by Thomas Webb
“Everything you and I have spent so many years planning for is finally coming to pass. It’s already been set in motion.”
Wallace chewed his lip. “I expect some answers, James, and I expect them soon.”
“You’ll have them, Wally. I give you my word. You need only have a little more patience.”
Nine o’ the clock – unidentified subjects depart in steam carriage.
The small red lantern bathed the man’s leather notebook in an eerie glow. The man, his face blackened with charcoal, frowned as he read over his notes. Next to the last entry he scribbled:
Previously unidentified subjects riding under heavy escort. Private soldiers/mounted on brutes. Subjects now identified. Potential targets?
He leaned over to reach for his looking glass and groaned in pain. He laughed. After all he’d been through, this joint pain just might be the death of him.
Through the end of the scope, he counted the bright blue eyes of the clockwerk sentries below. Three automated patrols. He tracked them as they moved and learned the machines walked a two-hundred yard radius around the perimeter of the gigantic barn on a rotating two-hour schedule. He smiled. The technists who programmed the machines sure did love doing things in twos.
Five cigarettes burning cherry-red told him that five human soldiers stood watch tonight. Confederate regulars if he had to guess. Shadow Army wouldn’t be so sloppy as to light up at night.
He sniffed the evening air. Virginia tobacco leaf. It wouldn’t make much sense to import greenleaf all the way from Virginia if there was a huge barn full of it not ten feet away. Whatever Horton had in there, it wasn’t tobacco.
Having seen all he needed to see, he stuffed his notebook into a canvas rucksack. The ruck, along with his clothing, was dyed in shades of brown, black, and dark green. He lay flat on his belly underneath a thin web of netting with leaves and brush woven throughout. Careful not to disturb the netting, he collapsed his looking glass and stowed it. Then, he doused the red aether lamp.
Questions gnawed at him as he rolled up the netting he’d been under for the past three days. What were a candidate for Confederate States president, complete with security detail, and a Confederate congressman doing meeting Horton out here in the middle of nowhere? Something high value had to be going on here, hopefully something high value enough to justify the disappearance of the three previous agents they’d sent to infiltrate Horton’s organization. Hopefully something more valuable than the location of a few hideouts. Then, there was the second, and his gut told him most important, question. If it wasn’t tobacco, just what in the hell was inside that gigantic barn?
He considered the facts as he hoisted the ruck onto his back. He turned them over in his mind as he knelt down in the North Carolina pine forest, listening. Several moments passed before he was satisfied the only things nearby were cicadas.
The notebook contained detailed reports of everything he’d seen. He had excellent descriptions of the two men, their bodyguard, and even the steam carriage they’d arrived in. It would be up to other agents to take the information he’d obtained and piece this mystery together. After thirty-five years in the department, he’d had enough.
The man cradled his rifle in the crook of his arm and moved out, quiet and with a degree of skill only acquired through years of training. He needed to be out of these woods before dawn. In the morning, he would telegraph Washington. With luck, he’d be back on the road headed north before supper.
12 Richmond, Virginia, The Ballard Hotel, July 1864
The knock at the door came soft and gentle. Montclair looked up from the maps and telegrams he’d been reviewing, annoyed at the disturbance. He’d given explicit orders not to be disturbed.
Montclair was halfway across the room when he stopped. He reached underneath the massive four-post bed and drew his Colt from the holster hidden beneath the mattress. Revolver in hand, Montclair moved quietly toward the door and opened it a crack. What he saw there took him by surprise.
She was beautiful, her brown hair so dark it was almost black, with a pair of eyes to match.
“A man could drown in eyes like those.”
She laughed. “And he would surely die happy if he did.”
Her skin, cream smooth, looked as if it were made of alabaster. Her Parisian dress hugged every contour of her body. Montclair’s eyes went down. Small breasts but round and full. A tiny waist, bound by a corset. The subtle scent of rose oil.
