Brings the Lightning (The Ames Archives Book 1)

by Peter Grant

  “I get it,” Walt replied. Inside he was boiling with excitement, but he dared not let his emotions show. This is it! This is my big chance!

  He sauntered back to his wagon, then called Samson and handed him two dollars. “Run out to the nearest place serving sandwiches and buy some for me. I’m going to work late tonight, and I’ll need food. You’ll go back to the barn alone.”

  “Don’t you want me to work wid you, suh?”

  “Not tonight. This will be a one-man job.” He couldn’t take the risk that Samson might inform the authorities of what he was about to do. “Don’t tell anyone I’m working late. Just get the sandwiches.”

  Samson came back half an hour later with a paper sack. “I got you t’ree ham an’ cheese, an’ t’ree beef, cheese an’ pickle, suh—also an apple.”

  “That’ll be enough. Rinse out that bucket, fill it with water and put it in the wagon along with the food. It’s almost time for everyone to close up for the night, so when you’ve done that, you can go. I’ll see you at the barn sometime tomorrow morning. Wait for me there.”

  “Yassuh. What about your hoss?”

  “It’ll be all right in the paddock, along with the wagon teams. Just leave it there.”

  Walt hid behind a pile of crates while everyone in the warehouse stopped working, tidied up their areas, and headed for the main gate. Sergeant Wallace and two corporals walked up and down the aisles, checking to see that everyone had left, then pulled the doors closed and locked them from outside.

  As he heard the lock click, Walt relaxed with a sigh. He emerged from hiding and collected several lanterns from around the warehouse, filling those that needed it with kerosene. Lighting one, he approached the pile of crates the work crew had re-packed, and unscrewed the lid from the top one. Lifting it, he was rewarded with the sight of twenty newly-cleaned, arsenal-ready Spencers.

  He thought for a moment, then went looking up and down the rows of shelves lining the warehouse walls. Several racks held leatherwork; handgun holsters for belt and saddle, and slings and saddle boots for rifles. He carried an armful of saddle boots back to the crates, then removed his shirt and trousers. He would probably get very dirty tonight. Since he didn’t have a change of clothes with him, he’d have to work in his underwear.

  He took the Spencers from the crate one by one, noting each gun’s serial number on a sheet of paper he took from Sergeant Wallace’s desk. He took some of the cleaning rags used by the work party, wiped off as much of the exterior grease as possible, then slid the rifle into a saddle boot and laid it in the bed of his wagon. He worked as quickly as he could, fetching more saddle boots and rags as needed, but it still took him more than an hour to empty the first crate. He removed it from the stack and laid it on the ground, then refilled it with junked rifles from the heap at the rear of the warehouse so that it would weigh about the same as before. He screwed on the lid, then started on the second crate.

  By ten that evening he was soaked in sweat and grimy with dirt, dust and grease, but he’d loaded forty Spencers into his wagon. He took a break, eating his sandwiches and drinking water while he thought about what to do next. Rifles were all very well, but many travelers would want handguns too; and he recalled seeing smaller crates among the cargo the wagons had dropped off that afternoon.

  He took a lantern over to the stacks of as-yet-untouched crates and began to investigate. Several of them contained Colt Army revolvers, most in good condition. He went back to the shelves where he’d found the rifle boots, and collected a double armful of military belt holsters with flaps. He took forty Colts, slid them into holsters and loaded them into his wagon. He broke up the empty crates and added them to the pile of firewood being used to heat the kettles for cleaning.

  He paused again to eat more sandwiches. The Spencers and Colts will sell for good prices, but a lot of people won’t be able to afford them, he thought as he chewed. I need to offer something cheaper, too. I wonder what else I might find if I look around? Further investigation revealed a large quantity of crated .36 caliber Whitney revolvers in another part of the warehouse. The night was drawing on and he was running out of time, so he didn’t unbox them. Instead, he used a hand cart to wheel five crates containing a hundred of them to his wagon. He added the same number of holsters.

