Brings the Lightning (The Ames Archives Book 1)

by Peter Grant

  As the riverboat edged up to the quayside and the first lines were thrown, Jason appeared along with Elijah and Samson. “We’s come to get your bags, ma’am, suh,” he announced, indicating the carts the three were pushing.

  “Thank you, Jason,” Rose said, smiling.

  “And here’s the other half-eagle I promised you,” Walt added, handing over two five-dollar gold coins, “plus a third one to divide between Samson and Elijah for helping you.” The two men beamed as he named them, and nodded their thanks.

  “Thankee, thankee, suh!” Jason enthused. “You’se been real gen’rous. Iffen you sails aboard de Queen again, jes’ make sure to ask for me. I’ll be ready, willin’, an’ able to assist you, ’long with ma fr’en’s here.”

  “We will, thank you. You can take our baggage. Mrs. Eliot will be met by someone at the quay, but I’ll need to find a hotel.”

  “Dere’s cabs waitin’ for passengers, suh,” Samson told him. “Has you picked a hotel yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Suh, de Lindell Hotel at Washington an’ Sixth is a real fine place. Lots ob merchants use it. It’s de best in de city.”

  Walt thought quickly. It was sure to be expensive in such a prime location, but if he wanted to find out more about opportunities to make money, locally and on the frontier, a place like that would be ideal to mingle with businessmen and travelers who might provide information. “Very well, I’ll try it. Thank you.”

  Rose exclaimed, “There’s Anna! She got my telegraph message from Nashville!”

  Walt followed the direction of her pointing finger and saw a woman of approximately the same age as Rose, plump and cheerful. She was standing up on the seat of a light one-horse buggy, waving a handkerchief towards them.

  “She looks like a nice lady.”

  “Oh, she is! We grew up in the same town in Louisiana. She married a businessman who went down to New Orleans to trade and ended up bringing her back here with him. He did very well in the war, while she opened a school for the children of military families. It’s grown so much that she needs help.”

  “Sounds like she’ll keep you busy.”

  “I’m sure she will. You have my address?”

  “I have. Thank you for giving it to me.” He hesitated, wondering what to say. “I’ll miss you, Rose. I hope you’ll be happy in your new life here. Perhaps you won’t mind if I call on you, if I come through St. Louis sometime.”

  She looked down, a faint flush coming to her cheeks. “I’d like that very much, Walt. If you find yourself with any free time before you leave for the frontier, perhaps we can even see each other again before you go.”

  “Thank you. I’ll certainly try to do that.” He took her hand and squeezed it gently, and her blush intensified.

  The mooring lines were drawn tight and the gangplanks swung into place fore and aft. Jason said, “De forrard gangway’s for de passengers, suh.”

  “Thank you. Let’s go.”

  He offered his arm to Rose, and they set off along the outside promenade deck and down the stairs in front of the raised bridge superstructure. He steadied her as they crossed the narrow gangway, Jason and the others following with their baggage, and led her through the teeming throng on the quayside to where Anna waited with her buggy.

  She jumped down, beaming with pleasure. “Rose! I do declare, it’s been years!” They embraced.

  “It has indeed. Allow me to introduce Mr. Walter Ames of Sparta, Tennessee. He was good enough to escort me here. Walter, this is Mrs. Anna Spiro.”

  “Mr. Ames, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She extended her hand.

  He took it in his fingers, careful to exert only minimum pressure, and bowed over it. “The pleasure is all mine, ma’am. I’m glad to be able to deliver Mrs. Eliot safely into your gracious care. We had a most enjoyable journey together.”

  “We did indeed!” Rose confirmed, smiling at him. “Thank you again for all your courtesies, Mr. Ames. I shall look forward to seeing you again when you next pass through St. Louis.”

  “As will I, ma’am.”

  He watched as Jason and Elijah loaded Rose’s luggage into the buggy, which set off through the crowds towards the street. From behind him Walt heard Samson’s voice. “Got a cab for you, suh.” He turned to find the waiter loading his baggage into its luggage compartment at the rear.

