by Ed Gorman
He shifted his legs. “That Sergeant Calhoun is missing is to be expected, Jacob. I gave the sergeant a pass through the lines. He is to meet with his spy and return here to camp.”
“But still, sir … It’s been so long. Do you really think he will be returning with the spy?”
Cabot stared out, feeling a breeze rise up and make his face grow even colder. “I have no choice, Jacob. I truly don’t. I must believe it, or all will be lost.”
* * *
The sound of the hammering hooves grew louder and louder, almost like the roar of cannon fire, and Harmon leapt out onto the road, the rifle firm in his hands, as he made out the horse and rider before the dim light of his lantern, “Halt!” he yelled out. “Halt, damn you, or I’ll shoot!”
The horse reared up and a man aboard the horse yelled something, and then whipped down at Harmon with the flat of his sword. Harmon gasped as his rifle flew from his grasp, and then he grabbed on to the reins. “Let go, you bastard! Let go of my horse!” the rider yelled, but Harmon shouted back and tugged at the horse, as it neighed and moved about, dragging him along the side.
Then a rifle shot blew through the stillness of the night air, and there were suddenly men about him, and Lieutenant Morgan yelled out, “Dismount, rider. Dismount this instant or the next shot will be through your brain.”
Harmon stepped back, almost stumbled across his rifle. He quickly picked it up and from the light of the torches and lanterns, saw who he had stopped. The horse was black and magnificent looking, well fed and groomed, nothing at all like the horses hauling the sutler’s wagon or the slave wagon. The saddle and reins also looked expensive, as did the clothing of the man who came off the horse with a flourish. He was tall and well built, with a dark beard that extended down to the middle of his chest. He wore the uniform of a Confederate major, but it was nothing like any uniform Harmon had ever seen.
Even from some feet away, Harmon could see the uniform was made of fine cloth, with elaborate threads of gold and scarlet along the sleeves, and a wide belt with gold tassels as well, from which his long sword hung down. His gloves were white and his boots seemed to be of the softest and shiniest leather, extending up to his knees, and fancy silver spurs clinked as he moved about. His wide-brimmed hat had a cockade of some sort extending from its side, and the hat failed to hide the fury in the officer’s face.
“Who the devil are you, and by what right do you halt me?” he demanded. “Who’s the officer in charge of this rabble?”
“Well, I guess that would be me, Major,” came the familiar voice. “Lieutenant Bruce Morgan. At your service. And why might you be traveling on this road at this hour, Major? And where might you be headin’ from?”
“That is none of your business, Lieutenant,” he snapped. “Make way or you will be in the stockade by this time tomorrow.”
Harmon looked at his lieutenant, knowing that the lieutenant—though he might like a good drink or a good story or be remiss in relieving a lowly corporal on picket duty—was a true officer, one who would not allow anyone to talk his way over him. “Well,” Morgan said, drawing out the sound of the word. “Truth be, Major, everything on this part of this road happens to be my business tonight. I’ve got my orders from my captain, and he told me to keep an eye on things. Which means making sure everyone going through here has the proper pass, and has proper business. Now. Beggin’ your pardon, Major, mind tellin’ me who the hell you are and where you’re goin’?”
“And if I refuse?” came the reply, and Harmon recognized the tone of voice, of a proper plantation gentleman, raised among money and privilege and pride, ready to go to battle over a sharp insult, a wounded dignity. Well, to hell with ’im—and that’s pretty much what the lieutenant said.
Lieutenant Morgan stepped closer. “Well, if you do refuse, then I guess me and my boys have no choice, seein’ how you were tryin’ to get through our lines without being properly recognized. Which means we’d shoot you down, right here, and I get myself a new horse. Do you have any other questions? Major?”
The major looked around at the faces of the boys, and Harmon could sense what they were feeling. Who was this rich and mighty officer, to try to bluff and bluster his way through the lines? Had he ever marched in the mud? Had he ever met the elephant, feeling that tight and tense feeling in the chest when the gunfire started? Then the major drew himself up and said, “The name is Major Monroe Krueger. I am on a mission tonight, bringing messages to the general, up on the north part of the lines.”
