by Thomas Webb
“Leave it, girl!” Copperhead shouted, grabbing the hood of her cloak and yanking her up to her feet. “We’re done here! We’ve got to get to the brutes!”
The old man took off at a sprint. Scarlet slung her rifle across her back and followed.
The three hellish hours they’d taken to crawl from their brutes to the overlook had been painstakingly slow. Getting back to the machines with no regard for stealth took only a fraction of that time.
Gasping for breath, they tore aside the netting of vegetation covering the clockwerk horses and scrambled up into their saddles. The baying of hounds and the sound of men shouting grew closer. Scarlet flipped the switch that cranked the brute’s engine, breathing an audible sigh of relief when the machine rumbled to life. The clockwerk horses surged forward as if shot from a cannon.
Scarlet and her minder worked the brutes’ controls with expert precision. They gained precious seconds weaving through a dense stand of chalk maple.
“This way!” Copperhead shouted.
He led them thundering down a steep bank into a creek, water splashing as they powered their way up and out and onto dry land. Scarlet risked a look back. Copperhead had figured incorrectly that the stream would slow their pursuers. The Shadow Army soldiers were gaining ground. Within seconds, Scarlet and her minder would be within range of their guns.
“Dammit!” Copperhead swore, shouting to be heard over the thundering of metal hooves. “We’re going to have to use the auxiliary route!”
Scarlet’s blood went cold. The auxiliary route. For a second, she considered taking their pursuers on rather than ride the secondary escape route. She dismissed the idea almost as quickly as she had it, realizing how foolish it would be for the two of them to take on what looked to be at least twenty mounted men. She felt the fear rising up in her throat.
Come on, Scarlet. You can do this.
She pushed the fear down deep, pointed her brute toward Mulligan’s ravine, and willed the mechanical beast to run faster.
Scarlet and Copperhead veered west, pushing their brutes until the beasts’ metal joints screeched. Shots rang out behind them as the Shadow Army soldiers tested their range. The dense maples gave way to scrub pine and rock as the agents’ mounts kicked up clods of earth in their haste. Their Shadow Army pursuers kept shooting, their aim improving with each round. There was a loud ping as a bullet bounced off the metallic flank of Scarlet’s brute.
One of the first lessons Copperhead had taught her was to always have an escape plan. In this case, they’d had two. Unfortunately, plan number one died right alongside the three-man patrol they’d taken out. That left plan number two, or the “auxiliary route”, as Copperhead called it. The only problem was that even thinking about the auxiliary route made Scarlet queasy.
They approached a high hill, and Scarlet broke out in a cold, clammy sweat.
“Ready?” Copperhead yelled.
Scarlet was most definitely not ready, but she nodded anyway. She lifted a small, hinged cover on the back of the brute’s neck. Underneath was a blue lever.
They mounted the crest of the jagged hill, bullets whizzing by so close she felt the disturbance in the air as they passed. Fifty yards ahead lay a chasm. A hundred-foot drop waited patiently beneath it.
Scarlet turned and saw the first of the Shadow Army riders crest the hill. She looked at Copperhead. His finger hung poised above his own blue lever. The old man gave her a wink as they raced toward the edge of the cliff.
“Now!” he shouted.
Scarlet’s stomach dropped as her brute’s forelegs left the ground. Holding on for all she was worth, she closed her eyes and flipped the switch. Blue fire jetted from the brute’s flanks. With a sickening lurch, the mechanical horse launched itself skyward.
9 Raleigh, North Carolina, Hillsboro Street, June 1864
Who the hell does Smythe think he is? Horton thought. I command the peacekeeping forces of the entire Confederate nation, yet he orders me around like a common slave wench!
The members of the group were supposedly of equal standing, but Horton didn’t feel that way, especially after having been called to meet at the very last minute. It was the type of treatment more befitting an errand boy than an equal.
Horton sat ramrod straight in the saddle as he maneuvered his brute through the bustling streets of Raleigh. Barely ten o’ the clock and already the main thoroughfare was alive with activity. Wagons, steam carriages, and aether-powered streetcars vied for space as brutes kicked up dust in the crowded dirt streets.