  “Thank you, Samson.” He handed him a greenback by way of a tip.

  The black man hesitated. “Be you gwine to de frontier, suh?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You need a body to care for you, suh?”

  Walt’s eyes widened. “You want to go west too?”

  “Oh, yes, suh! I heard stories ’bout how wide open it is. Dey say people out dere care more ’bout what a man can do dan de color ob his skin.”

  Walt thought wryly that Samson’s rosy dreams were probably doomed to disappointment, but there was nothing he could do about that. “How soon do you need to know?”

  “Suh, de Queen leave tomorrow mornin’. If you tells me by tonight dat you’ll take me, I’ll be dere right away.”

  “How much do you make on the Queen?”

  “Ten dollah a month an’ all found, suh.”

  “I don’t need a body servant, but I could sure use someone to help me. Can you ride? Handle a wagon? Shoot?”

  “Cain’t ride a hoss, suh, but I’ve drove a two-horse farm wagon an’ hunted for deer. I won’t lie to you, suh, I be out of practice at both, but I learns real fast an’ I works hard.”

  Walt made a snap decision. “You’re hired. I’ll pay you twenty dollars a month and found to start with. Can you find a place to stay for a few nights, until I’ve fixed up something?”

  Samson’s face broke into a beaming smile. “Yassuh!”

  “Here’s ten dollars for expenses.” Walt handed him some greenbacks. “Meet me outside the hotel tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “Yassuh! I surely t’anks you, suh. You won’t regret dis.”

  “All right. Thank you, Samson.”

  He watched as the servant hurried away, and sighed philosophically. Giving Samson ten dollars was a test. If he drank himself into a stupor with it tonight, he’d have proved himself unworthy of trust. If he didn’t, it would be a good harbinger for the future. One way or the other, it would be worth the ten dollars to find out.

  Walt swung up onto the seat of the horse-drawn cab. “Lindell Hotel, please, driver.”

  “Right away, sir!”

  ―――――

  Walt’s decision to spend a couple of days at the Lindell Hotel, despite its astronomical charges of almost ten dollars per day for room and board, paid off during his very first meal there. He listened intently at lunchtime to two merchants and two army supply officers at the table next to his, discussing the prospects for purchasing surplus equipment from the huge military depot outside the city.

  Walt’s eyes gleamed with interest as he eavesdropped. Apparently the end of the war meant that surplus and worn-out supplies were being sold for pennies on the dollar. In particular, while firearms in good condition were being cleaned, greased and repacked in crates for shipment to various arsenals around the country for storage, those in poorer condition were being offered for sale at fifty cents to a dollar apiece. Walt thought to himself, I know how to maintain guns, and rebuild ’em if need be. What if I bought a bunch of those rejects cheaply, fixed ’em up, and took ’em out west to sell to settlers? That might be a real good way to make some more money.

  He lost no time in hiring a cab to take him out to the depot. Its size was breathtaking. The guards at the gate were there for show, nothing more. Walt was able to simply walk inside without even being questioned, lost amid a stream of arriving and departing vehicles and people. He spent a couple of hours wandering around, asking questions and getting a feel for what was happening. It seemed a new unit arrived almost every day, occupying tents that were set up in a nearby field for use by transient troops. They handed in their
equipment, then were formally disbanded. The discharged soldiers were sent into St. Louis to catch rail or river transport on their way homewards. The receiving area was a hive of activity, with wagons forming long lines, getting in each other’s way, drivers cursing, NCO’s bawling commands, and dust rising in choking clouds.

  He wandered into the processing office at the receiving yard. It was a constant bustle of army drivers and civilian officials hurrying in, handing over forms, signing papers, then rushing out again. After watching for a while, he walked over to a harassed sergeant who’d just finished bellowing at an errant corporal.

  “Trouble with the help, sergeant?” he asked genially, offering a hip flask from his back pocket.

  The sergeant looked up irritably from the papers in front of him. “And who the devil are– oh!” His eyes lit up as he saw the flask, and he seized it eagerly. “Thank you!” He tilted it back, eyes closed in pleasure as he poured the liquor down his throat, draining at least half the contents, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Aaahh!” He handed it back with visible reluctance. “That was very kind of you, sir. Just what I needed!”

