by Thomas Webb
“Well, boys,” General Buxton said. “Here you are. Delivered safe and sound, exactly per my orders.” The old man stifled a yawn, leaned back in the saddle of his brute, and stretched.
“You’re not coming with us?” Montclair asked.
“No, son. The president asked for you and the major. Didn’t mention anything about my fat old ass joining you. Here’s where we part.” General Buxton reached over and clasped Montclair’s hand. “Your father would have been proud of you, Julius.”
“Thank you, sir,” Montclair said. “You’ll give my best to the family?”
“I certainly will. Take care of this one,” the general said to Major Gregory. “That’s an order.”
The room, richly decorated in the classic French style, looked to Montclair to be shaped like an egg. Chairs with plush velvet cushions and exquisite lamps filled the space. Heavy canvas curtains the color of dandelions hung from windows as tall as the room itself, accentuating the view of the estate’s south lawn. An elegant chandelier dominated the ceiling, each crystal sparkling in the lamp light. The walls, from top to bottom, were a vibrant shade of gold.
“Welcome to the Yellow Oval Room, gentlemen,” President Grant said.
Montclair and Gregory both stood to attention and saluted.
“My apologies for calling you here on such short notice,” the president said.
The former general rose from behind his oak desk and returned the men’s salutes. The stern-looking old man was of average height and portly stature. He wore a full beard, dark brown now mostly gone to gray.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” the president said, gesturing at two expensive-looking chairs in front of his desk.
As Montclair took his seat, he saw that they weren’t the president’s only visitors. A fourth man, his face covered by shadows, sat on a chaise lounge in a darkened section of the room.
“Thank you both for coming,” the president said. “Would either of you like some refreshment?”
A crystal decanter of whiskey sat on the president’s desk. Without waiting for their response, President Grant got two glass tumblers. He poured until each was half-full and then filled his own glass up to the brim. Montclair nudged Gregory and nodded toward the strange man sitting in the dark. Gregory nodded back. He’d seen him, too.
“No thank you, Mr. President,” Montclair said. His mouth watered at the thought of the strong amber liquid in the glass.
“Suit yourselves,” the president said. He turned up his glass and drained it in a single gulp. “I know I’ve taken you both from other pressing matters,” he began. “But rest assured, I wouldn’t have called had the need not been great.” The president poured himself another drink. “No doubt you’ve both noticed the man sitting off to your right? Apologies, gentlemen, for the theatrics. Strategic Intelligence agents tend to have a flair for the dramatic.”
“I thought it smelled like spy in here,” Gregory said.
A chuckle came from the darkened area of the room.
“He goes by Kincaid,” the president said, looking down into his glass of whiskey. He leaned back in his chair, swirled the liquid in its glass, lifted it to take a drink, but seemingly thought better of it. “Obviously, that isn’t his real name.”
“It’s all right, Mr. President,” Kincaid said. His voice sounded oddly soothing. “I’m aware that many don’t approve of the work we do or the way we do it. Major Gregory, I know, holds a particular grudge against the department. Don’t you, major? I am sorry for what happened in Cuba. Sometimes, such things simply can’t be helped.”
The blood drained from Gregory’s face at the mention of Cuba. His knuckles cracked as they gripped his chair. The Marine major started to stand.
Montclair placed his hand on Gregory’s shoulder. “This isn’t the time, Greg,” he whispered. “Can’t let revenge get in the way of duty. Not yet.”
Gregory stayed in his seat. Kincaid laughed softly from the shadows.
“And Colonel Julius Montclair,” the DSI agent said, “of the 21st Union Army Air Corps. West Point graduate, battlefield promotion to become the youngest colonel and airship commander in the Union fleet, hero of the Battle of the Potomac, and savior of Washington. My, but I have looked forward to this meeting. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
“Wish I could say the same,” Montclair replied.
“Enough,” President Grant growled. “Strategic Intelligence serves a purpose, gentlemen. The nation needs to get its hands dirty from time to time, and that is work I’d sooner not have the honorable men and women of our armed services do.” The president drained his glass a second time. “I know that there have been . . . disagreements with how Strategic Intelligence operates. I’m speaking particularly to your mission in Cuba, Major Gregory. But we must put those things aside. Should anyone forget that Strategic Intelligence serves at the pleasure of this office, I’ll have no choice but to remind them of it in the strongest possible terms.” The president eyed the dark space where the DSI agent sat. “I trust I’ve made myself clear?”
“Crystal clear, Mr. President,” Kincaid said.
The major grew quiet.
“We understand, sir,” Montclair said, answering for both himself and Gregory.
“Good,” the president said. “Now, as you’ve all heard, a week ago, my Confederate counterpart met his fate at the hands of an assassin. What you and most others do not know is that Jeff Davis and I had been in communication for some time prior to his death.”
“How was that possible, Mr. President?” Montclair asked, surprised. “Telegraph communications in and out of the capital cities are closely monitored.”
“Before he left office, President Lincoln wisely established some unofficial lines of communication with the South. Davis and I used them to great effect. We’d begun quite a dialogue prior to his death.”
“A dialogue around what, sir?” Major Gregory asked.