  It was almost four in the morning by the time he’d finished, and the wagon box was filled to capacity. He spread a canvas tarpaulin over it beneath the wagon cover, to hide its contents from prying eyes, then used the stacked crates of Spencers as a makeshift desk to write out two neat lists of the serial numbers of every rifle he’d taken, both junked and new.

  He finished the lists just as daylight began to shine through cracks in the warehouse walls and roof. He wiped the sweat and grime from his face, hands and body as best he could with cleaning rags, then dressed again. By the time Sergeant Wallace unlocked the doors, he was concealed behind a pile of crates once more. He waited until a few of the men had arrived and begun to work, then slipped out and joined them as if he’d just arrived. Taking his lists, he sought out the sergeant, and found him bellowing at a working party outside the warehouse. He waited until Wallace had finished.

  “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  “Mornin’, Mr. Ames. How’s your rifle-pickin’ going?”

  “Very well. I’ve got enough parts for the time being. Now I’ll have to assemble and test them, as quickly as possible.”

  “Why the rush?”

  “There’s all those wagon trains heading west. The longer I take to get out there, the more of them will have left without my being able to sell them anything.”

  “That makes sense, I guess. Got your list of serial numbers?”

  “Here it is. I made two copies.”

  “Lessee now… almost eighty rifles? That’s more good ’uns than I thought there’d be. I better talk to my armorers. They may be throwin’ out guns that can be salvaged, just ’cause they’re lazy and don’t wanna work on ’em.”

  “I really couldn’t say,” Walt replied, hoping fervently that Wallace wouldn’t decide to inspect the contents of his wagon. He thought he knew what would distract him. “I’d like to buy a second wagon from you and load it with additional supplies, seeing as how your prices are so low right now.”

  The ploy was successful. He could almost see the avarice dawn in the Sergeant’s eyes. “A second wagon? That’ll be another double eagle for me, right? That makes two you owe me.”

  “Of course. As for the teams, I can talk to Sergeant Lejeune if you wish, but since you’ve got some mule teams out back right now, and harness for the wagons, why don’t I just buy them from you? Unless you’d rather put the gold in his pocket instead of yours?”

  Wallace grinned. “Mister, your voice sure sounds like music in my ears! Shall we say another double eagle apiece to me for the teams? I’ll see you right on the price of everything.”

  “Provided I get papers saying I’ve bought the guns, wagons and teams from the army, all legal and proper.”

  “Let’s go do that right now.”

  It took Wallace half an hour to draw up the official forms. Walt had to pay fifty cents apiece for the “scrapped” weapons, plus five dollars each for twelve healthy mules that were described on the forms as “broken-down”, and ten dollars each for two perfectly good wagons that were recorded as “damaged beyond repair”. Over and above his official bill of just under one hundred and twenty dollars, which he paid in greenbacks, he handed Sergeant Wallace eighty dollars in gold for turning an officially blind eye to the proceedings.

  “There you go,” Wallace said at last, applying a stamp to every page of the paperwork, including Walt’s copy of his lists of serial numbers and the receipt for the official payment. “That’ll get you through the gate, and deal with any questions later.”

  “Thanks very much, Sergeant. May I borrow one of your drivers to show me how to harness a six-mule team? I’ve driven one occasionally, but not harnessed it.” The times I drove
them, I was looting them from you Yankees, he thought with an inward grin, but I guess I’d better not say that aloud.

  “Sure you can.” With so much gold in his pocket, Wallace was in an affable mood. “If you like, I’ll tell him to drive your wagons to wherever you’re taking them. He can tie a horse to the tailgate and ride it back. Just give him a greenback or two to keep him sweet.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be grateful for his help. I’ll take the loaded wagon now, then come back tomorrow to fill the second with what I need. I’ll leave its team in the paddock until then, if you’ll have your people feed and water them.”

  “I’ll see to it; and for another one of them double eagles, I’ll give you the best prices on what you buy tomorrow.”

  Walt held out his hand, grinning. “Sergeant, it’s a real pleasure doing business with you.”

  ―――――

  Walt heaved a huge sigh of relief once the wagon was safely inside his rented barn. He gave five dollars to the soldier who’d driven it there, which was enough to secure his eager promise to do the same the following morning with the other wagon.

