments.
One of the convalescents hit him with a cane in the angle between neck and shoulder. He screamed and sank to his knees holding his injury.
Balthazar stepped close to the Englishman. "Listen to me, my friend," he whispered in the ear. "This officer is about to release your arm. If you strike this soldier, or anyone here, I will kill you... Do you hear me, sir? Do you?" He could feel his breath shuddering as the blood heat; the death hunger, came over him. He knew his words trembled, but could not help himself. In his bones and guts he could feel the blade going in under the last rib, knew in his soul just how much force to use. He could see an inch of point protruding through the back of the beautiful coat.
Fear came into the other man's face. Knowledge of the closeness of death came to him. "Yes, yes, I hear you. Let me go, please."
Balthazar nodded slightly.
Harrison released the wrist.
The silver headed cane slowly descended. The Englishman stepped back, away from Balthazar.
Several uniformed men arrived, pushing and shoving their way through the crowd that had gathered until they saw Harrison. Their leader was in civilian dress. He held up a hand for his men to stop. "What is this, Lieutenant? What has happened?"
Harrison looked at Balthazar who glanced at the soldier who had been struck.
The man shrugged.
Balthazar brought his two hands together in front of his stomach.
"Nothing," Harrison said. "Nothing at all...”
The three Englishmen turned away, quickly disappearing in the dark.
The Provost Guard followed them down the street, their breath steaming in the cold.
"Thank you, cunnel!" the cavalry sergeant said. He held out a hand, which Balthazar took for a moment.
The group of convalescents boarded a waiting horse drawn omnibus. Harrison and Balthazar helped several onto the step.
"It would be pointless, sir, to make a complaint,” Harrison began. “No court would act against these men. We need them too badly...”
Balthazar nodded in agreement and sought Victoria. He found her a few feet away, waiting with Joe. Grasping her arm, he walked toward their hotel.
Nothing was said, but half way back she took his hand and held it until they reached the American Hotel's door.
At her door he kissed her hand before she went in.
He saw that Joe waited at a discreet distance. "Where are you sleeping, Joseph?" he asked.
"In the servants' quarters, sir." Joe looked puzzled.
"You can stay with me. There are two bedrooms and you should be near your mistress."
"Perhaps the hotel may object, sir."
"Provincial nonsense! Do not trouble yourself. I will tell them you are my valet. Get your kit and a bottle of whisky from the bar."
You see, I do understand.
"Yes, sir."
Behind the door, he could hear her laughing softly.
The next day they went to see her aunt. Joe drove the rented carriage and they sat in the back and chatted. The ride out to Henrico County was not long. The old lady proved to be truly ill. Balthazar had begun to doubt the reality of her sickness. She proved to be quite feeble, but not so much that she did not find the strength to flirt shamelessly with the French gentleman.
On the way back to town, Victoria took his hand again. He could not find words, but covered her hand with his.
The tailor brought his uniforms in the afternoon. They were made of the finest blue-grey woolens with two gold colored stars on either side of the collar. The Austrian Knots that his rank required were sewn on the sleeves.
Joe was immensely pleased with the effect.
After a moment’s thought, Balthazar searched in his saddle bags and found his Legion d'Honneur. He pinned it on the left breast of his tunic. The scarlet ribbon lay in its accustomed place making a pleasing contrast with the grey cloth.
He went next door to show Victoria his new clothes. She stood by the window looking at him for a long time. The light of a winter day framed her figure, shining through the edges of her auburn hair. He could not see her features very well because of the halo made by the light outside.
"Grey becomes you, John," she finally commented. "I don't think I have seen a sword like that before."
He had put on his Zouave saber. Its curved, slender scabbard hung to his knee. He drew the sword and laid it on the fringed, lace cloth which covered a round table in the center of the room.
She came to look down at it. "Where was this made?" she asked with an inclination of her head.
"And the other, the one you had under your coat last night?"
He reached with his left hand into the small of his back to retrieve the khanjar from its place beneath his sword belt. He laid it on the table with the saber. "Also made for me in Fez."
She ran her fingers over the leather covering of the sword’s scabbard, and looked at him in surprise.
"Shark skin. It does not slip."
She drew the knife, and looked at the blade. It was engraved in a language she did not recognize. "What does it say?"
"La ghalib ilaa Allah... ’No victor but God.’ It is a reminder to us all from the devout."
She placed the dagger on the table. "What shall we do with the rest of this day?"
"What would you like?"
"I'd like to go for a walk so that I can show you off, and then we should have dinner in this hotel's admirable dining room, which I think can still do rather well by guests. But, then Major Jenkins might not like that...”
"Ah, yes. I have a rendezvous with him after dinner. But we shall go for our walk. In Richmond I am merely another officer on leave. Poof! What do we care for his opinion?"
She dimpled nicely in a way that made him feel a little giddy. He now saw that her widow's weeds had given way to lighter shades. He put on the tools of his trade and held her coat so that she would be warm.
Outside the door Joe waited with his overcoat.
He found his interview with Major Harry Jenkins to be a difficult, somewhat confusing thing. They sat together for a long hour in a drafty, bare little room in the Mechanics Building.
Not surprisingly, Jenkins remained focused on Balthazar's mission on behalf of the ministry in Paris. He held his peace while Balthazar deciphered and read the letter that Victoria had brought, but then could contain himself no more. "From what Devereux tells us your Colonel Jourdain is pleased with the reports you have made...”
Balthazar agreed. "Yes, he is happy. I shall continue to send him my thoughts, but now...”
"Ah, yes." Jenkins looked thoughtful. "Now you have to decide how much you want them to know, and what you want them to think... We actually did not plan this. I wish I could take credit for such cleverness, but your own actions and the opinions of your friends...” He saw the question in the other's face. "Oh, Early mainly, but also John Mosby. Ah! You are surprised! I am not surprised. I heard of your 'discussion' with him in Alexandria." The intelligence officer looked pleased. "An unpleasant little bastard, isn't he? No matter! He has his uses... He does indeed! He was quite complimentary about you, and made no trouble about giving you Smoot. Actually, I think he was seeking a way to rid himself of Smoot. Someone who has served with Claude Devereux is unlikely to make a good foil for Major Mosby. Whatever his defects, Claude encourages his people to bow to no one.” Jenkins stood up, holding out a hand. "Well, enjoy your leave. Unfortunately, spring is coming. God know what will happen then. Please give my respects to Victoria."
Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services Page 17