“Mr. Jasper, I presume?” Her smile made Montclair’s heart skip a beat. “You are Mr. Trotman’s manservant, are you not? Your master sent me. He advised my firm that you may be in need of some company?”
Montclair smiled, considering the situation. “My master does try to keep my best interests in mind.” He made a mental note to thank Greg later. “A moment, madam, if you don’t mind?”
She replied that she didn’t. Montclair closed the door and returned his Colt to its holster. He threw a comforter over the polished oaken table, satisfied that the maps and telegrams he’d been analyzing were hidden. Not wasting another second, Montclair opened the door.
“It never pays to keep a lady waiting, Mr. Jasper,” she said as she sauntered into the room.
“I was just thinking that very same thing.” Montclair shut the door and turned the lock, listening as the tumblers fell into place with a loud clack.
She was all confidence and beauty, moving around the room as if she owned it. In the privacy of his own quarters, Montclair hadn’t bothered with the leather gloves he used to hide his clockwerk hand. She glanced at the metallic wires and turning gears attached to his wrist. She smiled and looked casually away, careful not to let her gaze linger too long.
“Your own personal lodgings, Mr. Jasper? You certainly are well-appointed for a manservant.” She leaned down to smell an exquisite vase of fresh-cut flowers. “And so handsome, to boot.” She eyed Montclair with a look of approval. The adventuress placed her parasol on the chair next to the armoire and removed her lace gloves.
“My master is very specific. He likes to make an impression, which requires him to have only the best of everything. My master is from out of town, so if potential partners see that even his manservant lives well, then they can be assured he’ll hold his end of a bargain.” Montclair devoured her with his eyes. “And if living this way helps cement my loyalty to him at the same time? Well, that’s a win for both of us.”
She nodded. “I can see that. I feel I need to tell you that I don’t often have the pleasure of working with one so pleasing to the eye. They’re usually old and fat and reeking of whiskey.”
“And rich?”
She laughed. “Yes, and rich. The work I do is lucrative, but rarely ever affords me the opportunity to mix business with pleasure.”
Montclair raised an eyebrow.
“Well, not my own pleasure anyway.”
They both laughed at that.
“I fear that your master has only contracted my services for a single turn o’ the clock,” she pouted in a manner that was at once both playful and alluring. “It’s probably best if we not waste any more of our time.”
The adventuress undid the fastenings of her dress. It fell to the floor with a whisper. She stood before him in nothing but a corset. His breath caught at the sight of her.
“Everything to your liking, Mr. Jasper?” she asked throatily.
Montclair nodded, not trusting himself to speak, the stirring south of his belly saying all that needed to be said. She was a petite woman with a delicate face and a high forehead under black-brown hair. Her prominent cheeks flushed red with desire. There were the barest hints of crow’s feet when she smiled.
Montclair’s eyes stole down the lily white curve of her neck, eventually coming to rest at her breasts. The silk of her corset barely restrained them. Her nipples had already begun to harden.
Montclair licked his lips as his eyes went further south to slender hips, a plump derrière, and a slim pair of thighs. They ling
ered for several heartbeats on the dark patch between her legs, the hairs already beginning to glisten with moisture. The scent of her was intoxicating.
Montclair, bare-footed and naked to the waist, swept across the room and took her up into his arms. Their mouths came together long and slow as they reveled in the taste of one another.
“Like strawberries just after a summer’s rain,” he whispered into her ear.
The adventuress purred her approval and then pulled away. The corset fell to the floor, revealing breasts as perfect as he’d imagined them to be. Montclair’s mouth went dry. The adventuress took hold of his trousers and pulled them down to the polished pine floor. She stood, looking up at him, and commanded he step out of the trousers. Montclair followed orders like the good soldier he was. She took a step back and admired his physique.
“This life I’ve chosen, it can sometimes be trying, but then there are those days when I truly do love my work.” She placed her hand on Montclair’s chest and pushed him onto the bed.
