CONTNUED: Atonement: The Sequel - Chapters 1 - 13

 “I am so very glad to see you Brother William. That devil Jesse James is holed up at the Talbott Tavern again. If he gets as drunk as he did last time, he won’t be leaving until tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

 “Well, Marshal, if you make a criminal feel welcome in your community, this is what you get. My only advice is that you don’t allow anyone in the adjoining rooms until he leaves.”

 “I haven’t made my point yet,” put in the older man. “There is a Pinkerton agent in town. Got here just three hours ago.”

 “You don’t look too happy about it,” observed the monk. “I was always of the opinion that you were wishing for some outsider who would have the spine to do what you won’t.”

 “Now Brother William, you got no cause to talk to me like that. Everybody knows that I only took the job so that it wouldn’t go to some muscle bound farm boy. Last thing we need is a gunfight where we end up burying a boy who should be planting crops instead of himself.”

 “And there’s also the fact that these outlaws spend their ill gotten gain on luxury items that merchants can’t sell to most locals,” the monk pointed out.

 “They don’t rob or shoot anyone in these parts so why should we break the Sixth Commandment just so the folks over in Missouri can hold on to their coins?”

 “Jesse James is also a murder, and even his friends relax a mite after he leaves town.”

  “I know that. Didn’t I call the man a devil when you entered the building? Look here Brother William, it’s you Christian duty to convince Jesse James that he should get out of town before there is bloodshed.”

 “Why isn’t it your civic duty to do that yourself?”

 “Because he might shoot me. But he wouldn’t shoot a monk.”

 “Folks around here wouldn’t shoot a monk, but in many parts of the south, Catholics aren’t very popular. Fact is they’re considered one step up above the Jews.”

 “I reckon, but that doesn’t alter the fact that you are the best man for this job. You’re not scared of him like everyone else.”

 “Who says I’m not?”

 The postmaster pointed to the back room and asked, “Have you forgotten what I’m holding for you back there?”

 The monk tensed slightly. He was ever mindful of the fact that when he first rode into the county, he stopped off at the post office and paid for a safety deposit box. In it he placed a Colt Peacemaker along with its holster. Mr. Dale just happened to witness that, even though he wasn’t supposed to.

 “I’ve made no secret of the fact that I have a past. You can climb up on the roof and shout to the entire town that I own a revolver. I don’t care.”

 “I’m not going to say anything to anybody,” pledged Dale. “I’m just saying that you aren’t what you appear to be and that’s why you are the one man in this town who might be able to move Jesse James without offering him money.”

 “Oh yea, we don’t want to get into that bad habit, do we,” retorted the ex gunman.

 “Does that mean the answer is no?”

 The monk let out a sigh and said, “It means that this is the only time I’m going to do your job.”

 The man in the monk’s robe opened the front door but paused for a moment in the threshold.

 “You would be wise to resign your second job by the end of the month.”

 Then the man was gone, leaving the postmaster feeling guilty, but relieved that the mystery monk had arrived in such a fortuitous manner.

Chapter Two

 The monk with a past was careful to stand beside door No. 5 while knocking on it. Only when the door knob began to move did he assume a normal stance in the hallway. The man who received him looked a hell of a lot more like a monk than the monk, but that only mattered to the men who made up the wanted posters.

 “I put something in the hat last time one of your kind was collecting, but that don’t mean I’ll give every time you decide to come around,” said the outlaw in a tone that was slightly threatening.

 “Oh I’m not on a charity drive, Mr. James. I came here to warn you that there’s a Pinkerton agent in town, and he’s bird dogging.”

 “Oh. Well, one of my friends will likely be up here directly to give the same warning, but here…..”

 The outlaw pulled a silver dollar from his pocket and offered it to the monk.

 Longpenance didn’t move a muscle, and the look in his eyes was a quiet insult to a man who was unaccustomed to such things.

 “I just want to avoid bloodshed in this town. This town should be known for its peaceful pursuits, not the fact that Jesse James killed someone here.”

 The outlaw smile did not reach his eyes.