  Samson was waiting for him. “What was you doin’ de whole night, suh? You look plumb tuckered out.”

  “I am. I was buying guns from the army.”

  “At night, suh? I don’ get it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It was a special arrangement. Help me unharness the mules, then I’m going to wash, get some breakfast, and catch up on some sleep. While I do that, turn out the mules to graze in the field, then guard the wagon until I wake up. Don’t let anyone look inside it. And make sure the gate’s closed before you turn them out!”

  “Yassuh!”

  Later that afternoon, Samson was amazed to see the contents of the wagon. Walt made sure to show him the front page of the bill of sale, to allay any suspicions he might have about whether they’d been legally obtained. Samson couldn’t read very well, but the army form with its official red stamps convinced him that everything was in order. “You’ll guard the guns tomorrow while I get cleaning materials and other things we’ll need,” Walt instructed. “After that, we’ve got a huge job ahead of us, cleaning and preparing them all.”

  The next morning, under Walt’s supervision, a work party of soldiers loaded into the second wagon tin drums of kerosene, for use as both lantern fuel and cleaning solvent; a dozen lanterns and a box of spare wicks; cans of lubricating oil and grease; cleaning kits; rifle slings; two big iron pots and a kettle, to heat water for cleaning; tarpaulins; a bale of torn, dirty shirts to cut into rags, and a bale of used blankets for packing material; half a dozen saddle holsters with flaps, and the same number of pairs of saddlebags; and two complete, brand-new, unissued sets of tools to work on the guns. Finally, he loaded a dozen crates of cartridges to fit all his weapons, along with several cases of percussion caps. With the help of Sergeant Wallace, a mere hundred and twenty dollars in greenbacks was enough to pay for it all.

  For the next ten days Walt and Samson labored from sunup to sundown, then continued working late into the night by lantern light before finally falling exhausted into their blankets in the straw, only to wake up and do it all over again the following day.

  Every morning the twelve mules and two horses had to be let out into the field to graze on its lush grass, then their stalls had to be cleaned and new straw laid down. The horse trough had to be refilled every morning and evening, when the animals were brought back into the barn. Walt would have preferred to leave them outside to enjoy the warm summer nights, but he knew the chances of some or all of them being stolen were too high. For the same reason, he insisted that one of them had to stay at the barn at all times. The guns, wagons and animals could never be left unattended.

  Walt paid the army driver to come out to the barn after hours for several days, to give him and Samson lessons in harnessing and driving the mule wagons. They drove them first around the perimeter of the field, then on local farm roads, until they felt confident enough to take one into town to shop for their needs. Walt had been grateful to the designers of the wagons on several occasions during the war for making them simple, robust, and about as easy to operate as a large wagon could be. His gratitude was renewed as Samson proved readily able to build on his previous experience behind a two-horse team. He mastered the six mules in short order. He also painted the wagons inside and out, hiding their army colors and registration marks, and blacked out the stenciled numbers and unit symbols on their canvas covers.

  Each morning, the two men built a fire outside and heated pot after pot of water pumped up from a well. They began by washing the old army shirts and blankets with laundry soap Walt bought at a local store. They rinsed them in the horse trough and laid them over the fence to dry. The best half-dozen blankets were kept for bedding, and the others set aside as packing material. The shirts were cut apart and torn into rags.

  Each Spencer was thoroughly cleaned to remove the thick layer of grease that had been applied to prepare them for long-term arsenal storage. The rifles were re-lubricated and greased much more lightly, just enough for short-term protection until they were sold, then replaced in their saddle boots to protect them on the journey west. When that was done, Walt showed Samson how to disassemble a Colt Army revolver, then set him to clean, lubricate and reassemble each one. Every evening Walt checked those completed that day, making sure all were functional, then stored them in military flap holsters. Once Samson finished the Colts, Walt had him start on the Whitneys.

