“I think I see where this is going,” Johnson said. “Noah Baggett re-enlisted in the service of his country, while Caleb Slayback joined the rebels.”
“Correct. But not as soldiers. Caleb went to work for the Confederate Signal Corps.”
“The communications arm of the Confederate Army?”
Pinkerton laughed a bitter laugh. “They were far more than that, President Johnson. The Confederate Signal Corps was stocked with spies. Much of what they did is unknown and probably will forever be unknown. But from what I’ve been able to gather, the Signal Corps often operated independently of Jefferson Davis and the Confederate Army—which seems not to have bothered Davis or his generals all that much. The Signal Corps had free reign to accomplish its objectives, no matter how ruthless its means. As for Noah Baggett, he went to work for me. Now that the war is over, I don’t mind sharing with you that he was one of my best spies. And based on what I have learned during the last month, it seems that Caleb Slayback was one of the best working for his side, too.
“Both men were highly active throughout the war, although I doubt their paths ever crossed. Their names will never be known to historians, but they both helped shape the way the war went, for better and for worse.” Pinkerton paused to take another sip of whiskey. “When General Sherman’s forces were on their march toward Atlanta last year, the Confederate General John Bell Hood saw an opportunity while the Union army was encamped north of the city to launch a surprise attack. Or so Hood thought. When Hood’s troops attacked, to their great surprise, the Union troops were ready and inflicted heavy casualties on the Confederate forces. That may have been the Confederate Army’s last and best chance to stop Sherman’s forces on their march to the sea. And they were able to fend off Hood’s attack because Noah had infiltrated the Confederate lines and got word of the surprise attack back to Union scouts.”
“And Caleb Slayback?”
“Remember the Battle of Antietam? When Union General McClellan’s forces hesitated and missed a chance to wipe out General Lee’s forces before that bloody battle began? McClellan hesitated because he had been given intelligence indicating that Lee’s forces were two or three times as strong as they actually were. I now believe that Slayback is responsible for feeding that bit of misinformation to the escaped slaves whom we were relying on as informants. The delay allowed the Confederates to rally and fight to a standstill in the bloodiest battle of the war—with more than 22,000 casualties in a single day.”
“So these men were important spies,” Johnson said, waiting for further explanation.
“Of course there were many other operations they were involved in that were so secretive that they will never be found in any history book,” Pinkerton added.
“And what became of the woman?” Johnson asked. “How does she fit into this story?”
“Lucy Wright was a spy, too, President Johnson. As you may be aware, many of the Confederates’ best spies were women. After the Union began occupying parts of the South, their women were often allowed to provide aid and comfort to Northern troops. This, of course, gave them access at times to sensitive information of value to the rebels. I hate to think how many Union secrets might have been compromised after being murmured into the bosoms of those Southern belles.
“But while Noah and Caleb’s paths never crossed during the war, Noah and Lucy did meet. Or at least, Noah spotted Lucy while he was resting between operations in a Union encampment. Knowing her sympathies, Noah alerted the camp’s commanders. Lucy Wright was shot and killed while attempting to avoid capture. A terrible overreaction, really. She was carrying documents that described important Union troop movements. We might have learned much if we could have questioned her about where she planned to deliver them.”
Johnson reacted with a start. “So what happened after that?”
“Well, as you might expect, Caleb Slayback took the death of his friend and lover very hard. Friends say he had become more sullen and morose ever since his injury in the Mexican-American War, but that he took a turn for the worse when Miss Wright died. He simply disappeared, as only a spy can. Based on what we now know, he apparently set out to track down his childhood friend, Noah Baggett.
“However, not long after Lucy Wright’s death, Noah was captured by Confederate troops while encamped with a small group of Union soldiers. His captors didn’t have any idea who he was; they just assumed he was a foot soldier like the men he was with. So he was taken to the Confederacy’s notorious prison camp at Andersonville, South Carolina.