Horton didn’t have to guess why he’d been summoned. Today’s meeting had less to do with Davis’ assassination than it did with the incident at Beth Julip’s plantation. The attack had been unfortunate but had in no way been his fault. Horton was convinced it would have taken anyone by surprise, even someone as talented and well-trained as himself. It had proved even more unfortunate when the two assailants escaped. Capturing them would have gone a long way in alleviating some of the embarrassment of the situation.
Out of habit, Horton guided his mechanical mount to the first hitching post he saw. He shut the brute down and dismounted, narrowly avoiding a malfunctioning clockwerk who’d wandered into the street.
Constructed in 1771, Asbury Tavern served as the premier meeting place for the Raleigh elite. The tavern’s first floor was famous for its fried rabbit and strong golden ale, but it was the upstairs that kept the tavern in business. Amongst the city’s most powerful men and women, Asbury Tavern was an establishment where privacy was assured.
Horton entered the darkened tavern and was greeted by the scent of wood smoke and spilt liquor. Specks of dust caught the light of the midmorning sun as they floated toward the floorboards. Horton heard laughter coming from the main dining hall and headed that way.
A well-dressed group sat near the dining hall entrance, talking and keeping a close eye on the door. When Horton entered, their conversation ceased. One of them, a dark-haired woman, looked at Horton and said something to the others. Then, the conversation resumed. They all looked fit and alert. Former soldiers, Horton reckoned. He bade them all good morning, taking note of their not-so-concealed revolvers as he passed.
The laughter he’d heard came from the other side of the hall. The source of the ruckus was the roughest looking bunch Horton had ever seen. They stood in stark contrast to the well-dressed and well-groomed professional men and women near the door. They seemed too preoccupied with their game of cards to pay Horton much attention. Thick clouds of cigar smoke floated above tables piled high with coins and greenback dollars. Knives and pistols lay next to half-finished glasses of whiskey, both items easily within reach of the card players.
Horton weaved through tables and chairs and headed toward a set of stairs in the back of the dining hall. As he walked by, Horton spotted a familiar face.
“Mornin’, Mouse,” Horton said.
“Mornin’, gen’ral.” Mouse Montgomery tipped his battered bowler hat in greeting but didn’t bother to look up from his cards. The little man with the mangled ear and rat face leaned back in his chair and rested his boots on the table.
“So how are things, Mouse?”
“Shit,” Mouse swore. He threw the cards down in disgust. “Was doin’ jest fine up until a minute ago.”
One of Mouse’s companions laughed as he raked in a pile of soggy, crumpled greenbacks.
Horton leaned in for a closer look at Mouse’s cards. “Damn. Beat by a pair of jacks. Sorry for your luck there, Mouse. The Gambler already upstairs?”
Mouse scooped up the pile of discarded cards and shuffled them with surprising dexterity. “Yep. You know how the boss favors bein’ punctual and all.” The shifty little go-between cut the deck and dealt seven cards to each man at the table.
Horton couldn’t tell if Mouse had meant that as a dig at him for being late or if it was just an offhand comment. He filed the remark away for future reference. “Looks like someone else is already here, too.” Horton nodded to
ward the clean-cut group on the far side of the room. “Is it the Pious Man? Or Smythe himself?”
“Right on both accounts, gen’ral. Most a’ them fine folks over there are in the employ of the congressman. Rest of ‘em belong to the owner and proprietor of Shining Light Benevolent Works, Incorporated. ‘Course they’s all too well-dressed and gentleman- and lady-like to be with us. And not a one of ‘em drinking. Can’t trust a man what don’t indulge a swallow or two ‘fore eleven o’ the clock.” Mouse drained his glass of whiskey as if to emphasize his point.
Horton bid Mouse a good rest of the morning and left him and his friends to their cards. A single attendant with skin the color of ebony stood guard at the foot of the stairs leading up to the tavern’s exclusive second floor. Recognizing Horton, the man moved aside and let the general pass.
