Ghosts in the Gulch: An Evergreen Cemetery Mystery (Evergreen Cemetery Mysteries Book 1)

by S. L. Hawke

  “Own our language, Anndra, own others too, ya have the gift of tongues. God gave it to yue, like it did to me and if yue learn the language, you own the soul of those who speak it. Secrets are always revealed in the way we speak, Anndra. You can know a person’s place of birth, his fears, his hopes, and his intent all by the way he uses his words and by the way he speaks in tongues. “Now, listen carefully Anndra, this language we speak is older than the very hills of this nation. The very land of our kin. We speak this language, our faeries, our protectors will remain in this land and bless it, do ya not know that is how we found the water our first day here?”

  “Aye Dah. I do. “

  “Now, name the Clans Anndra, name them with their old names. It will make this infernal plowing go faster…”

  “While you’re down there, we need you to check into the location of a fugitive by the name of Tom Poole. We’ll have a more complete briefing on all those characters after you get settled. Plan to stay a bit.”

  “How long?” My spirits rose at the thought of putting off a visit home, and what to do with my son while I took on something I wasn’t quite sure about. I felt driven, however. Perhaps this was what I should do. It had been a long time since I felt a sense of purpose.

  “It will take you about a month, to train you, understand the direction all the channels and tributaries in this criminal enterprise might be flowing. We’ll also need you to track down a known fugitive, a man named Captain Rufus Ingram. Seems he might be working with a group of banditos to steal gold off Wells Fargo stage runs.”

  Thievery was always a good way to fund a rebellion.

  “They use the funds to buy raw materials to manufacture arms—” I took a deep breath, thinking upon all these puzzle pieces.

  “We think this might have something to do with a southern ex-patriot named Peyton. Seems like the man is both wealthy AND interested in manufacturing gun powder on a large scale.” Arthur opened his desk drawer. “And I don’t believe a word of all that ‘we need our own local supply’ bullshit.”

  “Gunpowder, locally produced, cattle, locally farmed, and quicksilver from the mine are shipped past the blockade to Southern armies,” I finished. It was pretty clear what was at stake. I knew I had to be a part of it. But then I looked at the sleepy boy on the couch. “I have a son to think about,” I muttered.

  “—And four sisters to look after in town,” young Andrew added. “One of whom is likely to be discovered at some point as dangerous to their efforts.” Andrew held my eye, as if I needed convincing to go. He was right. My whole family was in danger as well. I needed work too. This was good work. It would end the war. Sweeney reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a metal star within a metal circle. He slid the star across his dark desk, towards me.

  The silver glinted upon the dark surface of the desk. I took it in my left palm. Andrew held out a Bible for me to place my right hand upon. Sweeney recited the words of service and fealty. It felt good. Right. Just. Sweeney then took the silver star and pinned it to my dirty vest. In a fog, I repeated the words told to me, feeling as if the adventure I was stumbling towards was finally in the right direction, a new life.

  “Welcome to the Secret Service of the President of the United States, Marshal A. J. Sloan.”

  Well, Dah, I’m a Clan Defender now. A cold shiver went down my back.

  3

  There are no words in any language to describe the ecstasy of hot water upon one’s person. Hiru and I spent the next two days sleeping, bathing, and taking a few walks towards the water and the wharf. Hiru squealed with delight at the live crabs for sale at the wharf and gobbled up the sweet taffies I found at a shop with a long Italian name.

  After this short-lived pleasure, it was time to tend to errands and the requirements this new job would entail. I tried to tie the cravat as best I could when I heard Andrew at the door. Buttoning my cuffs, I walked out into the hotel parlor of my private room. Andrew was leafing through my journal. I watched him for a moment, paralyzed not by the intrusion into my personal log (I’d left it open upon the small table), but by his look of amazement at some of my drawings, two of which I did late last night. I coughed.

  Andrew stood up so fast he knocked the table aside. I caught the edge and righted it.

  “It was open…umm…so you draw too? What else can’t you do?” Young Andrew clutched his hat to his body, clenching and unclenching the rim.