 “You think you’re so high and mighty. You monks are worse than a home full of old maids. At least a full blown priest can marry and bury folks. Those things are important to people. But what can you do? Pull weeds around a fancy building that proves that the Cat Licks have too much money already. Well, I ain’t gunna go looking for that Pinkerton law dog, but if he finds me he’ll likely regret it.”

 “I’m trying to explain to you that he won’t confront you alone, Mr. James. He’ll just find out which room you’re in and wait for his back up.”

 “You’d be describing a posse of Pinkerton agents. I don’t reckon one will be riding into town anytime today, and I don’t plan to leave ahead of schedule. So maybe you should got back to that fancy place of yours and tell a real priest that he might be needed in town to bury a law dog later on. Depending on how smart this Pinkerton fella is.”

 The monk nodded slightly and turned his back on the frowning outlaw.

 “Marry and bury folks, or maybe help with the school teaching,” James said after him.

 “Actually Brother William did help with the school teaching that was conducted at the abbey. He taught geography. As a former world traveler he possessed a remarkable knowledge of places that most people could only dream of. But now he needed to focus on the here and now. He had been lying to the outlaw. The Pinkerton agency had men spread out over five states looking for Jesse James. That meant there would be no posse. Not today or ever. Surely the agent in town would know that, and make his move anyway.

 Brother William had no trouble finding him. He was a stranger in a small town, and he was dressed for Sunday Mass even though it was Wednesday. He was on his way to the tavern with a Spencer rifle in his right fist, but only for the purpose of interviewing the proprietor. Thus far he was acting under the assumption that his quarry was staying in a private residence, since that would provide better security. William only knew that he couldn’t afford the time to monitor the detective all the live long day.

 “Excuse me, would you happen to be the Pinkerton detective that is visiting us?” the monk asked with his best smile.

 “Yes Father. My name is Reginald Simpson. How may I be of service to you?”

 “Oh I’m just a humble monk, Mr. Simpson, but also a responsible citizen of this community who is very displeased that some people tolerate the presence of outlaws among us.”

 “Are you referring to the outlaw Jesse James?”

 “None other. I have reason to believe that he is staying at a farm that I know of. I would be willing to show it to you on my way back to the abbey. Then you could return to town and request that the Marshal assemble a posse for you.”

 The agent’s smile was almost angelic. He had a lot in common with his quarry. Both men were slender and somewhat boyish in their appearance. Not weather beaten or burly. The main difference between the two was that one would end up dead and the other would go on living. Unless someone intervened.

 “I would be very grateful; Brother….?”

 “William.”

 “Well then, Brother William, I shall get my horse and meet you at that hitching post in ten minutes if it pleases you.”

 “It should not take me longer than that to retrieve my wagon.”

 The detective deftly tipped his derby hat and spun on his heel. The monk let out a sigh and walked less briskly to where his wagon was parked.

 “Hell, if that boy had any intention of organizing a posse he would have simply asked for the name of the farm,”  the monk thought grimly.

 Half an hour later the two of them were on the road that connected the town with the abbey. William glanced up and down the dusty road and then brought the team to a halt.

 “Would you help me with something, Mr. Simpson?”

 The detective dismounted and watched the monk unfold a large heavy canvass tarp that was used to cover the box of the wagon. Obviously the monk intended to cover the box, even though he wasn’t carrying anything.

 “You’re going to cover the box now?” queried the detective.

 The monk turned toward Simpson and threw a straight punch that was like a trip hammer. Longpenance cursed his robes because they were hot enough without the trial of getting so much dead weight onto a fairly high platform. After tying up the prisoner he covered him with the tarp and then secured the horse reins to the back of the wagon.

 “Well, fourteen years is a pretty long row---and I didn’t have to kill anyone,” he muttered to himself as he got back onto the wagon.

 An hour later Simpson woke in the abbey’s barn; still lying in the back of the now horseless wagon.

 “What happened?” the agent asked with a groggy voice. “I was looking at you---then---hey, you hit me. You did. You hit me. What’s going on here?”