The second floor of the Asbury tavern was home to a private dining hall and kitchen as well as numerous meeting rooms. But the third floor was what drew most of the Asbury’s clientele. A series of suites comprised the floor, any of which could be discreetly stocked at a moment’s notice with alcohol, food, women, men, or anything else that might suit a client’s pleasure. Horton hoped after this meeting he could pay a visit up to “three”, as most patrons of the Asbury called it, and that the tavern’s management would provide something to his own particular tastes. Agony and pleasure were two sides of the same coin for him. But the girls they’d provided recently had all been so . . . fragile. Maybe this time they’d be able to find him something a bit sturdier.
The cabal met in the easternmost room of the second floor. The place smelled of expensive linen, pine oil, and money. Horton walked down the hallway, paying little attention to the extravagant paintings or the rich wood-paneled walls from which they hung. From the entrance to the meeting room, a gigantic man watched Horton’s approach. He stood nearly as tall as the mahogany double doors and almost as wide. The giant was meticulously dressed. Horton wondered how many yards of material the tailor had needed just to fashion a suit of clothes that fit him.
“Sergeant Wagstaff,” Horton said.
Smythe’s personal bodyguard nodded in greeting, his face impassive as always. “Told you before, general. It’s not ‘sergeant’ anymore. Just plain ‘Wagstaff’ will do.”
“Shame. Your exploits with the 17th Georgia Infantry are the stuff of legend. My offer still stands. Full commission as a major in the Confederate army. Sure you won’t reconsider?”
“Put all that behind me, general. I work for the congressman now. Speaking of, they’re waiting for you.”
Wagstaff stepped aside with more grace than a man his size had a right to command and showed the general in. A thick cloud of gray Virginia tobacco smoke welcomed Horton as the door shut behind him.
“Commander,” Smythe said. “We’re pleased you could join us.”
Horton took his seat. A serving girl appeared and poured him a glass of whiskey. Horton eyed the girl’s low-cut blouse with a smile. He licked his lips as he watched her leave the room.
“It’s good to see you again, George,” Congressman Smythe said. “We’ve held off discussing our recent success until your arrival.”
“It would seem the commander values his time more highly than that of the group,” the Pious Man remarked.
He peered at Horton through a pair of spectacles perched on the end of a long, aquiline nose. Silas Worthington looked as if he’d never so much as seen a speck of dirt. His suit was immaculate, and not a snow-white hair on his head was out of place. Horton sniffed the air in the Pious Man’s direction and caught a whiff of lilac.
“Leave the pup alone, Silas,” the Gambler said, chomping on his cigar. “Sometimes, a young man has things to attend to that make him late to other things. Surely you can recall what it was like to be young, can’t you, Silas? Lest you were too busy attending church and chasing after little boys.”
The Gambler blew another cloud of cigar smoke. If there was an illegal enterprise anywhere south of the Mason Dixon and the demilitarized zone, the Gambler owned a piece of it. He’d come up through the criminal ranks the hard way and still wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty if the situation called for it. He took a drink of his whiskey and eyed the Pious Man, daring him to respond.
“I’ll pray for you this Sunday, Maurice,” the Pious Man said. His face reddened.
The Gambler smiled.
“Please, gentlemen,” Smythe said. “Let’s try and set aside our differences and focus on the business at hand. We can’t risk meeting this way again until I assume office, so we need to make the most of our time together today. Now, I’m certain we’ve all heard the good news? Maurice, would you care to fill us in on some of the details?”
“Won’t go into it overly much,” the small man known as the Gambler replied. “Suffice it to say my boys tied up the loose ends in Virginia pretty neat. Boothe’s done the hangman’s dance, and so’s everyone else who was connected to him. Ain’t no one left to tell tales about the Davis’ killin’.”
“Splendid news,” Smythe said. “Anything to add, Silas?”
“The group’s finances are in order,” the slender, white-haired gentleman known as the Pious Man said. “We have more than enough resources to see you through the election.”
“Thank you, Silas,” Smythe said. “We’ll accomplish a great many things with the four of us working together. These are exciting times.”
