Lamb to the Slaughter

by Tony Masero

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure,’ promised Clinton, sitting up quickly. ‘You got it. Don’t worry, I won’t be stupid.’

  Kirby plunged his fork into his plate again, ‘That I find hard to credit,’ he murmured.

  Chapter Two

  Captain Linus T. Bracken ordered a passing soldier to hold Belle Slaughter’s reins as he helped her down. She was riding sidesaddle as befitted a lady and Bracken was only too glad to take her light weight in his arms and feel the lithe body under his hand.

  They were out riding in the Old Fair Ground on the outskirts of Richmond. It was a place used as an assembly ground by the military encamped on Richmond Hill and on weekends, the gentry of the town would often come to take their leisure and watch the new troops drill. Many of the off-duty soldiers would also come down after church service to join the throng and look out for company amongst the pretty town girls.

  The young soldier who took the reins, the red band of color on his forage cap indicating he was a private of artillery, grinned cheerfully up at Belle, who always brought a smile to men’s faces. She had that way with her. A rare beauty, that mesmerized men without the necessity to promote herself in any girlish or provocative manner.

  She was a natural. Blond, copper-tinted golden hair and magical blue eyes that held sway over men with a kind of mysterious magnetism. The hypnotic effect of her gaze held her admirers in thrall and so strong was the impact of that Medusa stare that the flow of her curvaceous body was barely noticed at first glance. Latterly, of course, that splendid form became a sole source of interest as it encouraged the wildest of wistful thoughts and intemperate daydreams.

  Belle Slaughter-Monette had almost reached her twenty-second birthday in this year of 1862, the second combat year of the War Between the States and she was married to Courtney Monette the Colonel in charge of Quartermaster’s stores in Richmond. It had not been a success as a marriage and Belle had undertaken it solely as an agent of Allen Pinkerton, the chief of Lincoln’s Secret Service, so she might uncover information for the North. And up until now she had done very well and was one of Major E. J. Allen’s (as Pinkerton liked to encode himself) best-placed spies in the enemies midst.

  But Colonel Monette, although a wealthy man and well placed in the military hierarchy had proved to be an inadequate performer in life as well as in the bedroom and his commanding position in the capital of the Confederacy had led him into a dissolute life. Where once he had been a striking and quite good-looking fellow now he tended to be slothful and greatly overweight, with skin that held the sheen of overindulgence and heavy drinking.

  It is not surprising that Belle, with her staggering beauty, had attracted many of the gallant officers who appeared in the encampments surrounding the city. And before long she had offset Monette’s shortcomings with lovers from amongst the many fine looking young officers that knocked on her door. All of who unknowingly came to her boudoir with information for her spymaster alongside their lustful intentions.

  The latest, the cavalry captain, Linus T. Bracken, had served under General Jo Shelby during the scramble at Wilson’s Creek where he had been wounded and sent to Richmond for recuperation. A clean cut fellow, with dark black side whiskers that reached down to his jawline and despite the limp from his leg wound he was able to service Belle in the areas where it counted.

  ‘Don’t I know you, private?’ Belle asked the artillery soldier, as the captain helped her down.

  ‘No, ma’am. Don’t think so,’ frowned the boy holding the reins.

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ said Belle. ‘But you were in infantry uniform then. It was not a day since, I could swear it.’

  ‘Doubt that, ma’am. I’m on duty with cannon drill most days, unlikely you would see me around town.’

  Bracken smiled at her, ‘Come on, Belle. There are thousands of conscripts guarding Richmond, how can you pick out one amongst so many?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. The fellow picked up a handkerchief I had dropped. He was the spitting image of this young man.’

  ‘Ah, I know what it is,’ sighed the soldier. ‘That would be my cousin Cob, ma’am. It often happens; folks say he’s the double of me. We both joined up together, I took the big guns and he took the sore feet. He’s off down guarding the Tredegar Iron Works, so we don’t get to see much of each other these days.’

  ‘What’s your name, private?’ asked Bracken.

  ‘Joshua Linneker, sir, and the cousin you mistake me for is Cob Brochius.’

