Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services Read online

  A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services

  W. Patrick Lang

  iUniverse, Inc.

  New York Bloomington

  Death Piled Hard

  A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services

  Copyright © 2009 by W. Patrick Lang All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any

  information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel

  are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting: iUniverse

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403 www.iuniverse.com

  1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-4401-2388-7 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-4401-2391-7 (dj) ISBN: 978-1-4401-2389-4 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2009923045

  Printed in the United States of America

  iUniverse Rev. 03/23/2009

  For

  George Henry Sharpe

  Major General, United States Volunteers

  “So now the Confederacy,

  Sick with its mortal sickness, yet lives on

  For twenty-one falling months of pride and despair, Half-hopes blown out in the lighting, heroic strokes That come to nothing, and death piled hard upon death.”

  “John Brown’s Body” Stephen V. Benet

  Foreword

  (Just After Gettysburg) The spy plodded forward in the dripping rain. His black broadcloth coat and trousers held back the wet at first, but within a few minutes water began to run in tiny streams down his legs. The long skirt of the frock coat defined a precise line of separation between cold wetness below and relative warmth above, but he knew it was only a matter of time before his waistcoat and shirt soaked through. He shivered convulsively.

  How cold a summer day could be.

  The cortege stretched back through the mist for blocks, back all the way to the church. The black, rectangular bulk of the artillery caisson rumbled along on the cobbles just in front of him. His brother's casket rode high, its length filling the space between the wheels. The brass handles and waxed ebony gathered beads of rainwater.

  He had protested the military symbols of grief, insisting that his brother had not been a soldier, had never served in any army. Edwin Stanton, the Secretary of War insisted. He said that the brother had been a valued friend and counselor of the president. Stanton said that his brother had died on the field of honor in the moment of triumph, had died at the rebels' hands.

  Had died at the rebels' hands...

  It was possible. Fire had swept the hill. There had been fire from all sides. Who could know?

  The rain poured down. On the horizon he saw the flicker of lightning. The street became dirt and grew softer in the rain. Mud coated the iron tires. A spot of brown appeared on the side of the casket. He wiped it away with a pocket handkerchief.

  Behind him, in the carriage with his parents and wife, his sister-in-law began to weep. His mother's soft, foreign voice was there.

  The gate of Saint Mary's cemetery stood open on the left.

  He looked at the dirty handkerchief in his hand, and started to put in a coat pocket.

  "Give it here, Mister Devereux. I'll take it," Joe White said from his left. The footman's pale brown hand drew the cloth from his fingers. White put

  1 2 Death Piled Hard the handkerchief in the black top hat which crowned his somber costume. Joseph White looked exceptionally grand today. Devereux's mother had fussed for hours over the smallest details of the funeral, taking refuge in that from the pain of acceptance. He remembered that she and Betsy White, Joe's mother, had brushed Joe's coat several times, fretting over invisible strands of lint.

  The company of infantry leading the procession reached the gate. The company commander ordered the turn. The troops marched into the cemetery, tramping firmly down the muddy lane between the tombstones. The six horse team drawing the limber and caisson swung left at the same place.

  Devereux followed. His ankle failed to function in the turn. It seemed not to have any bone in it. His knee entered into the same conspiracy of weakness. Pain flashed in all direction from the old trouble of his ruined leg.

  Father Willem Kruger caught his elbow, pulling him erect. "Just a little further, Claude!" he whispered. "Just a bit, and then you can rest."

  White gripped the other arm tightly.

  Devereux felt within himself for his legs, sought the inner metal that sustained him. Over Kruger's shoulder, across the sodden white of his confessor's surplice, he stared down the line of vehicles. There were many, all filled to capacity with friends, family, and those who wished to be thought friends. Behind the immediate family there were two army carriages. The second held a clutch of blue uniforms.

  The first was an old black buggy. Abraham Lincoln sat on the seat next to the sergeant driver. The president wore a black rubber army rain cape, the logical outcome of a soldier's concern for the commander-in-chief.

  Their eyes met across the distance.

  Lincoln inclined his head gravely.

  Claude Devereux had sought a way to keep him from the funeral, but the president's genuine solicitude for the family of Patrick Devereux made that impossible.

  Patrick's wife raged at the thought of Lincoln's presence at her husband's requiem mass, but to no effect. Now she wept in mute grief with his parents and her sons.

  Kruger turned enough to see what held his attention. "You must not hate him, Claude," he whispered. "It is not permitted to hate him. He is not a bad man. He is merely our enemy."

  Devereux looked into Kruger's eyes. In the black depths of the other man's pupils, the Jesuit saw emptiness without limit.