  “You’d be surprised,” I answered as I put on a vest and left the bottom button undone. Andrew smirked and seemed to relax.

  “Like fire a pistol,” Andrew countered.

  “Yep.” The manservant came in and bowed. I told him to make sure that Hiru did his reading exercises and penmanship in Japanese calligraphy today. Again, Andrew’s eyes went wide. I had unconsciously spoke in Japanese. A harsh sigh from me changed his wide-eyed look to one of embarrassment.

  “Sorry, I just never met anyone who could speak so many languages as you.” Andrew turned his head to one side for a brief moment then looked back at me. “I want to go with you—”

  “Well, I’m just going to the bank and to the livery—”

  “No, I mean to Santa Cruz.” Andrew had a pleading look to him. I could understand.

  “You from Northern Kentucky?” I asked as the man servant helped me put on my jacket and gave me my hat. Andrew sidled up like a loyal puppy. I didn’t mind the company. He knew the city after all.

  “Southern Ohio side of the river.” Andrew opened the door for me. “Why?”

  “My family was from there, originally.” We entered into the landing of the hotel, then left to go outside into a rush of humanity. The city was bustling with people and a cable car pulled by horses ran along the tracks down the street.

  “What the hell?” Andrew yelled about the noise. I turned to hear someone shouting about scallywags and the Confederates. Folk were gathering everywhere, including many ladies. A small boy was frantically selling newspapers. I gave him my last silver dollar before taking one and shook my head when amidst the fervor the boy wanted to give me change. His cockney accent broke my heart. He was the same age as my son and from what I could tell, the same race.

  Andrew and I could not extricate ourselves from the wave, so we listened for a moment to a speaker damning the exploits of what I had witnessed yesterday. I took the opportunity to extricate myself from what was, in essence a pro Union rally. I had errands to do. Pulling Andrew with me, we popped free of the masses and gratefully into the open street. I took a breath, long and weary, as I brushed dirt and other human debris from my newly cleaned jacket.

  “Lot of folks support the Union up here.” Andrew watched my actions.

  “No argument from me. Where’s the bank?”

  “Which one?”

  “One that can handle international Asian transfers, if there is one…” I mumbled, realizing how out of touch I was to America in general. My affairs in Hawai’i were always handled by agents of the Japanese Royal Family.

  Andrew took me to a large bank near the Marshals’ office. The sign for Sloan Solicitors and Legal Warrants reminded me of the uncomfortable meeting I needed to face before I left. In fact they had sent over an invitation to dine with them at their home on Rincon Hill at the completion of my Marshal training. One of my cousins was on honeymoon, and the other visiting his ‘investments’ in the northern part of the state.

  “I assume you will be joining me at dinner with my cousins?” I straightened my hat.

  “Uh, does that mean I’m coming with you to Santa Cruz?” Andrew looked up at me with too much hope.

  “What does your father say?” We walked into the bank. The interior halls were paved with what looked like Italian marble. Before Andrew could answer my question we were greeted by a young man with oil-smoothed hair that smelled largely of lavender. He was solicitous and processed my transactions willingly unlike some who had prejudice against the gold of Japan.

  After my errand was completed, I struggled t
o find my way towards the livery. Andrew was no help at all, taking us near sections that, if he hadn’t worn his Marshal’s star openly, would have been cause for thievery. I did, however, leave pennies in a hat belonging to a small girl. It took all my training not to punch the sore-infested old man who asked me if I wanted ‘a poke’.

  “He wants me to stay here.” Andrew finally confessed after we left the dock livery stables.

  “Then you should listen to your father.” I cringed at the statement. I never really listened to my father when I was a ‘hot-under-the-collar’ young man. “Or you should give him a reason not to say ‘no’.”

  “Well, what the fuck does that mean?” Andrew looked away for a moment, then looked me square in the eye and added: “Sir. What the fuck does that mean, sir.”

  My hand patted the bony shoulders of my name’s sake. “It means, you have to find a way to make him believe you aren’t going to get yourself killed.”