  “My pleasure. I’ve worked with the army in Tennessee, so I know how hard your job is.”

  “Uh-huh. What brings you here to St. Louis?” He ran his eyes over Walt’s smart civilian suit.

  “I’m hoping to buy some worn-out surplus firearms and refurbish them for sale to those heading west. Seems as good a way as any to make a fresh start after the war.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m not trying to be difficult, but can you prove you worked with the army in Tennessee?”

  Walt produced his forged letter of recommendation. The NCO read it and nodded, satisfied. “Thanks. Can’t be too careful, you know.” He handed it back. “There are all sorts of shady characters wandering around here, trying to make money at the expense of the army.”

  And I’m one of them, Walt thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. “I suppose it’s your job to stop them?”

  “Yeah. We’re supposed to account for every wagonload of supplies we take in. Of course, by the time our paperwork gets married up with the bills of lading for what’s going out, I wouldn’t be surprised if half the stuff is missing—but that’s not my problem. If you’re interested in buying firearms, you’ll need to talk to a friend of mine. His name’s Wallace. He’s a sergeant too; you’ll find him at the ordnance warehouse, three rows down from here. Tell him Jenkins sent you, and show him that letter. If you see him right,” and he rubbed forefinger and thumb suggestively together, “I reckon he’ll help you find what you need.”

  “Thank you very much. I’m obliged to you, Sergeant Jenkins.” Walt fished in his pocket and pulled out a half-eagle. “Have a bottle or two of the good stuff on me.”

  “Why, thank you kindly!” The NCO grinned as he accepted the five-dollar coin. “If you do the same for Wallace, I reckon he’ll give you a cut price on his own grandmother.”

  They both laughed as Walt nodded to him, then turned for the door. He walked down the serried ranks of buildings until he came to the third row, then wandered along it looking for the right warehouse. He soon identified it by the line of armorer’s wagons and crates of weapons piled in front of it. Harassed teams of privates under the command of irascible corporals were moving them inside. A burly sergeant kept a watchful eye on proceedings.

  Walt approached him. “Excuse me. Are you Sergeant Wallace?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “My name’s Walter Ames.” He offered his hand. “Sergeant Jenkins said I should talk to you about doing a little business. I’m looking for surplus firearms.”

  “Then I’m the man you need.”

  “Jenkins said I should show you this.” Walt handed over his letter.

  Wallace read it. “All right. What do you want?”

  “I’m heading for the frontier. I’d like to sell rifles to settlers taking the trail west. There are reports of Indian trouble along the Smoky Hill and Santa Fe Trails, so I reckon there’s money to be made arming travelers. I understand you’re junking surplus worn-out rifles rather than re-arsenal them. I reckon if I can look through them and pick out parts that I can build into working weapons, it’ll be worth my while.”

  Wallace lowered his voice, glancing at his soldiers to make sure they couldn’t overhear. “Maybe—but will it be worth my while to help you?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “It’ll cost you a gold double eagle. For that, I’ll give you access to the reject weapons in the back of the warehouse. You can pick your way through them and select whatever you want. They’ll cost you fifty cents apiece. Ammunition is extra.”

  “That sounds fair. An eagle now, and another when I’m finished?”

  “Done. Come inside to my office.”

  As they walked into the shade of the warehouse, Walt asked, “What about all those empty wagons behind the building? Any chance I can pull one into the back of the warehouse and load my rifles into it?”

  “Well, let me see. They’re all supposed to be reassigned to the frontier forts. Tell you what, though, if you give me another double eagle, I’ll write off one of them as damaged beyond repair. That way I can sell it to you for ten dollars. You’ll have to provide your own team when you’ve loaded it. If you want to buy surplus mules or horses, I can introduce you to Sergeant Lejeune at the stables. If you see him right, same as me, he’ll see you right.”