President Grant got up from his desk. He walked over to the window and stood looking out, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Jeff Davis was killed because he and I were planning to reunite the Union and the Confederacy. When he died, we were finalizing the terms of reconciliation.”
It took a moment for the president’s words to sink in. The bitter fighting between North and South was still as fresh in Montclair’s mind as anyone else’s. But the possibilities of a re-formed United States were limitless. What might reconciliation mean for the country if the stalemate was ended? What might it mean for Montclair’s own shattered family?
“And Major Gregory and I?” Montclair asked. “Where do we fit into all this?”
“Someone found out about Davis’ plans for the Confederacy,” the president said. “They killed him because of those plans. I need to know who did it. I need to know what they aim to do next. Most importantly, I need them stopped.”
“This seems like a job tailor-made for DSI,” Montclair said. “Major Gregory and I are simple soldiers. Nothing more.”
“You’re wrong, Julius,” President Grant said. “If not for you, Washington would have fallen, and we would now be under Confederate rule. And you, major,” the president said, addressing Major Gregory, “your actions both during and after the war have been commendable, to say the least. I’ve read Colonel Montclair’s file, and I know that there is no one on this earth who he trusts more than you. No, gentlemen, the two of you are far more than just ‘simple soldiers.’ You are the best that I have, and the task at hand will require nothing less.”
“And Strategic Intelligence?” Gregory asked. “What’s their role in all this?”
“I’d like to answer the major’s question, Mr. President,” Kincaid said. “If I may?”
President Grant, still gazing out the window, nodded his approval.
“Throughout the Confederacy, the Department of Strategic Intelligence has placed certain assets,” Kincaid said from the shadows. “We’ve positioned several of these assets near the coastal for
est of North Carolina. This, Major Gregory, is where you and Colonel Montclair will execute a clandestine insertion into the South.”
Montclair flexed his clockwerk hand. “Agent Kincaid, you do realize that armed soldiers entering a sovereign nation without permission is an act of war?”
“Yes, which is why you won’t get caught doing it,” Kincaid said. “Once you meet with our contacts along the coast, you’ll head inland. You will eventually make your way north to the Confederate capital of Richmond. Once you’re there, one of our people will contact you. Until they do, you’ll await further instructions.”
“So it’s DSI giving the orders now?” Major Gregory asked, his face reddening.
“You’re treading some dangerous ground, major,” the President said, still gazing out onto the south lawn of the White House. “I’ll ask that you watch your tone.”
“With all due respect, sir, if we’re getting orders, we want them to come from you,” Montclair said. “Not the spymasters.”
“Very well,” President Grant said, turning from the window to look Montclair in the eye. “Pack your bags, gentleman. Vindication flies at first light.”
5 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, The Keystone Bridge Company, April 1864
Got you.
A smile spread across the young clerk’s face. He knew he had them now. He did one last review of the ledger entries just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything and that there were no loopholes the well-paid attorneys of H.B. Greene & Sons could wriggle through.
Abe closed the ledger book and leaned back in his worn desk chair. By three o’ the clock, the local constable would have all the evidence Abe collected. With luck, the proprietors of Greene & Sons would be in shackles by five.
Abe stood, unfolding his lanky six-foot frame and reaching toward the ceiling in a series of fitful stretches. The rumbling in his belly told him it was close to noon. As if on cue, the magnificent old grandfather in the corner struck midday.
“Lunch,” he said. “One of my three favorite times of the day.”
Abercrombie Fluvelle was the son of a wheat farmer who’d expected his boy to follow in his footsteps and was sorely disappointed when he did not. Abe hailed from Berks County, Pennsylvania, where his family traced their ancestry back to some of the first European settlers on the continent.
Outside short stints of service during the War with the Empire of Mexico and the War Between the States, Abe’s father had raised wheat his entire life. As had Abe’s grandfather and his great-grandfather before that. But the land held no special draw for Abe. His head had usually been buried in a book as a child.
“If farmin’s not to yer taste, per’aps you might make a go at soldier’n?” Abe’s father once asked.
Abe had looked away and shrugged. The old man was as hard as the earth he farmed, and he had expected Abe to be just the same.
Abercrombie had cold corned beef on black rye and steaming hot tea for his lunch. He tore into the spiced meat and stale bread as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Over the sound of his chewing, Abe heard the beaten brass bell above the office doorway jangle. He looked at the grandfather clock again.
“The constable’s early.” Abe took another bite of his sandwich. But to his surprise, it wasn’t the constable who walked through the door.
The stranger who slouched down the steps and into Abe’s dusty office was not a tall man. He was in his middle years if Abe had to guess. He had thinning hair and was paunchy around the midsection. His clothing was rumpled and ill-fitting but looked to be expensive and of high quality.
Abe stood, brushing rye crumbs from his vest. “May I help you, sir?”
“Afternoon, young man. Mister Abercrombie Fluvelle, I presume?”
“You presume correctly, sir, although I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage?”
“My name is Maunsell Field. I’m the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury Department of the United States.” The assistant secretary paused as if waiting for some sort of response from Abe.
“The states aren’t exactly united anymore, assistant secretary.”