 “I’m in the process of saving your life. I’ve arranged to take all of Brother Gilbert’s chores out here in the barn so we’ll have a bit of privacy until Jesse James leaves town. Then you can be on your way.”

 “Are you mad!” the detective exploded. Then he swooned slightly because of his mild concussion.

 “Take it easy, Simpson. Believe me when I say that I hate knocking people out. I really do hate it.”

 “So---you’re not a real monk?”

 “I am an official member of the abbey. I have been for a long time now. But before that I was a kind of soldier of fortune you might say. I worked for the Union during the war, and when it was over I decided that I had taken my fill of killing. So I ended up here.”

 “That doesn’t explain why you are protecting a fugitive from the law.”

 “Hell, I wasn’t protecting a fugitive from anything. I am protecting you from him. Because you know damn well you weren’t going to organize a posse. You would have tried to take James on your own.”

 “That is because half the town is in his back pocket,” growled the detective.

 “Just the merchants, and everyone who’s afraid of gun play. Actually---I’m thinking that makes up about three quarters of the town but why should we quibble over numbers?”

 “People should be more civic minded,” muttered Simpson.

 “Yes and no. Those people know how to keep things peaceful in their town. I’m not going to damn them for that. But you’re right in the sense that people shouldn’t take up official positions unless they think like you. Well---kind of like you.”

 “You sound very wise for a man who has a kidnapping charge hanging over his head,” said Simpson.

 “Real law and order is a dream Mr. Simpson. I will keep you safe and then gamble that you won’t be able to commit any acts of ingratitude after James is gone.”

 “You are truly mad.”

 “Well, if anyone has a right to be---I think it could be me.”

 “You going to keep me tied up all day?’

 “Of course not.  You’d lose the circulation to your hands and end up pissing in your pants. No, we got a cellar out here for when tornados come. You’ll be more comfortable down there.”

 “What, a huge abbey and the storm cellar is way out here?” the detective asked incredulously.

 “There is no law that states you can’t have more than one shelter. Especially if some of the workers are hundreds of yards from the abbey when trouble comes. Learn how common sense people do things, Mr. Simpson and you will be a better detective.”

 “I would just like to know why you are doing certain things,” shot back the agent.

 “Is it so amazing that I want to avoid bloodshed?” countered the monk.

 “You act alone. I am to believe that you kidnapped a Pinkerton agent knowing full well what the consequences might be. That is truly amazing, Brother William.”

 The monk stared off into a nightmarish past and said, “Not for me it isn’t.”

Chapter Three

 The Pinkerton detective had never served time in a jail before, much less a storm cellar. Shortly after dawn he was very happy to be let out of that musky hole, even though his captor had thoughtfully provided lanterns and even a bible to read. 

 “Alright Monk, this is it. I’m not going back down there again. You should have kept my hands tied if you planned it otherwise. I couldn’t resist you yesterday because my limbs were all but numb, but now I’m fit enough to fight for my freedom.”

 “I recommend you sit down there and eat the breakfast I brought out for you. While you still have a full set of teeth.”

 The detective hesitated, but the aroma of ham and eggs prevailed over his ego. Then when he finished his meal he got to his feet and waited on the monk, who was still sipping on some coffee.

 “Maybe it was what I read in the bible, but I’ve decided not to have you arrested on any assault or kidnapping charges. But I swear, if you delay me one more minute I will give you some injuries that will be hard to explain to your fellow monks.”

 William Longpenance got to his feet and stood with his hands clasped in the at ease position of a soldier. The only thing that mattered to Simpson was the fact that the monk was between him and his horse. Simpson breathed a sigh of mild regret and stepped into a punch that the monk saw coming a mile away. William’s left arm rose up in a graceful arch and connected with the punching arm, deflecting it upward until it was too high to connect with anything. Then a counter punch drove straight in to the detective’s solar plexus, which was just below the heart.

 Simpson staggered back a step and realized that he could no longer inhale. Panic seized him until the monk got his attention.