  The sensation of being watched prickled at me. I looked around and saw briefly someone hide in a stairwell. “We’d best get back to the office. I think there are some papers I need to sign.” Tightening my hat’s position on my head I gestured we should catch the trolley coming our way. With a leap, I got on alongside, impressing my younger companion. The man behind us, dark as shadow, hovered for a moment on the curb then melted into the alley, but not before lighting a cigar and showing his face. It was adorned in a large stylish mustache.

  Seems the Marshal Service didn’t trust me after all.

  “So who’s following me?” I took off my hat and tossed it on the sideboard in Sweeney’s office.

  “Someone was following us?” Andrew looked around him as if to discover the answer under our noses.

  “Not bad, A.J. Not bad.” Sweeney patted his son’s shoulder, shaking his head. “I just wanted to see what kinds of skills you had that weren’t mentioned by your illustrious cousins.”

  “Appreciate the honesty,” I answered. It made sense. The job was complex and important. Still, it put me off some.

  “Thank you for not wearing your badge. It is, after all, the SECRET service.” Sweeney had some papers in his hands. “Your cousins have drawn up some special legal documents, so take your time on those.” He stopped walking and put the documents down on his desk.

  “I’ve made arrangements for you to stay with my wife and me.” Sweeney said this in the offhand way of someone whose hospitality was not up for negotiation.

  “Thank you kindly,” I said with some question in my voice.

  “Your boy needs a home and when you dine with your cousins, you will see why staying with those kin wouldn’t be the right place for your son.” Here he puffed up his chest a bit as if contemplating saying something. Then he turned away and looked out the windows down into the street below.

  “I’ve prepared briefs on our key fugitives for you to read.” Here he became very serious and tapped the stack of files tied with a black ribbon on the desk. “Make sure you fully acquaint yourself with these gentlemen.” He paused.

  “There are two telegraph stations in the area that you can use in an emergency, one is in the city of Watsonville, at the newspaper office, and the other is—” Sweeney eyed me as if measuring my ability to understand the complexities of telegraph use. “It’s at the house of—” Sweeney rubbed his smooth chin with some agitation.

  “It’s at a whorehouse,” Andrew answered for him with a grin. “That was my idea to use whores for intelligence.”

  “Ladies of the Nights’ pillow talk?” I countered with a sideways crack of a smile. “Not bad.” This young man would go far, if he didn’t get himself killed. Not an easy task in this line of work, I was beginning to see. After all, I was ‘replacing’ the last unfortunate bastard.

  Sweeney laughed, though a bit uncomfortably. “It’s called the Red Salon. A woman named Marie is the contact.”

  “Whores see every man with money in that district, thief and politician.” Andrew followed up as usual with yet another envelope file. “Any questions?”

  “What happens if my true reason for being involved is revealed?” I asked, rubbing my chin with the back of my hand. Both men half smiled.

  “Make sure that doesn’t happen,” Sweeney said as he pulled himself close to the desk and pushed an ink well and a quill pen over to me. He toyed with the blotter. “Remember, we will deny what our involvement is if that happens, so make sure it doesn’t.”

  “Why don’t you send Andrew, every six weeks or so, to check up on me, make sure I’m making headway, that kind of thing.” I needed a lifeline back to my employers. Sweeney frowned. I continued, energized by being able to help this young man achieve his goals. “He can carry coin or draft, depending on his need for adventure and he can use the telegraphs, guaranteeing the information I collect reaches you. Sometimes it’s easier to report to a person than go out of my way to try and make it to the whorehouse,” I said with a half-smile.

  “Dad?” I heard Andrew prompt his father for a decision, as I read the garble of English that released any responsibility of my well-being from the Marshals and the US Government if I failed, but if I were successful in eliminating the threat whether I survived or not, my name would be cleared and my status as a private citizen, not an Army mutineer, restored.

  Sweeney leaned back in his chair increasing the fingering of his black stone. Then with a large inhale he turned to his son. Andrew looked off into the distance as he thought things through. I wondered if Hiru and I would share this kind of closeness.