  Foreword 3 Devereux struggled to focus on his face. "All right, Willem...” he said after a moment. "I hear you." Pulling away from his friend's grasp, he started forward, through the gate, onto the gravel path that led to the open grave.

  As he neared the waiting pit, Frederick Kennedy came to his mind. He wondered where Kennedy was now. He and Patrick were, had been, of an age. Why had he sent Kennedy to New York?” What a senseless thing to do... He felt dizzy. Everything had happened so fast in the last days. He tried to remember the last time he had seen Kennedy.

  It has been a week!

  He remembered now, remembered the camp behind Cemetery Ridge, the night after Lee failed in his final attack at Gettysburg.

  Chapter 1

  Homecoming

  (3 July, 1863)

  "Why do you think they will believe us?" Bill White had asked. Devereux had ordered him and Sergeant John Quick to cross into the

  Confederate lines to describe to General Lee what Meade’s intentions were

  for the next day. This was a sentence of death. The chance that they might

  su
rvive the experience in the midst of the unfinished battle was very small. The foolishness of this was like the order with which Lee had sent an army

  corps forward that day to certain ruin.

  Devereux had not answered White. He could not answer. He was, for

  the moment, a dumb beast.

  My brother is dead? Is it possible that Patrick is truly gone, never to return?

  Is it possible?

  He sat on the ground, cross legged, staring at the little fire on which

  they had set a can of water to boil for coffee. With one hand, he worked at

  arranging the burning pieces of wood to his satisfaction. The sticks hissed

  and popped as the heat drove out water. The other hand held the open silver

  case of his watch. "Tell them you come from me, from Hannibal,” he told

  Bill, “Tell them you come from me.”

  Bill studied his friend in the unsteady, yellow light. Nearby, Fred

  Kennedy and John Quick sat with their backs to trees. They knew this was

  not a conversation in which they would be welcomed.

  "Now, why would they take the word of a strange black man and an Irish

  deserter?” Bill asked. “You know them, Claude. You know how bad this may

  be." White's eyes held no pleading, no expectation of a reprieve. In his heart

  he knew that Devereux would not relent, could not make a different choice. "I must go home." Claude said as though the statement would explain

  everything. Patrick's body lay ten feet away, wrapped in a rubber army

  ground sheet. His boot soles protruded from one end of the covering. It was

  unacceptable that he was gone, unacceptable to them all.

  Bill understood that. He had caught himself making a mental note to

  tell the dead man that one of his heels was broken.

  "I cannot cross the lines," Devereux continued. "The risk to our mission

  is too great. I probably could not get back."

  "And Lieutenant Kennedy?"

  "I have something for him to do in New York, something that will not

  wait.” He looked at Kennedy. “Johnston Mitchell. His time is come. You

  will not forget?" Kennedy shook his head. He was not really listening, but

  that did not matter. He knew what was wanted.

  Fifteen minutes later White and Quick disappeared into the night, headed

  for the gentle rise of Cemetery Hill. Beyond the rise lay Gettysburg and the

  Army of Northern Virginia.

  The next morning Devereux sat silently with Kennedy on the wagon’s

  seat as they left the battlefield.

  The provost guards let them pass without comment after looking at

  Devereux’s credentials from the War Department.

  They decided that they would go to Baltimore to seek preservation for the

  body and transportation to Alexandria.

  Before they left Gettysburg, Claude asked George Sharpe to have the

  news of Patrick’s death sent to the family with their probable route. Sharpe

  had not heard of Patrick’s death and went to find George Meade after saying

  that he would see to the message.

  Devereux managed to avoid shaking Meade’s hand, turning his back to

  him slightly as if to hide his tears.

  Sharpe thanked Claude profusely for the help that his brother had given

  the army’s order of battle study in the previous days.

  Finally, the hypocrisy of his acceptance of Yankee condolence ended.

  Union cavalry was spread across the rear of the army.

  Meade had said that he was not sure that Lee would move away. For that reason the army still sat on the “fish hook” of hills, waiting to be sure that the Confederates would not attack again.

  Near Hanover a cavalry officer, sweating in the heat, looked at the boots sticking out from under the tarpaulin in the wagon bed and suggested that there was an ice house in the little town. The trip to Baltimore would take two more days. Claude paid the ice house a dollar for enough cracked ice to cover his brother’s body a foot deep. Two men broke the ice with sledgehammers while another shoveled the ice on top of Patrick’s body.

  The long ride down to Baltimore and the railroad was endless in the steaming weather of July. The countryside was so pretty and green that it was hard to believe in the reality of what they had seen, heard and smelled. Birds sang. Insects buzzed and Mennonite farmers stood at the side of the road watching gravely as they passed. Most removed their round brimmed hats when they saw Pat’s boots sticking out on the lowered tailgate.