 “You’ll be able to breathe again in a second. Try to relax and only use a little effort to inhale. For an instant the advice was worthless, then suddenly the lungs began to function again.

 “What---what did you do to me?”

 “I hit a nerve cluster that controls your diaphragm muscles. They intern control how well your lungs expand and contract.”

 “Thought I was going to die. I never got hit there while training.”

 “Training?”

 The agent nodded while massaging his sore spot.

 “The Pinkerton headquarters I belonged to had a boxing club. Nothing much really, just an opportunity for us to get used to the feel of trading blows.”

 “Didn’t you do that growing up?”

 The agent took on an expression of mild embarrassment.

 “Actually, some of us never did. Well behaved children brought up in a refined atmosphere. You can imagine.”

 “No I can’t,” William replied while shaking his head.

 “Oh. Does that mean that you grew up brawling on street corners?”

 “There was some of that. But I guess I was pretty much like you until I got stuck in the Orient. That is where I learned how to fight. It is also the place where I changed.”

 “In what way?” queried Simpson.

 “Life is cheap in Asia. Dirt cheap. I became part of that for a while. Then I accidentally killed a missionary priest. After that, everything changed in ways you wouldn’t believe.”

 “Is that why you joined the abbey?”

 “No. I’m here because of what happened to me during the war. You see, before the war began I was given enough time to figure out that my mission in life is to help folks who otherwise would die at the hands of violent men. That would be my atonement. But when the war came, I got pulled into some fighting that was---unnatural.”

 The agent nodded and said, “My older brother enlisted. He talked about the grapeshot and how a hundred men could get mowed down in an instant.”

 “Yes, that is an ugly sight to behold---but I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen men all but used up, then turned into---things without mind or soul. Fueled to kill. Holding on to that thought like a snapping turtle holding on to what it’s bitten.”

Simpson stared at the monk’s haunted expression and then made a decision.

 “Alright, I’ll stay here as long as you want me to. Provided we spend the time talking about you, and the things that made you what you are.”

 “What if I don’t want to share it with you?”

 The agent picked up a pitch fork and assumed an en garde position.

 “Then you’ll have to try harder to keep me here.”

 The monk shrugged slightly and said, “It will be my second telling. When I told my story to our senior pastor, I felt better. I can’t deny it.”

 “How did he feel?” queried the detective.

 The tough guy in a robe grinned sheepishly and said, “He needed a drink.”

 “That sounds promising. Put let’s start at the beginning. How did you accidently kill a priest?”

 “I punched him in the jaw when he tried to stop my boys during a smuggling operation. It was dark. I didn’t know he was a priest. I didn’t for sure he was kind of old. Hell, of all the guys I ever punched up to that point, he was the only one that died from a single blow. I felt bad about it, but he should have known better than to do what he did.”

 “So how did you conclude that you needed to atone for the killing?”

 “Well, it didn’t come to me in a flash of revelation. I had to look back on about a dozen near death experiences to realize that somebody up there wanted me kept alive for a spell.”

 The monk was now almost comically pointing at the rafters of the barn.

 The detective was skeptical, but had already made up his mind to hear it all.

 “So what was probably the most dramatic near death experience you had during your adventures?”

 “Oh—I’d have to say it was the time a sperm whale took me in it’s jaws and hauled my ass to the shore.”

 Simpson was deadpan for a long moment then quipped, “Well at least you didn’t have to live inside it for a while like Jonah did.”

 “You mocking me Boy?” asked the monk in a dangerous tone.

 “Well---I don’t hear many whale stories, even from fishermen.”

 The monk conceded that point with a shrug.

 “Well, let’s go straight to the part that would interest any professional detective. I’m sure you’re aware of the fact that there are many criminal organizations in this world. I’m sorry to say that I ran afoul of the biggest one that ever cast a shadow on this troubled world. They originated in Spain, but they didn’t burn out like the Spanish Empire. Like a flea jumping from one dog to the next, they got into the opium trade in Asia. They were also into gun running which is how I learned about them. But what really matters is what happened in California.”