“Noah might have died there—as so many of our brave Union soldiers did—but not long after he was sent there, the war ended. Knowing he would no longer be welcome in the South, Noah followed other Union soldiers who were scrambling for transportation back to the North. He apparently gained passage on the Sultana, a steamboat headed up the Mississippi River from New Orleans. As you know, the Sultana sank just north of Memphis, killing an unknown number of passengers. 1,300? 1,500? 2,000? The muddy bottom of the Mississippi surely hides the true death toll.”
Johnson shook his head sadly. “The Sultana…what a terrible accident.”
“Terrible, yes,” Pinkerton said slowly. He took another pull of whiskey before coming to the point of his story. “An accident, no.”
“What do you mean? The Sultana sank after a boiler explosion that set the ship afire.”
“Like I said, President Johnson, it wasn’t an accident.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Pinkerton? There were reports that the boiler was damaged when it left New Orleans. It never should have launched for the voyage upriver.”
“True enough, it never should have launched in that condition. But the boilers were repaired during a stop at Vicksburg, Mississippi.”
“What are you suggesting happened to that ship, Mr. Pinkerton?”
“President Johnson, do you know what coal torpedoes are? They are pieces of wood that are hollowed out, filled with gunpowder and then resealed. They were used to great effect during the war. And at a glance, particularly on a dark night under rushed and confusing circumstances, they would appear no different than the cords of wood used as fuel for the boilers of a steamship.”
“This is just speculation?”
“No, it’s more than that. Shortly before the explosion, the Sultana docked in Mound City, Arkansas, to refuel. My men have questioned the dockworkers that were on duty in Mound City that night. They remembered seeing a new worker that night, a man who has since disappeared. Which, in and of itself, is not unusual. With the war over, many people have been moving from place to place, looking for work wherever they can find it as they make their way back to their homes. But this new man was memorable because he walked with a noticeable limp. And we showed the dockworkers the photo now sitting on your desk. They positively identified the stranger as Caleb Slayback.”
Andrew Johnson bolted to his feet, then steadied himself against his desk. The color the whiskey had given to his face drained away. “Mr. Pinkerton, the sinking of the Sultana caused more loss of life than any maritime accident in our nation’s history. In 150 years, I suspect that will still be true. There were women and children on that boat. The soldiers were no longer combatants since the war had ended. And you’re telling me that perhaps their deaths were no accident, but a deliberate attempt by one man to gain vengeance against another man over the death of a woman?”
“Not ‘perhaps’. That’s what happened.”
The president brought his glass to his mouth with a shaky hand and drained what was left of its contents. “So, what do you believe will happen now? Do you believe this Caleb Slayback might be inspired to commit other acts of aggression against the North?”
“Like attempt to assassinate a president? No, I’m doubtful he would. Caleb Slayback must know that he’ll be hunted as a war criminal. He wouldn’t be safe in either the North or the South. My best guess is that he’ll try to escape to the western frontier territory or perhaps even to Mexico, the country he f
ought against all those years ago.”
Johnson sank back in his chair and sat silently for a few seconds with his face buried in his hands. Finally, he raised his head and spoke. “Do you realize what would happen if word of this were to get out, Mr. Pinkerton? Northerners would be enraged. They would demand even more punitive sanctions than the ones that are being levied against the South. Some might even be inspired to acts of violence. Southerners might be inspired to further acts of violence, too. We have peace now, but it is a fragile peace. If this story were to come to light, war might erupt again.”
“If this story were to come to light?” Pinkerton roared. “But it must come to light, Mr. President. We must launch a manhunt for Caleb Slayback. Put up ‘wanted’ posters in every corner of this country, with a hefty reward for information leading to his capture or death. You must assign men to help me find him. His actions have led to the deaths of 2,000 innocent people. We have to throw a rope around this man!”
“I appreciate your sense of law and order, Mr. Pinkerton. But I’m not sure you appreciate the political delicacy of this situation.”