  ‘Well, would you hold the ponies for us, Linneker?’ asked Bracken. ‘I’ve a mind to set a spell with Mrs. Slaughter-Monette.’

  ‘No problem, sir. Be glad to oblige,’ said the private with a ready smile.

  Bracken took down a picnic blanket and hamper from his horse and spread it on a slight rise above the field, where they had a good view of the ground below.

  ‘A nice spot,’ said Belle, spreading her skirts and sitting down on the blanket. ‘Shall I serve?’

  ‘Please do, play at mother if you will,’ grinned Bracken. ‘Although you do not remind me of my dear Ma in the slightest.’

  As she fetched out dishes, sandwiches and buttermilk she glanced over at Bracken, who lay resting on one elbow his wounded leg stretched out before him.

  Bracken wore the gray nine-button depot-manufactured cavalry frock coat with yellow trim and three bars of rank on his high collar. Belle knew, as he had told her with pride, that the expensive twelve dollars and fifty cents he had paid for it indicated that he came of means. It was not a thing of importance to her in itself but she filed it away as just another part of her mental collection of facts, as one that would demonstrate the general nature of the officer corps of the Confederate army.

  ‘And how is the Colonel?’ he asked, still watching the promenade below.

  ‘As indolent as ever,’ Belle said dismissively.

  Bracken drew away from the view and looked at her, ‘He does not know what he has in you.’

  ‘I am little more than decoration, I think,’ she said, with a touch of bitterness.

  ‘So why did you marry at all? Was it a matter of advancement?’

  ‘In a way,’ she admitted, thinking more of her spying motives than social standing. ‘But he has changed a great deal since coming into office. I admit I barely know the man now.’

  ‘In what way has he changed?’

  ‘He has become somewhat selfish as well as slothful. A little overbearing too. It was not always so, at one time he could not do enough for me.’

  ‘His loss and my gain,’ Bracken grinned.

  ‘You know?’ she observed conversationally as she looked at Linneker still on guard with their ponies. ‘It is very odd how those two soldiers could look so much the same. Why they were as alike as two peas in a pod.’

  Bracken gave a little shrug as he too looked at the private below them, the young man raising his cap rakishly as two young women passed by. ‘I see little but the uniform these days,’ he said. ‘There are so many of them come to fight.’

  ‘They are certainly keen,’ she said, passing him a dish of carefully cut sandwiches. ‘You know I have never seen the Iron Works, do you know it?’

  ‘Only in passing, it’s down on a spit of land between the Kanawha Canal and the James River.’

  ‘And what do they do there?’

  ‘Oh, the usual I believe, munitions and so on.’

  ‘I should very much like to see it.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, looking at her with a little surprise. ‘And what can a smelly foundry have of interest to someone as fair as you, dear Belle?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she pouted dismissively. ‘I see so much of gentile society, it would be an excitement to see something of a rougher sort.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure it can be arranged,’ he said agreeably. ‘But on a lighter note, where can I take you this evening?’

  Belle sighed, ‘Thankfully, even though that dreadful fire destroyed the Richmond Theatre earlier this year, we still h
ave three others theatres to choose from.’

  ‘You would rather spend the evening sitting in a stuffy theatre surrounded by noisy folk and listening to some poor actor’s excessive pronouncements than spend time in my company then?’ he said with a teasing gleam.

  Belle lowered her head and looked at him from beneath lowered eyelids, ‘Well, first off I would,’ she smiled. ‘Then later perhaps somewhere of a more private nature.’

  ‘I shall look forward to that,’ he promised. ‘So where is to be? The Marshall Theatre, the Varietie or the Metropolitan Hall?’

  ‘The Marshall, I believe. I have good report of the entertainment there.’

  ‘Then it shall be as you wish. But forgive me, for if it bores, then I shall be forced to carry you off early, well before the final curtain.’

  ‘No doubt,’ she said with a ruefully cocked eyebrow. ‘At least that prospect does not bore, I’ll warrant.’