“And do you have a pass, Major Krueger?”
The two men stared at each other, and then the major reached into his pocket, handed over a piece of paper. A private with a torch stepped closer to Lieutenant Morgan, who held up the piece of paper. A moment passed, then he nodded and handed the paper back to the major. “It seems in order, sir. Now, if you please, do you have any other papers on your person?”
The major motioned to a saddlebag on his horse. “Confidential orders. In the saddlebag.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m under orders to examine all papers being sent through the road tonight.”
The major shook his head. “And I am under orders not to let anyone examine those papers, save the general or his staff. Under pain of death.”
Lieutenant Morgan looked around at the men. “Well, Major, I guess that can be easily arranged. That is, if you don’t let me examine your papers. But if you let me, and only myself, examine them, then you’ll be on your way, quickly.”
Harmon looked on as the major stood there, a thumb hooked on his belt. The major looked around at the grim and dirty faces, and then shook his head again. “Look. Look and be damned. And by this time tomorrow, you’ll be a private. This I promise.”
The lieutenant laughed. “A private! Now, that’d be something! I get to eat the same grub and sleep on the same cold ground, and without botherin’ to lead a bunch of men into battle. That’d be the life.”
Some of the men laughed a bit, and then Lieutenant Morgan took a lantern and went over to the saddlebag. He opened it up and the horse whinnied some, and he held up some papers to the light. All the other men looked on, but for some reason, Harmon kept his eye on the major. The major was staring at the lieutenant as well, but his stance was odd. His hand was still in his belt, his thumb moving back and forth, like it was rubbing something. Harmon stepped closer, saw a slight bulge under the belt. Something looked strange …
The lieutenant put the papers back into the saddlebag, closed it shut. “Major, it does look like—”
“Lieutenant!” Harmon called out. “His sword belt! He’s hiding something behind his belt!”
The major stepped back and it looked like he was going to run into the dark woods, when the lieutenant called out, “Pope! Barnum! Hold him tight there!”
Both privates grabbed an arm and the major started struggling, fighting against them. His hat fell off and he shouted, “This is an outrage! Treating an officer like this! I’ll have all of you shot for attacking an officer!”
Harmon felt awful, like he was back in school, making a fool of himself, the other children laughing at him. All this trouble was happening because of what he thought he saw. He felt exposed, like he was on a ridgeline by himself, rifle fire rattling in at him, all by his lonesome.
“Let’s just take a quick look, then,” and the lieutenant reached into the space between the belt and the uniform jacket. It seemed like everyone had stopped moving for a moment as the lieutenant’s hand stayed there, and then came out.
In his hand he held a tightly folded wad of paper.
* * *
A failure, Colonel Cabot thought. A complete and utter failure. How could he have been so vain, so full of himself, to think that he—a quiet teacher of music—could take part in this great crusade?
He yawned, despite himself, and then shivered from both the cold and the fear. A complete and utter fool, as well. All these men, slumbering in these tents, going into battle in just a few
hours. And he thought he could save some of them.
A failure. And a total fool.
And the parade ground was still quiet, and still no lights approached.
* * *
So many torches were clustered around the lieutenant that Harmon feared his officer’s hat would catch fire. Morgan unfolded the paper, and unfolded it again, and unfolded it thrice. He held up the thin paper and looked at the letters printed on it, and said, “I’m sorry, Major, I’ve been to a number of years of schoolin’, and I can’t rightly make out what is said here. Harmon!”
He stepped forward. “Lieutenant?”
“You know how to read, don’t you?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
The lieutenant smiled, while the major breathed heavily, still in the grasp of Privates Pope and Barnum. “Then come over and take a look. Tell me if you can make it out.”
Harmon moved over to the lieutenant, looked at the well-printed phrases and words, and he stared some more. “Lieutenant, I’m sorry, I can’t make out a damn thing.”