“Meaning what? You’d be willing to let the greatest mass murder in this country’s history—perhaps any country’s history—go unpunished? Not only would the killer go unpunished, but the world would never even know it was murder? Years from now, schoolchildren would be taught that the Sultana’s sinking was due to nothing more than a mechanical failure? You would dishonor the memory of all of those killed just based on the hope that you might prevent some civil unrest that may or may not occur anyway?”
Johnson didn’t answer right away. He sighed and slowly rose from his chair again, a bit more steadily this time, then paced to a window where he stared out into the distance beyond the White House lawn. When he spoke again, his words were soft, but firm.
“The war is over, Mr. Pinkerton.”
GIVING BLOOD
by Jon Jefferson
The tip of the needle is as sharp as a thorn, but it makes only a slight indentation as it touches the bulging, blue-black surface of the vein. George Hartley marvels that something as fine and sharp as that tip—created by slicing a hollow tube at a low angle—can even graze the delicate skin without piercing it. The flesh on the inside of the elbow is thin, pale, and dusted with freckles; the vein is engorged from the elastic tourniquet on the upper arm; the machined needle is precise, purposeful, and perfect in the single-mindedness with which it exists to puncture human veins and funnel blood into one-pint plastic bags.
George’s gaze drifts to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the donation room. In the woods behind the blood bank, a grove of live oaks incandesces in the low-slanting sunlight of a January afternoon; their foliage glows luminous green, and the tendrils of Spanish moss shine like spun platinum. “Golden Hour,” the cameramen used to call the buttery last light. George is a producer, not a shooter, but even he has enough of an eye to see how the Eiffel Tower or St. Peter’s Basilica—hell, even an Alabama cotton gin or a Kansas grain elevator—glows gorgeously at Golden Hour.
He turns from the window. The phlebotomist, a sturdy, gray-haired Latina named Blanca, clears her throat softly, then holds George’s gaze, posing the question with her eyes.
He nods. “Go for it,” he says.
She raises her eyebrows. Are you sure?
“Do it,” he says. George waves the gun vaguely at the man tied to the donor chair, the needle touching the crook of his left elbow. There’s a gag in the man’s mouth, a mixture of hatred and defiance in his eyes.
The indentation in the bulging vein deepens almost imperceptibly for an instant, and suddenly a thin curve of bright red outlines the silver shaft as the needle punctures the vessel. The man in the chair flinches briefly before setting his face in a stony mask. He watches his blood course down coils of clear tubing, racing toward the flattened plastic collection bag. The bag, which already contains a dollop of bile-colored anticoagulant, rocks gently from side to side on a mechanized scale, mixing the chemicals with the blood. Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetops, George hears in his head for a moment, keeping tempo with the machine’s oscillations.
“Squeeze this,” says George, placing a soft rubber ball in the man’s left hand. Without even looking at him, the man lets the ball fall to the floor; it bounces twice, then ricochets gently off George’s shoe and skitters across the floor. George shrugs. “Your choice. If you don’t squeeze, it takes longer.”
• • •
One hour before: Blanca was flipping through an outdated copy of People magazine when she heard the phone at the front desk bleating. A moment later the receptionist paged her. “Blanca, line three; Blanca, line three.” Line three was the clinic’s private, unpublished number, the one reserved for incoming personal calls.
Blanca laid down the profile of George Clooney and checked the clock. It was 4:50—ten minutes till closing time—but everyone except Blanca and the receptionist had already left because the trickle of donors had dried up completely by mid-afternoon. It was a gorgeous Saturday, for one thing, and it was the day after New Year’s, for another. Blanca figured everybody was working out at the gym or walking the trails in the park, telling themselves that this—this—was the year they actually meant that “lose weight/get in shape” resolution. There were the college bowl games, too: hour after hour of football, beer, pizza, chips, and wings; ten times more calories than that half-hour of slow spinning or leisurely strolling had burned off.
