On Secret Service (45 page)

Four companies of Mosby's partisans wintered in King George County, on the Northern Neck between the Potomac and the Rappahannock. Their old territory, Loudoun and Fauquier Counties, couldn't support the entire regiment. Food and fodder could no longer be found in the burned hamlets and farmlands of Mosby's Confederacy. In bivouac on the Neck, they ate stale crackers soaked in muddy water and fried in old grease using half a canteen for a skillet. What little meat they had was strong with age, but roasting it over an open fire usually cured the smell. Fred's eight-man mess had only one knife, his; they ate with sticks, splinters of wood, or their hands.

Captain Smith had promoted him to second lieutenant. It wasn't a great honor; he was replacing a clap-ridden officer who had succumbed to pneumonia. His fine black horse, Baron, suffered foot rot from standing on wet earth. The steed's ribs showed as distinctly as bars of a cage. Weeping sores covered his body. Baron was dying for lack of feed. Fred intended to put him down before the inevitable happened.

He wrote long letters to Hanna, in his head; there was no paper. Sickly, spindly, tired beyond belief, he was sustained only by memories of their days together, and Hanna's promise to be waiting in Washington when this accursed war ended. The loneliness and deprivation, the constant rain and sleet, revived his thirst for spirits but he resisted.

Late in December they had almost lost their commanding officer. Scouting a rumored advance of Union Cavalry in Fauquier County, Mosby stopped for an evening meal at the home of a friendly civilian in Rectortown. Horsemen from the Sixteenth New York spied military mounts tied outside. In the ensuing melee, Mosby took a bullet in the stomach. Even as he fell, he had the presence of mind to rip the insignia from his clothes. Lying in a puddle of blood, he gave the Union officers a false name. They left him, assuming he'd die. Mosby later told the Richmond papers he'd thought the same thing as he passed out. Phil Sheridan announced Mosby's death to his troops. Mosby fooled them all by recovering. He was given a hero's welcome in the capital, where Lee received him warmly, and the Confederate Congress honored him with a special seat during one of its sessions.

On a foul night early in March, Mosby rode into the camp on the Northern Neck with a small escort and a covered buggy. An orderly summoned Fred to the colonel's tent.

“How are you, Lieutenant?”

“Tolerable, sir. How are you?”

“Tolerable. Still feel it here.” Mosby poked his belly. His wan smile suited his pallor. Rain sluiced off the tent. The desk lantern afforded no warmth, and only a patch of light. “I brought visitors from Richmond. They're drying out. I need a reliable man to lead a special detachment.”

“Yes, sir?” Fred said, bouncing up on his toes. No one had used the word
reliable
to describe Fred for a long time.

“I'll explain further when they arrive. Rest yourself, and please excuse me while I finish this letter to Pauline.”

Fred sat gingerly on a three-legged stool. He stank of dirt and wet wool. He scratched his hairy cheek, picked out a wiggling mite. He killed it between his cracked fingernails, flicked it away. Mosby concentrated on the letter to his wife.

Over the rush of rain, Fred heard men approaching. He stood up as an officer and two civilians entered. The officer, rail-thin with deep-set eyes and a yellow dragoon mustache, looked a shade fanatical. Both civilians wore cloaks and sodden felt hats. One removed his hat with a hand scaly with scar tissue. He was bald. The other, surprisingly plump in the midst of the Confederacy's collapse, had little round spectacles and queer tawny eyes that made Fred's flesh creep.

“Gentlemen, pull up those crates, be as comfortable as you can,” Mosby said. “Introductions first. Lieutenant Colonel Rowland Harney, Second Lieutenant Frederick Dasher.”

“Sir,” Fred said with a quick salute.

“West Point man,” Mosby said.

“Very good. I attended the Citadel.” In Harney's eyes Fred thought he saw the fires of zealotry.

“Our visitors from Richmond. Mr. Miller, attached to the Signal Service—”

“How are you?” the bald man said, as if an answer didn't matter. He gave Fred his unscarred hand. The flesh was chilly and moist. “My colleague, Humboldt Cridge.” The plump man nodded. Fred liked him even less than he liked Miller.

Mosby said, “Colonel Harney is here on a special mission authorized by President Davis. Attempts have been made to abduct Abraham Lincoln and detain him as a hostage during negotiations.”

Stunned, Fred said, “Negotiations for what, sir? A truce?”