“You’re right. ’Cause it’s in code, ain’t it? Major?”
The men moved in closer around the major. Harmon’s heart was thumping so hard that he thought everyone could hear it. Major Krueger’s voice didn’t seem as strong. “A code? What do you mean, a code?”
Lieutenant Morgan waved the paper underneath the major’s face. “We’ve been warned, Major. All of us on picket duty tonight. To be aware of spies in our midst, spies who’ve written messages in code, or who have suspicious drawings. Right here, Major, right here I got a message that none of us can read. Plus you were riding hell-for-leather and tried to get through the lines without stopping. That makes it all pretty suspicious, don’t you think?”
“You fool,” Major Krueger said. “I was riding because I was late. And I didn’t stop for your man here, because he looked like a common thief or brigand. That’s why.”
“And this message? In code, isn’t it?”
Major Krueger looked around and started laughing. “Fool. Is English all you know? That’s a letter to my fiancée. Written in German. The language of our families. Placed behind my belt because I didn’t want it contained in the dispatch papers. That’s all. You are all so ignorant, aren’t you?”
Someone in the rear muttered a profanity and the lieutenant spoke up. “German, is it? Well, Major. I guess someone other than me will have to prove that, Major, back at regiment headquarters.”
“An outrage!” the major yelled. “You are to release me at once, Lieutenant! Understand? At once!”
Then the lieutenant ignored the major and looked over at Harmon, who no longer felt afraid, no longer felt exposed. “Corporal Brewster?”
Harmon was surprised at hearing the question. It wasn’t often that the lieutenant called him by his rank.
“Sir?”
“You’re the one who halted him, who captured a probable spy. Would you like the honor of escorting him back to headquarters?”
Harmon looked at the faces of the men, their faces now looking at him with respect, something he had never seen before. It was a good feeling.
“Well, sir…”
“Yes, Corporal?”
Harmon smiled. “If it’s all the same to you, Lieutenant, I’d like to be relieved, sir, and just go up and warm up by that fire. It’s so damn cold!”
The lieutenant laughed. “So it is, Corporal. So it is. We’ll let somebody else escort the spy.”
And the last thing Harmon heard for a while was the shouts of the major announcing his innocence, announcing his intentions to have all of them shot. So what, Harmon thought, walking eagerly to the fire. He had done his duty, better than he had expected, and now it was time to warm up.
* * *
Colonel Cabot was so happy he could hardly stop smiling. It had worked, it had worked, and now the spy was here, in his tent, ready to reveal all. His adjutant had run off to the general’s quarters, to halt the planning and orders-giving, for now the spy was here. Sergeant Calhoun had arrived a few minutes earlier, out of breath, just barely saluting, saying, “Sorry, sir, sorry it took so long. The Rebel lines were pretty active tonight.”
He couldn’t speak, he was so overjoyed, and he escorted Sergeant Calhoun and the spy into his tent. The spy kept quiet as Sergeant Calhoun explained what the spy had brought through the lines, and how to recognize the code. Like before, Cabot had a hard time seeing what the sergeant was pointing out, but then, in a flash, he recognized what the sergeant was saying.
Draped over his cot was a dirty quilt, its designs and lines making no sense at all, until Sergeant Calhoun folded it a certain way, and there it was. Triangles and squares marking Rebel units. Jagged lines marking the extent of their breastworks. A map made of cloth, telling a story, a story of what was waiting for his troops in just a few hours, up there beyond the hills. Cabot looked over at the spy, who was not alone this evening. An old colored man, sitting on a chair, eating hardtack, with two young children at his feet. They had shivered without the warmth of the quilt upon them, and Cabot had gently placed his own wool blanket over them.
“This here be old Tom, Colonel,” Sergeant Calhoun explained. “Last time, his daughter came through with a map quilt, and this time it was his turn. I knew them both, a year or two ago.”
“So you did,” Cabot said. “So you did. Tell me, Sergeant…”
“Sir?” he said, looking at him, face proud of what had just been accomplished.