The Pious Man scoffed. “Yes, if the cabal can remain intact long enough. And that’s a very big ‘if.’” The Pious man turned to face Horton. “Commander, what’s this I hear about your base of operations coming under some sort of attack?”
Horton squirmed in his seat. Effeminate old bastard hadn’t wasted any time bringing that up, had he?
“Two unknown men assaulted one of my patrols a few days back. Several of my soldiers were killed but not before one of them raised the alarm. A group of my best then gave chase, but the assailant’s brutes were more advanced than ours. They escaped by jumping a ravine too wide for any normal brute to clear.”
“So you attribute the escape to their clockwerk horses?” the Pious Man asked. “And not to the incompetence of you and your men? Let me make sure I have the facts correct, commander. These intruders spied on you at the Widow Julip’s plantation, killed three of your best soldiers, and then managed to escape unharmed? Must be quite an embarrassment for a man of your . . . stature.”
Horton gnashed his teeth and reached for the saber at his hip.
“Leave the pup alone and let him finish, you vindictive old bitch,” the Gambler said.
“Now see here, Maurice!” the Pious Man started. His cheeks flushed.
“Probably did you a favor,” the Gambler said. “You know how many men and women have fallen under this pup’s saber? They don’t call him ‘The Blade of the Confederacy’ for nothin’.”
The Gambler had no idea just how close to being right he’d come. The criminal’s outburst had been just enough of a distraction from Horton’s rage to allow him a second to think. With some difficulty, he forced his saber hand to relax. The Pious Man was either too vain or too foolish to realize how close Horton had come to putting it’s point between his perfect little teeth.
“Gentlemen, please!” Smythe shouted, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “Let the commander finish.”
The room grew quiet. The Gambler bit the end off a fresh stogie and spat it across the table toward the Pious Man. Under the table, Horton’s hands shook with the effort to control himself. He closed his eyes, envisioning the pain he would one day inflict on Silas Worthington. But not yet. For now, he needed the Pious Man. The same way all the members of the cabal needed one another. The same way a crazed wolf needed his pack to bring down a particularly dangerous quarry right before he turned on them all and kept the kill for himself.
“Any idea who these men were, boy? Or what they were after?” the Gambler asked.
“The rifle the smaller of the two men carried,” H
orton began, having regained his composure, “we have nothing like it in the Confederate States. The rounds they used, the sound it made when it was fired…that weapon was specially designed and built. Someplace overseas, I’d guess. Most likely Europe.”
“What does the type of rifle the man carried have to do with anything?” the Pious Man asked.
The Gambler shook his head. “You’re a magician with laundering greenbacks, Silas. Not too quick otherwise, though. Don’t you get it? The advanced mechanics of those brutes, the man’s fancy rifle . . . hell, even the way they took out several of the pup’s best men. They’re all clues.”
“Clues to what?” the Pious Man asked.
“Clues to who they were,” Smythe said.
“And to where they were from,” Horton added.
The Gambler smacked his hand on the table loud enough for the Pious Man to jump. “They were from the North,” he declared. “I’ve made my livin’ at cards and ridin’ steamboats from New Orleans all the way up the Missisip. I can surely put two and two together, boy. Those men were DSI, weren’t they?”
“Strategic Intelligence,” the Pious Man said. He removed his spectacles and lowered his head, rubbing at his eyes. “Jesus Christ the Healer,” he swore. “Have you any idea how difficult they could make things for us, commander? Or how much this will cost us?”
Smythe raised a wrinkled hand. “Now hold on, Silas. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Smythe looked at Horton. “Do we have any proof these men were DSI, commander? I’d prefer to be certain before we do anything rash.”
“No concrete proof, congressman,” Horton said. “I do have enemies here in the Confederacy, I’ll be the first to admit it. But could those enemies get ahold of hardware like that rifle? Maybe. Could they be in possession of brutes with enough power to jump and clear a hundred foot ravine? Possibly. Do they have the training required to spy on my operations, take out one of my Shadow Army patrols, and then get away to tell the tale? Could be. But for all three of those things to happen at the same time? Ain’t no way in hell lest it was DSI.”