Miller said, “That's a matter for the President and his cabinet. Not necessary for you to know.”

“In any event,” Mosby continued, “the attempts have come to nothing. Richmond has decided on another course.”

“We suggested it,” Miller said with a preening smile.

“Colonel Harney's specialty is explosives,” Mosby said. “He will be inserted into Washington, and when it's ascertained that Lincoln and members of his cabinet are meeting at the presidential mansion, Colonel Harney will place charges in or around the building and blow it up.”

Cridge spoke for the first time. “‘For the great day of his wrath is come, and who shall be able to stand?' Revelation six.”

“Mr. Cridge quotes Scripture as readily as the devil does,” Miller said with a smile. It pleased the other man.

In the stillness that followed, Fred almost laughed. Could they be serious? Could they truly be contemplating such a dishonorable act? Then he remembered certain things: the mounting butcher's bill in the Confederate Army; the white-haired and downy-faced replacements being sent to the front to die; the desperate shortages; the mobs of deserters on the roads, jeering and cursing anyone who tried to order them back. Richmond must be striking out not for any military purpose, but to exact a last pound of bloody flesh, compensation for the coming defeat.

Miller scowled at Fred. “Something wrong, sir?”

“No, no, this is—surprising, that's all.”

“No more surprising than it will be to the ape and his nigger-loving cronies. However, before Colonel Harney can carry out his mission, he requires drawings, plans of the presidential mansion and grounds. I am happy to say we've arranged to secure them from an agent who can gain access to most Washington offices, including that of the government architects. Just as soon as practicable, our agent will copy the plans, cross the Potomac at a site to be determined, and deliver the material to Colonel Harney.”

“I want you to lead the detachment that escorts the colonel,” Mosby told Fred. “You'll take orders from him.”

“Yes, sir. Is that all?”

Miller licked his yellowing teeth. “Not quite. We don't want our agent talking to anyone after he's performed his, ah, patriotic service. When Colonel Harney is satisfied with the authenticity of the material, he will hand the agent his not insubstantial fee in cash, to lull him. At that point, Lieutenant, you're to kill the man.”

“Sir?”

“Don't gawk, I said it clearly. Major Siegel makes a one-way crossing of the Potomac and we save the substantial sum we promised him.”

Something crawled in Fred's underwear, but he didn't dare move. “The agent's name is…?”

“Siegel. He works in the War Department. His rank has no connection with the Union Army. He served in Austria.”

Hanna's father involved with these people? She'd told him more than once that the man he'd met briefly at their home near the Navy Yard was forever discontented with his low station and low pay. Fred kept his face immobile, to hide his consternation.
I won't be party to murdering her father. Not to murdering anyone in cold blood.

Mosby rose. “If there are no questions…? Very well. I must leave you in the morning, gentlemen. I'm afraid we have only one tent for you and your companion, Mr. Miller. We have gathered every spare waterproof cloth and blanket we can find. I hope you'll be comfortable.”

“I hope so too.” Miller scowled at Mosby this time. “Come along, Cridge, I need a dram of something strong.”

The civilians went out. Mosby dismissed Harney. Fred lingered. “Something else, Lieutenant?”

Mosby stared him down. His nerve broke. “No, Colonel.”

“I'm afraid I don't believe you. Is it shooting the spy that bothers you? Let that piggy fellow do it. I have an impression he might like it.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Then Fred blurted, “But good God, what have we come down to, sir?”

“I try not to ask myself that question, Lieutenant. Good night.”

Fred stepped into the dark. Flecks of ice struck his bearded face. Sleet now.

Mosby had reprieved him from a direct act of murder, but left him a party to it. He couldn't be. Not when he'd finally reached across the dark chasm of his life and found someone to care for…

Almost unconsciously, he walked to a small lighted tent where a man named Peebles had set up as sutler. Fred coughed to announce himself. Peebles called, “Come,” and Fred stepped into the malodorous tent. Peebles put down a yellow-backed pamphlet, open to a blurry photograph of a naked man mounting a woman. Peebles had the face of an aging cherub and the soul of a scavenger bird.

“Well, sir, look who's here. The cold-water soldier.”

“Not tonight.” Fred dug for wrinkled scrip in his pants. “What have you got to drink?”

Twenty minutes later, huddled under the burned beams of a ruined barn, Fred tilted his canteen and swallowed some of the sutler's busthead.