  They reached Baltimore around four in the afternoon on the sixth, and went to the telegraph station. There they found Joseph White and John Everly, the undertaker. They had come in the belief that the body would surely pass through Baltimore. They had divided their time among the railroad stations and the telegraph office.

  Claude went in with Joe to talk to the telegraph people.

  Everly looked in the wagon and asked how often they had filled it with ice. “Three times altogether, we bought more every time we found an ice

  house,” was Kennedy’s reply.

  “This was a good idea. We can cover up water discoloration... I think we

  should find some more ice.” He looked up the street at likely businesses. “I’ll

  ask the telegrapher,” he finally said and then, unaccountably, laughed. Kennedy looked at him in surprise behind which something else grew.

  He seemed to get bigger standing there in the heat and horse dust of the

  unpaved street. His normally florid complexion darkened.

  “No, no,” Everly said, holding up his hands to ward off the growing

  menace. “I’m as torn up about this as you are. I was just wondering how my

  sister is going to take this.” He glanced at Pat’s body under the ice and canvas

  and shook his head. “There was a time when the two of them were pretty

  sweet on each other. Then he took to courting Robert Lee’s girl. It damn

  near killed her. Then, he married someone else yet. I don’t think Clara ever

  truly got over him...”

  Kennedy nodded, remembering this small town drama, remembering

  that Everly’s rather pretty sister had never married. He remembered her

  growing up around town, part of the background of daily life. “Tell her I

  will come to see her when I can,” he said. “I.. I..” He suddenly realized that

  this expression of his interest was inappropriate to the moment and said no

  more.

  Everly did not know what to say. It had not occurred to him that Fred

  Kennedy might be attracted to his sister Clara. “Aren’t you coming with us,”

  he asked to change the subject?

  “No. You and Joe can take everyone home. Joe will get the team back

  to my stable. They’re my horses. I rented them out to Claude for this trip

  north. The family doesn’t have horses heavy enough for this. Theirs are too

  fine bred. These are some lucky animals. Neither has a scratch on him. I’ll

  ask Joe to load them and the rig into a car together for the trip.” “We’ll put the body in there too when I find a box. Joe can ride with it.” “Claude won’t let you do that,” murmured Kennedy. “He’ll want to sit

  with Pat.”

  Devereux came out of the telegraph office with White.

  They told him what they wanted to do. “Please put my brother in the

  baggage car,” Claude said, confirming the depth of Kennedy’s understanding.

  “Joe and I will ride with him. The rest is fine.”

  Everly looked surprised at that, surprised to be told that his company was

  not wanted. He thought about it, then remembered how close the Whites

  were to
the Devereuxs and just accepted it, and nodded.

  “Thank you, John,” the haggard, dirty man in black said and then held

  out a hand. “Thanks for coming up here. There was a telegram waiting here

  from General Halleck. There will be a military escort waiting at the station

  in Washington City...”

  For Devereux and Kennedy, two officers of Confederate intelligence, this

  should have been a moment of triumph, but it was not. Three of the four

  men present understood the irony of the situation. The guard of honor would

  receive the body of a man who had wanted nothing more than to destroy the

  Union. This meant nothing when weighed against their grief. Devereux looked down at his feet. “You are going to New York City?”

  The question was for Kennedy.

  “You told me to go...”

  Devereux was confused, torn between his need to hold his family close

  and his resolve to kill his most dangerous enemy,

  This was Major Johnston Mitchell of the National Detective Bureau. He

  could still “see” Mitchell in Colonel Lafayette Baker’s Pennsylvania Avenue

  office. Mitchell had done a wonderful job of hunting Claude and his brother,

  Patrick. It had been a very close thing. Fortune had played a major role in

  evading Mitchell’s traps. Claude thought of his parents, of his wife, of the

  Whites. Only luck and quick thought had prevented disaster, arrest as spies

  and disgrace. Mitchell lost that “round” in the game and was exiled to New

  York, but, given the man’s competence and dedication it was only a matter

  of time… “Yes. Go to New York. Stop by in Newark and talk to this man.”

  He wrote a name and address in his notebook, tore out the sheet and handed

  it to his lieutenant. “He will help you...”

  Devereux’s face worried Kennedy. It did not seem focused. He looked

  down and saw that water dripping from the bottom of the wagon was running

  together in little streams that wet his dusty boots. Turning, he could see that

  there were wet patches in the dirt street back along the way they had come.

  He turned to face the dead man’s brother. “Do you still want him gone?”