It could never be said that Montclair didn’t appreciate the female form. He was always respectful to the women he bedded, regardless of whether or not he’d had to pay for the pleasure. He took from them what he needed, and he went to great lengths to ensure they did not feel cheated in the bargain. Montclair hadn’t had a woman since Barbados. Although it had only been a few weeks, it was a few weeks longer than he would have preferred.
Ayita.
Strange she would come to mind at a time like this. The thought of her fluttered through his mind like a butterfly. Then, it was gone. He tried to get it back, but—
“Focus please, Mr. Jasper,” the adventuress said, taking his chin in her hand so she could look into his eyes. “I’ll be requiring your full attention for at least the next turn o’ the clock.”
A smile spread across Montclair’s face as he craned his neck upward for another kiss. He was going to enjoy this tremendously.
The adventuress, her flesh hot and smooth against his, straddled him. He rose from the bed with her legs wrapped around his waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing.
“Oh!” she gasped as he turned and laid her down onto her back.
He kissed her again, this time more deeply than before. His lips made their way from her mouth to her neck, to each earlobe, and then back to her mouth again. He wanted to taste every inch of her, and before his time was up, he aimed to do just that. His kiss caressed her collarbone, spent long tortuous moments at her breasts and belly, and then slowly made its way further down until…
He tasted her womanhood. They lost track of the minutes as she moaned and writhed beneath his ministrations. Her cool alabaster skin was on fire. Finally, when neither of them could stand it any longer, he entered her. They both cried out.
He began slow at first, moving his hips only slightly. She was well-versed and matched his tempo, her small, slender hips rising up to grind against him. It was the sweetest torture. When it again became too much to bear, his thrusts took on greater urgency. She bucked underneath him, her nails digging into his skin, both of them fighting to hold back from the inevitable.
She cried out as she reached her pinnacle. Montclair gasped as he spilled his seed inside her. He clutched the adventuress to his chest and then laid his head down on the space between her breasts.
They lay there together, eyes closed, bathed in sweat, silent except for their own thoughts. Montclair’s thoughts somehow returned to Ayita. No woman had ever laid claim to his heart except for once, but that had been a very long time ago.
The chieftain’s daughter unsettled him. The fact that he thought of her now, when by all rights his mind should have been firmly set in the present, was proof of it. Suddenly, he was back in the forest in North Carolina. Back to raven-colored hair, brown skin, and impossibly golden eyes. The curve of the princess’s breasts and thighs through buckskin. . . He felt himself begin to stir.
“I thought I’d lost you again, Mr. Jasper,” the adventuress said, her eyelids half-closed. “But it seems you’ve returned to me.”
She reached down and stroked him gently. Thoughts of the Native princess fled as Montclair closed his eyes and moaned with pleasure. He reached for the adventuress again.
“Mr. Trotman contracted my services for only one hour,” she said. “But, seeing as how I have no other appointments scheduled for this afternoon . . .”
“Good to finally see blue sky again,” Greg said as he rode beside Montclair. “City’s been soaked these last few days.”
“Richmond needed that rain. Summer’s been abnormally dry according to the servants’ talk.”
The sun shone bright and hot. The sky was clear without a cloud in sight. Katydids complained from the safety of the woods, demanding to be heard over the noise of the city’s main road.
Greg frowned. “Not even eleven o’ the clock and already the damn katydids are making a racket.”
“They’re telling us it’s going to be a hot one today.” Montclair pulled his Stetson lower to shield his eyes against the morning sun.
Two weeks ago, as soon as they’d parted ways with Ayita and her scouts, Montclair had ordered his group to split. An armed party twenty strong riding into Richmond would raise too many eyebrows, so half Montclair’s troops had ridden west, where they’d disguised themselves as tobacco traders and commissioned a boat down the James river. Montclair, Greg, and the rest, under cover of darkness, had ridden for the train depot in Wilmington. From there, they cut their horses loose and boarded the first steam engine bound for the Confederate capital.