He gagged, spat, wiped his mouth. “Jesus.” What the hell was in it? Pepper? Vitriol? It could poison him. But he needed it. For the first time in months, he needed it.

Night fog hid the river and muffled the sounds of the horses. Fred rode a bog-spavined piebald ready for the glue works. Day before yesterday, after an hour of agonizing hesitation, he'd put a bullet into Baron.

Colonel Harney came next in the file, then Cridge, and finally three soldiers Fred had chosen. He felt huge as a bear in his patched greatcoat. He'd been unable to swallow a morsel of food all day. It wasn't sickness, just a soul-wrenching lack of hunger. Occasional slugs of Mr. Peebles's concoction blurred the reality of what was coming. Blurred it, but couldn't banish it.

A stake capped with a cow's skull marked the spot on the bank where the courier was to land. Here the Potomac ran northeast, just before turning again, to widen and flow southeast into Chesapeake Bay. Opposite them, concealed by the murk, was Pope's Creek in Maryland.

Fred pulled the wire loop of the tin lantern off his belt. He gave the lantern to the youngest soldier. “Light it but make sure you keep the shutter closed until we see their signal.”

They sat six abreast at the river's edge. The air smelled dank. The water lapped quietly, the only other sound a night bird's call. After several attempts the soldier lit the candle in the lantern. Before he closed the shutter, the flame danced on Cridge's round glasses. The Richmond spy was smiling.

“You understand you're to bring it to a conclusion,” Fred said to him. “I won't do it.”

“Lieutenant, we discussed the matter and I agreed. I will handle it as Mr. Miller wants. I told you precisely how and when.”

“I'll be damned if I know how you can be so happy about it.”

“Because what I'm doing is right, sir. The Lord is on our side. Saint Paul counseled the Ephesians to put on the whole armor of God. The breastplate of righteousness, the shield of faith—”

“Spare me,” Fred growled, but Cridge went right on.

“—the helmet of salvation, the sword of the Spirit. Thus armored, I can smite the wicked with a pure heart.”

“Where does that bullshit come from? How can you possibly think that killing another human being is noble and righteous, for Christ's sake?”

“I object to your uttering the Savior's name profanely. I am a religious man. I have nine children I am bringing up in the ways of the Lord. I don't appreciate your scorning my beliefs, or Holy Scripture.”

Fucking madman,
Fred thought.
Or have we all gotten our brains boiled by the war?

His men began talking among themselves. He shushed them, hearing a sound from the river; a whisper of water disturbed. An owl hooted. Fred signaled a soldier, who responded with the same call.

He stood in his stirrups; flexed his right hand to warm it up as he reached under his coat for his holstered pistol. Cridge tapped his arm excitedly.

“There's the light.” Faint at first, then brighter. “Martin, signal them.”

The soldier raised the lantern, opened and closed the shutter three times. The light on the water went out, then reappeared, three blinks, a pause, a fourth blink. Private Martin opened and closed the shutter once more.

Fred thumbed back the hammer of his pistol. The bow of a ten-foot dinghy came at them out of the fog. Fred called, “Identify yourself.”

“Siegel.” His accent made it
Ziegel.
The voice didn't belong to the man rowing the dinghy; he was elderly, and black. He wore a tattered military shirt but no coat. A lantern rested on a thwart behind him. Fred wondered how Negroes could ally themselves with people who wanted to keep them chained up, but many did. Some even fought wearing Confederate gray, so he'd heard.

The dinghy teetered as the passenger stood up. Fred had an impression of stoutness, but it was hard to see clearly with the fog curling and drifting. The boatman jumped into the shallow water, shoes and all. He held the bow line while the passenger walked forward and stepped to solid ground. Cridge said, “Victory.”

The passenger said, “Retribution.”

“Major, we're overjoyed to see you.” Cridge heaved himself out of his saddle; his weary horse seemed to groan with relief. Fred ordered Martin to open the lamp shutter, give them light. They had to risk it until the wretched business was concluded.

Siegel wore a dark brown wool coat with fancy buttons and braided loop closures. His brown felt hat had a high crown, a rakishly curled brim. He resembled a diplomat more than a spy, standing confidently, almost smugly, as he pulled the strap of a leather dispatch case off his shoulder. He'd replaced his monocle with eyeglasses. The lenses enlarged his eyes to the size of bird's eggs. His gaze skipped from face to face, Fred's last.