  A troop was marching out onto the field below them and the new volunteers were greeted with cheers and clapping by the townsfolk. Most of the young soldiers were simple and illiterate farm boys who did not know their right from left and so the drill sergeant had tied dried stalks of grass and grain to their shoes, as the stalks they could identify easily coming from rural backgrounds and so know the difference between their feet.

  To the steady cadence of the drill sergeant’s call the awkward column stumbled out onto the assembly ground to learn how to become fighting fodder for the Confederate army. ‘Hay foot, straw foot,’ he called, in a loud repetitive bellow. ‘Pick ‘em up, you dumb oxen. Hay foot! That’s this one, fool. Yes, that’s right. Hay foot, straw foot. Keep together now.’

  The clumsy amateurs collided and stumbled and in reality it was a shambling parade and even the loyal onlookers could not help but laugh at the show of confusion amongst the waves of butternut and gray dressed recruits as they fell over their own and each others feet.

  With their picnic over and as they left the Old Fair Ground, Belle accepted the reins from Josh Linneker, she wondered again at the similarity between the two soldiers that she had noted. In her mind the likeness was so striking that she was sure that they were not different bodies but one and the same young man. It troubled her and she determined to find out more.

  ‘You are late back,’ said Monette.

  Belle had not expected him to be up but still he sat at his desk a stack of papers before him even though the hour was late. His eyes were red-rimmed and moist and a large goblet of brandy rested at his elbow.

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Belle, expecting the usual recriminations. ‘It was a long show. I’m surprised you’re not in bed just now.’

  Monette lounged back in his chair and belched softly. His uniform was unbuttoned and shirttails riding up from his breeches. In the lamplight his fat features showed a gloss of sweat and the air was heavy with the overly-sweet reek of alcohol.

  ‘I have much to do,’ he mumbled, waving at the stack. ‘Ordnance stores for removal.’

  ‘The army is preparing to move?’ she asked, taking off her gloves and shawl.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘Nor do I care overly. Whatever they do it only means more work for me.’ He yawned widely, picked up his glass and cradled it in both hands, watching her over the curve of his belly. ‘And who was it that chaperoned you this night?’ he asked and she saw the gleam of resentment in his eyes.

  ‘Captain Bracken, he is most agreeable company, I must say.’

  ‘Yes,’ slurred Monette. ‘I can see that, he’s never out of your sight for long. Have you set your hooks deep into him, my dear?’

  Belle frowned, ‘What can you mean, Courtney?’

  Monette puffed tired breath and raised a disdainful eyebrow, ‘You cannot believe I do not know what you are about, my lady. I see the flush on your cheek when you return from these assignations. There is an air of gratification about you. A certain dampness of satisfaction.’

  ‘Are you suggesting some form of impropriety?’ Belle asked haughtily.

  Monette laughed, ‘Impropriety? Why, I think you spread your legs for any passing trick of military man that passes. You think I am a fool, Belle? I know your nature well. But why I should be cursed with such a wanton creature is beyond me.’

  ‘And you are such a paragon I suppose?’ Belle spat back. ‘With all your drinking and whoring. It is common knowledge what goes on once the bar at Spotswood Hotel is closed.’

  Monette sniffed and shrugged indifferently, ‘If I cannot find gratification at home then I shall find it elsewhere,’ he sneered with a pompous air of self-righteousness.

  ‘Perhaps you look to your own satisfaction more than you do to others,’ Belle muttered.

  Monette swallowed the remains of his glass in a single draught. ‘I am tired and to bed. Know this though, Belle. You shall not shame me in public, do you hear. If you do it will not go well for you that I can promise. If you cannot keep that itchy little beaver of yours still, then at least do it where no one can see or know.’

  With that he heaved himself from his seat and swayed a moment, the empty glass still held in his hand. ‘We each go our own way, Belle. If you will hussy yourself about, then so be it, but it is not politic for me. I can say nothing without arousing interest and bringing shame on my office and myself. When we first met I never could have believed it was possible you would end like this, as a mere sticky strumpet who fucks whatever passes for a uniform.’

  Belle drew herself up proudly, ‘Nor I, that a fine looking husband might become a bloated bore who dallies with every octoroon boy or girl he can buy.’