  Walt himself worked several hours each day on the salvaged Sharps carbines. He mated barrels, locks and stocks, making sure that all the parts fit together properly and functioned correctly. Every afternoon, he tested the latest batch. He paced out one hundred yards in the direction of a nearby mound of earth, which served as a backstop, and set up a log, tacking pieces of paper to it to serve as targets. Any gun that could not place five shots inside a ten-inch circle at that range was set aside, to be rebuilt again using different parts in an effort to improve its accuracy.

  He also used the test shooting as an opportunity to teach Samson how to operate the long guns. He had him fire the carbines at targets set at different ranges, and taught him how to allow for elevation and windage, and how to adjust the sights. Every evening they cleaned and lubricated the finished carbines, then put them in saddle boots, ready for shipment.

  It was laborious work, but it was satisfying too. Walt dearly hoped that before long, it would prove financially rewarding as well.

  One morning Samson reminded Walt, “Suh, de Queen be due in St. Louis today.”

  Walt slapped his forehead in exasperation. “I’d forgotten about that! All right. Take one of the wagons. I don’t think you’ll need all six mules, because it’s not carrying anything. Take four of them. Find Elijah and ask if he wants to join us. If he does, give him ten dollars’ expense money, just as I gave you. Here it is, plus another ten to buy more food for all of us. Come back here as quick as you can. We have a lot more work still to do!”

  He worked through the morning on the last of the Sharps carbines. After lunch, he fired the final series of test shots. He was left with three weapons that he simply could not get to shoot straight. He regarded them ruefully. I could sell them to settlers who don’t know guns very well, but that might mean their deaths if they had to depend on them. I can’t have that on my conscience. I’ll just break them down and throw away the parts.

  He took a piece of paper and started calculating. He’d spent gold and banknotes equal to about nine hundred greenback dollars since arriving in St. Louis. That had supported Samson and himself, and helped to obtain weapons, ammunition and supplies that should sell for at least six times that sum—a mighty good profit by anyone’s standards, and at the Union Army’s expense too. He reckoned that was fair compensation for his parents’ farm, and the loss of his horse and saddle at Crossville. The money had also bought wagons, mule teams and other necessities. Their value would more than offset the expenses he�
��d incur in reaching Kansas. Walt couldn’t help smiling to himself. He was doing far better than he’d expected when he started home at the end of the war.

  It was mid-afternoon when he saw the wagon approaching down the farm road. He squinted, shading his eyes with one hand. There were two… no, three people in the wagon—and one of them was a woman! As it turned into the field and came towards the barn, he recognized Rose Eliot. The strength of his sudden pleasure at seeing her again surprised him. She looked towards him and waved, but her shoulders were slumped. Something was clearly wrong.

  He hurried to meet the wagon, offering his arms to lift her down from the seat. Beside her Samson looked at him, his face worried, and shook his head emphatically. Behind him Elijah nodded a greeting, his face also somber.

  “Rose! How lovely to see you! What are you doing here?”

  “Can we walk as we talk?” Her voice was tight, stressed. She clearly didn’t want the two hired men to overhear.

  “Certainly.” He signaled Samson and Elijah to wait, then led her away from the wagon, out into the field. She clung to his arm for support, but waited until they were well away from the others before speaking.

  At last she said, voice trembling, “It was… it was terrible, Walt. Anne’s husband seemed to be a good man at first, but before long, he started following me around the house. His eyes never left me. Anne seemed oblivious to it, but it was clear enough to me what he wanted. A couple of times he tried the door of my room late at night. Fortunately, I kept it locked, or I shudder to think what would have happened. He even tried to come into the bathroom while I was washing myself.

  “Two days ago I told Anne what he was doing. I asked her what to do, but she blamed me—she said I must be leading him astray. She fired me, Walt! I had to leave the house at once. I called a cab and went to the hotel you stayed at, but you’d already left. Thanks to those soldiers on the riverboat, I had enough to afford a room there. I didn’t know how to contact you, and didn’t know what to do! I finally went to the riverfront this morning to ask about a ticket back to Nashville, where at least I’d be in familiar surroundings. Samson saw me there, and came up to ask me how I was. When he told me you were still here, I begged him to bring me to you. I… I truly hope you don’t mind. I’m so sorry!”