“Odd they still celebrate the Fourth of July,” Greg said, looking around.
Montclair took in the red, white, and blue banners hung from every home and storefront along Richmond’s main thoroughfare. “They celebrate a holiday based on freedom right after fighting a war that was about anything but.”
Greg laughed. “The holiday of a country they voluntarily chose to leave, I might add. No one ever said Johnny Reb had a sharp sense of irony.”
Broad Street buzzed with activity as people shopped and made preparations for Independence Day. To the untrained eye, the city looked prosperous. But Montclair, always conscious of what lay beneath the surface, looked past the bright decorations and the well-fed, smiling faces. From the saddle of his brute, he spotted men in the shadows, their clockwerk appendages in disrepair and their begging pots empty. He saw thin children with drawn faces and sunken eyes squatting in the alleyways and rummaging through piles of garbage. Shadow Army soldiers openly patrolled the streets right alongside Confederate regulars. The one thing he didn’t see was the local authorities.
“Have you seen any city constables since we’ve been here?” Montclair asked.
“Not a one.” Greg looked around, reading the landscape. “This place is a powder keg, Julius. All it needs is a single spark.”
They made a right turn onto Fourth Street and rode the rest of the way in silence. As they rounded the corner onto Marshall Avenue, the bright crimson roof of the Red Hawk Tavern came into view.
Montclair glanced at his pocket watch. “Couple of minutes ‘till. Looks like we’re early.”
“Good. That’ll give me a couple of minutes to get into character.”
Montclair chuckled. “You sure you’re up or this?”
Greg shrugged, a grin on his face. “Not really.”
Kincaid’s promised contact had come through in the form of a DSI plant named Chalk. Chalk worked at the general store directly across from the Ballard. The unassuming agent, looking more like a middle-aged librarian than a spymaster, had supplied them with intel, detailed orders, and the generous amounts of cash required to maintain Greg’s cover. Chalk had also given them a vital detail on the person they were meeting this afternoon. . . a detail that, if properly exploited, would allow them more access than they could ever have hoped for otherwise.
Montclair and Gregory staged their brutes near the entrance and made their way up the stairs onto the build
ing’s grand wraparound porch. Long lines of men in expensive suits and women in fine dresses stood outside, fanning themselves and waiting to be shown in.
Montclair and Greg bypassed the lines of wealthy Southerners and went straight into the foyer. From a nearby church tower, the bells rang out twelve o’ the clock.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The maître d’, a slip of a man, didn’t even bother to glance up from the guest registry.
“Good afternoon,” Greg replied. “Mr. William Trotman, joining the party of Congressman Cyrus Wallace.”
“Guests of Congressman Wallace?” The small man perked up immediately. “Why didn’t you say so? Frederick!” the maître d’ shouted, snapping his fingers. “Show these gentlemen to Congressman Wallace’s private room right away.”
A waiter appeared and escorted them through the main dining area. Montclair guessed there were at least a hundred guests in the main dining area with many more seated at tables on the building’s upper levels. Wooden beams crisscrossed the high ceiling, and bright sunlight streamed in through tall glass windows. Potted trees were placed tastefully among tables covered with crisp, snow-white cloths. French doors, open to the outside air, ran the entire length of the far wall. Waitstaff in white shirts and starched jackets moved throughout the room, seeing to the needs of the wealthy patrons.
The room buzzed with the sound of murmured conversations as they followed the waiter toward the back of the building. Montclair smelled pork, wild turkey, venison, and other delicious foods too numerous to name. He found it obscene, the sight of so much rich food while common folk fought for scraps in the streets. But his distaste didn’t stop his mouth from watering or his stomach from grumbling.
The waiter guided them through a final set of oak doors and into a private room. Greg placed several greenbacks in the man’s hand. The waiter’s eyes widened at the faded bills. He thanked Greg several times before disappearing back into the restaurant.