Cabot smiled at the sergeant in amazement. “I still can’t believe what this old man and his daughter have done. To work with other slaves to create these map quilts, and then to smuggle them out through the Rebel lines, right under the eyes of their pickets. Even though it’s happened twice, I still can’t believe it’s been done.”
Sergeant Calhoun looked over at the old man and the two children. “Well, Colonel, sir, it’s a pretty easy explanation, if you’d like to hear it.”
“I surely would.”
Then his adjutant bustled into the tent, breathing hard from his exertion. “Colonel, the general requests your presence. Right now, with that map.”
Cabot held up a hand. “Just a moment, Jacob, just a moment. I was waiting for an explanation. Sergeant, if you will.”
The sergeant just shrugged his shoulders and then rubbed a finger across his chin, a chin the same skin color of the old man and the children. “It’s like this, Colonel. To most of the Rebs over there, we’re not people. We’re property. They look at us during the day when we work in the fields or on the docks, and they look at us during the night when they put us away in the slave quarters. They look at us all the time, every day and every month, but you know what, Colonel?”
“What’s that, Sergeant?”
“They look at us, but they don’t see us. It’s like we’re not there. It’s like we’re invisible.”
From outside the parade ground came shouts, as men in Union blue started to be mustered out in the torchlight, all the men in this regiment, the same skin color as Sergeant Calhoun and the spy.
Cabot reached over and gently slapped the sergeant on the shoulder. He had not slept a wink all during this long night, but it would be all right. Oh, Lord, how it would be all right, “Thanks to you and old Tom, Sergeant,” Cabot said softly, “I can guarantee you that the Rebs will see you in a few hours, and will see you quite well. Come, it’s time to meet with the general.”
James Cobb has lived his entire life within a thirty-mile radius of a major Army post, an Air Force base, and a Navy shipyard. He comments, “Accordingly, it’s seemed a natural to become a kind of cut-rate Rudyard Kipling, trying to tell the stories of America’s service people.” Currently, he’s doing the Amanda Garrett techno-thriller series, with three books, Choosers of the Slain, Seastrike, and Seafighter published and a fourth, Target Lock, on the way. He’s also doing the Kevin Pulaski suspense thrillers for St. Martin’s Press. He lives in the Pacific Northwest and, when he’s not writing, he indulges i
n travel, the classic American hot rod, and collecting historic firearms.
Here he applies his attention to detail to this tale of maritime skullduggery and sabotage as a comely Federal spy attempts to stop a threat to the Union blockades offshore of the island paradise of Bermuda.
MONICA VAN TELFLIN AND THE PROPER APPLICATION OF PRESSURE
James H. Cobb
REPOSE HOUSE, THE SOUTHERN SHORE OF HAMILTON HARBOR,
HER MAJESTY’S COLONY OF BERMUDA
11:23 ON THE EVENING OF JULY 19, 1863
During high summer on Bermuda one had to be either a fool or British to wear more than a mosquito bar to one’s bed. Monica Van Telflin was neither. Comfortably bare on the island cotton sheets, she drowsed in the hint of sea breeze trickling in through the open balcony doors. She drowsed … and then, in an instant, was totally awake.
There had been the faintest of sounds from outside, something beyond the wind rustling in the trees and the calling of the night birds.
Blue eyes snapped open and a slender hand slipped down beside the mattress, seeking for the butt of the Smith and Wesson Model Two revolver she knew would be there. Then the rose trellis that climbed past the balcony creaked and a muffled seaman’s oath drifted up from the shadows.
Monica smiled, letting the revolver settle back into the holster strapped to the bed frame. She recognized that curse. Brushing aside the fine mesh of the mosquito bar, she stood in the room’s darkness and reached for her silken robe.
Lieutenant Commander George Wilkinson Garrett of the United States Navy threw an arm over the railing and heaved himself onto the bedroom balcony, manfully suppressing a last outburst of profanity as a thorn wreaked lasting havoc on the leg of his blue uniform trousers.