  Sweeney looked back over to me again. “Think you can handle babysitting our agent here?”

  Andrew, between showing surprise and mild suspicion, hugged more files to his chest. “Do I get the latest stuff?”

  Sweeney put down his rock when he saw that I had signed my life away on the pages before me.

  “Let’s go down into the Belly of the Whale, shall we?”

  *******

  Beneath the exterior of this rather understated multistory brick building was a very large basement, one the size of a ship.

  “Used to be a shipyard, back in the day. They’ve filled in the surrounding bay since then, but they kept this.” Sweeney took a telegraph slip from another young Marshal who also looked tidy and clean. The room was filled with telegraph wires, ledgers, maps with colorful pins pushed in them and a scale model of the gulf coast, the California Coast and the south coast of Florida. Men were pushing small replicas of battleships and some other strange cigar-shaped vessel across the section of the model that looked like ocean.

  Off in the corner men were going in to a sealed room, then emerging with photographic lithographs and handing them to other deputies who then displayed them on a large wall. Strings tied to pin tops ran from one plate to another.

  The scope of this intelligence gathering stunned me and also filled me with pride. This I realized was the new warfare: Understanding and predicting the enemies’ movements, then making counter movements with skill and care, rather than just throwing men’s lives into the field and having them buried there.

  “Over there is communications, and over here is analysis. That,” Andrew pointed to the door where I had seen the man emerge with a photographic plate, “is surveillance study and evidence.” There was a large bang. I crouched, out of habit, as did half the men including Sweeney, but a sulfurous smell intruded and a young man, charcoal-stained face where his goggles had not been, his hair standing on end as if he were a parody of being frightened, held up a blackened vestibule.

  “Now that was a charge!” a thick Irish accent announced to us. “I’ve almost got your hand held explosive ready, sir!” The young man held up the blackened vestibule with a heavy leather glove. Sweeney shook his head and chuckled. On the other side of the explosion was what looked like a place of study. Glass beakers, microscopes by the dozen, a sight I had never seen before, and men handling all sorts of preserved human remains, wearing the leather aprons of surgeons, toiled at their grisly w
ork. Feeling eyes on me, I saw Sweeney and Andrew were watching my face with some bemusement.

  “They call that Foresting? Frosting?” Sweeney gestured to his son for help.

  “Forensics. The Science of Post Mortem,” Andrew answered, looking cautious, and then rolled his eyes at his father’s seemingly old fashioned refusal to embrace what he saw as the future.

  Sweeney put his hands in his pockets. “Did you know they have been able to find out that when a crime is committed, the criminal leaves the marks of the tips of his fingers every where. Since we each have a unique set,” Sweeney held up his hand in awe, “it’s pretty much a conviction of proof that the person did what he did, and what he did it with.” Sweeney bounced on his heels. “They can even tell, by the pattern of blood spray, how a man was killed and what killed him.”

  “Knife, hatchet, close range pistol (we’re working on determining caliber), rifle shot, rock, or hammer. Whatever seizes the moment,” Andrew added as he picked up some object from a side table, then was quickly relieved of it by the deputy working there.

  “And that’s the thing,” Sweeney continued as he gestured to the rows of tables and deputies around him. “Murder is passionate, but true illegal activity is planned down to the last detail.” Sweeney then stopped and looked up at me with a very serious expression. “And the crimes against our nation are the most complex and devious to catch. I intend to put an end to crimes against the Union by making sure we know what’s going to happen before the criminals even get the idea in their tiny little brains.”

  I stopped walking for a moment and looked around me. This was miraculous and I felt a sense of pride that we, ordinary men, were making strides in the understanding and managing of the world around us. The possibilities were endless.

  “I think he’s hooked,” I heard Andrew say to his father. Sweeney agreed, as if he already knew, back when we first met. Sweeney was right.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as I followed them through the maze of men and telegraphs clattering. The air was fresh, if not sea breeze-laden. I looked up to see large blades, turning slowly, creating a fresh draft of air from the open windows on the far side.