“Hello, this is Blanca,” she said.
“Blanca, it’s George Hartley.”
“George? I was thinking about you today. How are you? We’ve really been missing you.”
“It’s been a while,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know you’re always running short on O-negative.”
“Short? We’re almost out. We need you. The babies need you. When can you come in?”
George’s blood type, O-negative, made him a “universal donor,” one whose blood could be transfused into anyone. Better still, he had what Blanca liked to call “baby blood”: blood that was free of cytomegalovirus, a common germ that was harmless to adults, but potentially deadly to newborns. Blanca practically genuflected whenever George came in to donate.
But the lifesaving baby blood wasn’t the only reason for Blanca’s fondness for George. She owed him a personal debt of gratitude, too. She felt as if he’d saved her life as well—not by transfusing her, but by transplanting her, here to Tallahassee, as the sponsor of her immigration visa. George had smiled and shaken his head the one time she’d called him her lifesaver. Perhaps he was right—maybe she’d have been safe in El Salvador after all, once the regime changed—but perhaps she was right, too. Blanca’s world-view was mystical and manifold, capable of holding contradictory notions simultaneously and comfortably. Her experience of the world—its luminosity and darkness, its benevolence and evil—had long since accustomed her to complexity and ambiguity. Around her neck, she wore a medallion of Our Lady of Guadalupe—a mother who had conceived without losing her virginity; a Madonna whose face was as broad and brown and Mayan as that of Blanca herself. Brown-skinned Blanca whose name meant white.
• • •
George loved giving blood—not because of Blanca’s gratitude, although that was a nice dollop of icing on the cake. No, he loved it because it made him feel good—simply, profoundly good—to imagine that every time he gave a pint, he was saving some baby’s life in some neonatal intensive-care unit. Early in his documentary career, George had imagined that he would leave his mark in some grand and noble way; that he’d help rid the world of injustice and evil one exposé at a time. The Frontline film that had taken him to Central America and introduced him to Blanca, many years before—The Dead and Disappeared of El Salvador—had been one such quest. The film had done well; it garnered solid ratings and even won an Emmy Award. But had it actually accomplished anything? Had it stopped the death squads, the torture, the oppression? It had not, and George had gradually come to the disc
ouraging realization that television shows—even his television shows—were entertainment. A month, or even a moment, after they aired, they were forgotten.
A pint of blood, on the other hand, could save lives, change lives. Giving blood was a way for George to give of himself, literally and tangibly…to be some struggling baby’s savior. Sometimes, while giving blood, he actually envisioned the tiny patients he was helping; pictured himself hovering beatifically and benevolently above operating tables and incubators, his blood being the magic ingredient that made medical miracles happen.
It had been awhile—a year, in fact—since his last donation. It had been 365 days, exactly, since he’d last felt beatific and benevolent. Blanca’s question—“When can you come in?”—was exactly what he’d hoped to hear when he’d called the blood center and asked for her.
“Actually, I was hoping to come in today,” he’d told Blanca, “but my video shoot ran long. Any chance you could stay a little late for me? Or are you antsy to get home and watch the Sugar Bowl?”
She laughed. Blanca didn’t give a shit about football. George knew that; George was counting on that. He’d known Blanca for twenty years—no, thirty; Christ, had it been that long since his Frontline piece on Salvador’s dead and disappeared? After Blanca got the job at the blood bank, George and Maddie had seen her five or six times a year, year in and year out. Up until a year ago.
Blanca scarcely hesitated before answering his question. “George, for that blood of yours, I’d stay till midnight. There won’t be anybody up front, so come around to the back door—the one by the loading dock—and knock three times.”
“Three times. Got it. See you soon.”
“We’ve missed you this year, George. Missed Maddie, too.”
“I know. I’ll make it up to you, Blanca. I promise. See you in thirty minutes or so.”
• • •
Killer Nashville Noir Page 16