“I know you.”

“That's right, we've met. No names, if you please.” Fred dismounted, indicating Harney. “This is the gentleman who will inspect your package. Give the colonel the lantern,” Fred said to Martin.

“Step over this way,” Harney said. He eyed Siegel with distaste. Evidently it was perfectly fine to do business with traitors, but nothing said you had to respect them.

Siegel followed Harney, smirking as though to show he had full command of the situation. Little he knew. Cridge beamed as cheerfully as a man about to enjoy Christmas dinner.

A short way up the bank, Harney exchanged the lantern for Siegel's dispatch case. He crouched, unfastened the bright brass clasp, slid papers out. “Hold the lantern lower.” Siegel obeyed, stamping his feet and blowing his breath in little clouds.

Using his knee as a table, Harney went through the half dozen sheets, unfolding each and studying them. Time ticked by. Fred's mouth felt parched. The moment this was over, he'd unhook his canteen from the saddle and gulp down all the remaining busthead.

Harney folded the last sheet, replaced the papers in the case, fastened it shut. “Pay him,” he said to Cridge. The old boatman spoke to Fred:

“Glad it's quick business. We got to go back against the ebb tide. Take longer.”
It'll be a lonely ride, old man.

Cridge moistened his lips. “Major, I shall reach under my coat for the money.” With his right hand he slowly drew out a fat brown envelope. “Count it, won't you? It's the price we agreed on.”

Fred's nerves tightened. This was the planned moment—Siegel greedily distracted by real money, ignoring Cridge and all the rest of them.

Siegel's finger tore the envelope. Gleeful, he pulled out a banded, quarter-inch stack of Yankee banknotes. He'd refused to accept Confederate. As he licked his thumb and counted, Cridge slid his left hand into his overcoat pocket. Gunmetal gleamed; an imported five-shot Kerr.

The three soldiers threw looks of alarm at Fred. He pumped his hand downward in the air, signaling them to keep quiet. Siegel finished counting. He glanced up, saw Cridge with the pistol. “What's this? What the hell's this?”

“I'm afraid we can't let you go, sir. You might boast about this transaction. It will be easier if you hand me the money and take what's coming.”

Siegel's eyes enlarged behind his glasses. “You fucking sons of bitches. You're selling me out.”

Cridge held out his hand. “The money, sir.” Siegel bowed his head, seeming to surrender. Suddenly he threw the envelope in Cridge's face. He dove to the ground, rolling with surprising agility for someone his age.

Colonel Harney had ridden from camp without a side arm, against Fred's advice. The young soldiers didn't know what to do. Siegel's fist filled with a stubby four-barrel hideout gun. Prone, he threw his hand forward to shoot Cridge, who was standing at Fred's left. Cridge grabbed Fred's arm, yanked him sideways, as a shield. He fired past Fred and missed. Siegel replied with two shots. Fred reeled from a heavy blow in the chest.

He sprawled in the mud, more surprised and angry than terrified. Then pain welled up.

The rest of it happened rapidly. Cridge didn't return fire but instead went pelting away from the shore, one hand clapped to his hat. Mouthing what sounded like Teutonic obscenities, Siegel shot at Harney and missed. “Get in the boat, nigger!” Siegel kicked the wild-eyed boatman, who managed to clamber in the dinghy and unship the oars. The pain beat higher in Fred's breast. He touched the front of his greatcoat and lifted his fingers near his eyes. In the poor light the blood looked like tar.

Splashing, Siegel regained the boat. “Push off, push off!” He fired his last round. The soldiers' mounts neighed and bucked.

From the darkness, Cridge exclaimed, “He took the money. He's getting away with the money.”

Fred seemed to fly along the vividly colored road of his life. He was a boy skylarking in a sunlit meadow at Front Royal. Sleek horses raced by with manes streaming. He marched on the Plain at West Point to the sound of bugles and drums and wind-snapped flags. He saw himself seated in the Senate chamber before he resigned. He looked down on Garlick's Landing at the moment he killed the girl. Mosby by lamplight called him a reliable soldier. He held Siegel's daughter in his arms in the empty house…

Voices grew fainter. The candle flame in the tin lantern dimmed and dwindled. He had a sense of the end and silently cried out against it. He'd come out of the darkness, and now, with a chance shot, he'd go back. He didn't want to go back. Oh, God, no…

“Hanna,” he whispered the instant before he died.