“Right you are, Abe. May I call you Abe? It’s just damnably irritating going around saying ‘Assistant Secretary of the Treasury Department of the Union.’” The assistant secretary smiled at Abe as if he'd just shared some sort of private joke.
Abe laughed nervously.
“And the strapping young lad you see behind me,” Assistant Secretary Field said, pointing back at the stairs, “is Tobias.”
At first, Abe didn’t see anyone. Then, he noticed a pair of boots appear on the stairs. The owner of the boots made his way down one painful step at a time until he came fully into view. He was at least eighty by Abe’s estimate. His union-blue coat threatened to swallow him. He moved with the stiffness of a man who’d labored his entire life. Abe gave him a fifty-fifty chance of making it down the stairs without falling.
“Tobias is the oldest living sergeant in the Union army,” the assistant secretary said. “He is also my personal bodyguard.”
“For your sake, assistant secretary, I hope no one makes an attempt on your life. Meaning no offense to the sergeant, of course.”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Fluvelle. They don’t place much value on the life of an assistant secretary. And Tobias won’t take any offense. Most likely he didn’t even hear you. Old bastard is stone deaf. Aren’t you, Tobias?” the assistant secretary yelled.
The elderly sergeant smiled and nodded.
Abe invited them into the cramped, musty space that passed for his office. He found three chairs and brushed off the cobwebs as best he could. He poured the assistant secretary and his bodyguard a cup of tea and sat down next to them.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.” The assistant secretary took a sip of his tea. “Mmmm. This is delightful. Where did you learn to make tea so well?”
“Thank you. My mother taught me, actually.”
“Ah,” Assistant Secretary Field said. “I was very sorry to hear of your mother’s passing. I know it must have been hard on you and your father.”
“How did you know about my mother?” Abe asked, surprised.
“I know a great many things about you, Mr. Fluvelle. For instance, I know that several nights ago, you broke into a warehouse by the wharf on Penn Street. And I know that warehouse is owned by H.B. Greene and Sons, a company whose financial records your firm has been tasked with reviewing.”
“I . . . I didn’t,” Abercrombie said. The bottom dropped from his stomach. How many years would he have to spend in prison for his crimes?
“You’re not in trouble, Mr. Fluvelle,” Fields smiled. “Quite the opposite, actually. Now tell me what you found in the warehouse.”
“I . . . I found several accounting ledgers,” Abe began. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “They were the evidence we’ve been searching for. H.B. Greene and Sons is guilty of embezzling thousands from the Union government. Not to mention their ties to Confederate organized crime. I suspect they’ve also got some interest in the Southern black market, although I can’t rightly prove that yet.”
“I see,” Assistant Secretary Field said, “but however noble your reasons may have been, you do realize the things you did were illegal? What possessed you to do them?” The assistant secretary took another sip of his tea.
“I thought on it for some time,” Abe said. “I weighed the right and wrong of it, tried to assess the risks involved. I can’t really say what drove me to finally do it. I wanted to complete my assignment. I wanted my employer to be pleased with me.”
“Surely there was more to it than that?” the assistant secretary asked. “You could go to jail for what you did.”
Abe grew quiet. Steam carriages puttered by outside the office, their wheels clacking against the cobblestone street above. The small difference engine on Abe’s desk clicked and clucked as it added and subtracted sums. Next to Assistant Secretary Field, Tobias snored.
“I wanted to see j
ustice done,” Abe finally said, looking the assistant secretary square in the eye.
“Good. Just what I wanted to hear,” the assistant secretary said. “That settles it then.” Careful not to be too rough, Field shook his bodyguard’s shoulder until the old soldier woke up.
“Wait. What’s ‘settled’ exactly?” Abe asked, worry creeping into his voice.
“What I should have said was ‘congratulations.’ I’ve seen all I need to see, Mr. Fluvelle. The job is yours.”
“Job?” Abe asked. “What job?”
“Tobias,” the Assistant Secretary said. “Take two clockwerks and start offloading those documents. As for you, Mr. Fluvelle, you are now in the employ of the Treasury Department. And you’ve got quite a lot of work in front of you if I do say so myself. Probably best you went ahead and got started.”
6 Richmond, Virginia, Confederate Capitol Building, May 1864
“Order!” State Secretary Benjamin said, his voice drowned out by a chorus of angry shouts. “Order, gentleman! We must have order!”
Smythe’s grin widened with every blow of Benjamin’s gavel. Satisfied with himself, Smythe leaned back in his plush Senate chair. The Capitol building sat high up on an emerald hill, allowing him a wonderful view of the majestic James River below.
“A house divided cannot stand. Isn’t that what Lincoln said?” Smythe asked. “But just before this one falls, we’ll be there to catch it. Won’t we, Wally?”
“Plotting and scheming were always more to your taste,” the delicate congressman from Tennessee said. “I’m more concerned with winning than how the game is played.”
The two men leaned in close to better hear one another over the arguing. Conditions in the South had deteriorated quickly after Davis’ death, and the elected officials of the world’s newest nation were beginning to feel the pressure. The Senate floor was in chaos, mirroring the state of the nation it governed. Smythe could hardly contain his excitement.