  Monette snorted a dismissive laugh, ‘Go to hell, you little slut.’

  He lunged for the door, stumbling drunkenly over a chair back as he went.

  ‘Mind you don’t fall and break your neck,’ she called after him icily.

  When he was gone she heard him clumping around his bedroom upstairs and when all was silent she slumped into his desk chair. Idly she scanned the reports on the desktop before turning and looking out of the dark window behind.

  The house they were billeted in was a pleasant one and beyond the city center, it was situated on Church Hill on the square next to St. John’s Church and therefore in a quiet spot with the curve of the river just below. It was a cool airy place in the summer heat and an escape from the dust of the busy city streets. On the rise behind was the Libby Hill tented encampment and watch fires for the troops stretched north along the horizon right across to the line of the Virginia Central railroad where the firebox of a late freight train could be seen glowing as it made its way towards the depot at the bottom of Railroad Bridge where the tracks crossed the James River.

  Belle brooded as she felt the sting of Monette’s words. It was true; she knew that what he said was in some ways a fact. Although she had her ulterior motive as spy in justification it still did not deny the loose wantonness of her behavior. The trouble was, she enjoyed it. Ever since her introduction at the hands of her first lover, the now dead gambler Aloysius Barrett Browning, there had been a well of desire in her that had never been fully gratified. Even now she searched to recapture the totality of the relationship she had felt with Aloysius. No matter he had been condemned by Kirby Langstrom as a scoundrel and chancer. Still, he had been the one for her and as yet no one had matched up to him in her mind.

  She pouted as the thoughts slipped through her mind and with only half an eye she focused on the papers before her.

  ‘Sent to Knoxville Ordnance Officer, Tennessee.

  115 Long Enfield Rifles, 1525 Muskets, 78 Short Enfield Rifles, 460 Belgian Rifles….’

  The list went on: ‘Fayetteville Rifles, Richmond Model 1855, Derringer, British Muskets, Bayonets, Flints and cartridge boxes. Knapsacks, haversacks and canteens. Waist belts, cap pouches and bayonet scabbards.’ It ran on and on into pages of similar supplies.

  Belle saw immediately that there was enough equipment to arm over three thousand men. This was information that Pinkerto
n would be glad of. An army was massing in Tennessee.

  Carefully she transcribed the facts in a succinct message and prepared an envelope to drop off for her contact, a Richmond hat maker who used a clandestine trader in quinine to transport their messages. The illicit quinine trader was a man favored by the unsuspecting Secretary of War and well above suspicion; his privileged position allowed him a free pass that enabled him to cross the lines without hindrance.

  It was the early hours by the time she had finished and as she prepared to sleep, still the face of the artillery private appeared in her thoughts and blurred with that of the remembered infantryman who had returned her dropped handkerchief. There was something going on there and her instinct told her that the Tredegar Iron Works might hold some of the answers. Before sleep came, she determined that Bracken would take her to see the works at his earliest convenience.

  Chapter Three

  Kirby was not about to cut Clinton Byers any slack.

  He had him ride his pony with both hands lashed in front and tied off at the pommel with just enough leeway to control the beast.

  Clinton for his part appeared to take it all in his stride. He sang sometimes and whistled at others as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  They headed along the borderline between free Kansas and the slave state of Missouri in a roughly northwards direction, heading in the general direction of the Iowa border.

  It had been the best part of a day since leaving Bullock Cross and Kirby was beginning to wonder if Clinton was leading him on a wild goose chance.

  ‘How far now?’ he grunted at his prisoner.

  ‘Not far, not far,’ promised Clinton, with an air of contentment that Kirby did not like.

  ‘You wouldn’t be pulling my string now, would you?’ asked Kirby. ‘You thinking on leading me into some sort of ambush, is that it?’

  ‘No, sir,’ promised Clinton. ‘Old Bart he’s got a real good hidey-hole. You see that run of hills up ahead, that’s where he’ll be. There’s a valley in there and Bart got a nice cozy little shack for himself in there. It was some kind of mining venture that didn’t pan out. All that’s left now is the diggings and the old shack that Bart calls home.’