  “Very well. I’ll give you one double eagle now, for access to the rifles and the use of a wagon, and another when I’m finished.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  They shook hands, and Walt handed over the first double eagle. He grinned as he watched a grumbling soldier hitch a pair of mules to the best of the wagons at the rear of the warehouse and haul it inside, positioning it where Wallace indicated. The sergeant would earn the equivalent of two months’ salary by taking his bribe, and the stable sergeant as much to provide a team of mules.

  If I can just find enough working guns to fill a wagon, Walt thought, and taking into account what the wagon, a team of mules and the bribes will cost me, I’ll leave St. Louis with them at a total cost per weapon of two to three greenbacks. They say that new Sharps breechloaders are selling for twelve to fifteen dollars near the frontier. If I can sell used ones for half that price, I’ll get back double what I paid, or even more. That’ll be a good start to my new life out there.

  ―――――

  Samson showed up promptly at eight the following morning, showing no signs of a hangover. Satisfied, Walt checked out of the hotel after arranging to store most of his firearms and valuables in a local strong room for the next few weeks. He rented a farmer’s barn and field a couple of miles from the entrance to the army depot, explaining to Samson, “If I rent this instead of a hotel room, I’ll be able to afford more guns. We can put the wagon and its team in the barn, sleep in the hayloft, graze the mules in the field, and we’ll have a roof to cover us while we work on the guns when the weather’s bad.”

  “Dat’s OK wid me, suh.”

  “We’re going to need another man in due course, someone trustworthy. He should be able to drive a wagon if necessary, although I suppose we can teach him how to do that. Any ideas?”

  “Suh, when de Queen come back, I can ask Elijah. I t’ink he’d come. He’s a good man, suh.”

  “All right.”

  He bought blankets and other supplies from a local store. They slept in the hayloft, washed themselves and their clothes in a bucket, and cooked on a fire next to the horse trough. Every morning he and Samson dressed in work clothes and headed for the depot, buying sandwiches at a store outside the gate to sustain themselves through the day. On the second day, tired of the long walk to and fro, Walt approached Sergeant Lejeune in the stables. Money changed hands, and he came away with two cavalry horses in good condition, along with saddles and bridles. From then on, they rode to their work each morning. Walt used the journey to coach his helper in the
basics of riding.

  He taught Samson what to look for as they picked through huge piles of discarded rifles. Most had bores and chambers too rusted and pitted to be worth salvaging. Many troops approaching their discharge dates had clearly stopped caring for their weapons. However, a few of the rejected guns appeared repairable, given proper attention. Walt concentrated on Sharps cavalry carbines, the most powerful and robust of the single-shot breechloaders he’d encountered during the war. He used a set of tools borrowed from an armorer’s wagon to disassemble those that looked worthwhile, keeping a barrel here, a lock there, plus the better woodwork.

  The pile of usable components grew slowly in the wagon—too slowly for Walt’s liking. He began to worry. He’d assumed that the armorers, looking forward to their discharge, wouldn’t have been over-diligent; that they would have written off sub-standard weapons rather than bother to repair them. However, they’d been rather more conscientious than he’d expected. Less than one in ten of the weapons he examined proved to have one or more parts good enough for his needs. He began to wonder whether his plan to sell used guns to settlers had been ill-conceived.

  Early in the afternoon of the fourth day, four wagons pulled up at the rear of the warehouse, near where Walt was working. Several dozen crates of weapons were unloaded and piled just inside the rear doors, then the wagons and their teams were put in the paddock out back, joining Walt’s and Samson’s horses. A work party of soldiers began removing Spencer cavalry carbines from the crates. They cleaned them with solvent and boiling water, checked them, set aside a few that needed repair, lubricated and greased the others for long-term storage, then refilled the crates, stacking them to one side.

  Walt took a break from sorting through discarded weapons and wandered over to the cleaning team, trying to appear casual and disinterested. “Where do these Spencers come from?” he asked idly.

  “They’ve just been handed in by the Third Missouri Cavalry. It musters out this month. We’re preparing them for arsenal storage, except for those needing repair. There aren’t many that do, because they’re almost new. The regiment was only issued Spencers at the beginning of this year.”