 “They took an interest in gold,” Simpson guessed.

 “The land where the gold would be discovered,” specified the monk. “That organization hires all kinds of people, including a Spanish geologist or two. Actually they needed a little help with that but that part of the story is kind of boring so we’ll skip. Bottom line is they went to California and bought up as much land as they could. They also brought in a hell of a lot of hired guns to keep land disputes short, and out of court.”

 The detective let out a sigh and began to think all the more that he was in the presence of a sick mind.

 “I’ve read a few California newspapers and I don’t recall seeing anything that would indicate a take over the likes of which you are describing.”

 “We kept it from happening.”

 “We?”

 “For reasons of security I’d rather not drop any names. Not everyone I know is holed up in a monastery. But I had an Indian tribe helping me, and a priest who actually could teach you a thing or two about man hunting. A couple of other men who’s names I’m sure you are familiar with. Anyway, we got the job done.”

 The detective stared with mock intensity then asked, “Got what job done?”

 “Saving California from The Company. That’s what they call themselves these days. We stunted their growth considerably, but I don’t know what’s left; and I don’t want to find out.”

 “I see. Well Mr. Longpenance, I can only hope that you will be more informative as we delve into your civil war exploits.”

 “Absolutely. All you need to know is that I’ve locked horns with a criminal organization and those boys can’t seem to give up the bad life. After they realized that they weren’t going to get rich on American gold, they turned their attention back to narcotics. They had plant experts poking around in jungles all over the world for different kinds of dope. Wouldn’t you just know it, they had to come up with something that was not only revolutionary, but also situated right in my own back yard.”

 “Your back yard?”

 “Sorry to say, yes. New Orleans is my home town, and the Mississippi delta was my stomping ground. The swamp lands are a world unto themselves Mr. Simpson. It be Cajun country.”

 “Oh, I presumed until this instant that you fought for the North.”

 “I did. Because of my experiences sailing all over the world I decided to fight the war on the deck of a ship. I hoped to see less destruction that way, and I’m a lover of harbors. Makes it easier to smell out economic opportunities because that is always where important product comes and goes. Anyway, I did a great job of avoiding the ugliness of land battles for nearly two whole years. Once in a while my ship would chase after a privateer, smuggling goods into one of the gulf states. My God but those smuggling captains were good at their job. We never bagged any of them, which got under my captain’s skin and prompted him to take unnecessary risks like getting too close to reefs at low tide. Dumb bastard tore the bottom out of his ship one night and shortly thereafter I joined the real navy.”

 “You mean shooting at people who shoot back?”

 “I mean Farragut. I’m talking about serving on the U.S.S. Hartford no less,” the monk said with pride.

 “Is that where you encountered the things without mind or soul?” queried the detective.

 The monk’s jaw tensed with disapproval.

 “If you’re going to hunt men for a living you got to learn how to be patient. I can’t just drop you into that nightmare. You wouldn’t believe a word coming out of my mouth if I was to do that.”

 “Does the Hartford have anything to do with your nightmare?”

 “Not exactly, but I get to talk about it or you go back to the root cellar.”

 “It’s not a root cellar, it’s a storm cellar,” the detective said with absolute certainty.

 “You’ll be flying down the stairs at the same speed,” warned the fraudulent monk

 “Alright, please carry on.”

 “I’ll just tell you about the gauntlet. Our battle group’s job was to sail past Forts Jackson and St. Philip. They guarded the southern river approach to New Orleans. We first mortared the shit out of those forts for a couple of days, but couldn’t silence even half their guns. We were also a bit concerned about the ironclad the Rebs had stationed on that part of the river. Turned out it’s engines didn’t work and it could only be used as a gun platform. Of course that was small comfort to the Varuna.”

 “That name rings a bell,” said the detective.

 “Indeed, a man named George Henry Boker named a poem after her. She was rammed twice by the steamer Governor Moore. There were no cowards aboard that ship either. Governor Moore had a high deck and couldn’t shoot at Varuna at close quarters, so you know that the captain did?”

 “You said he rammed---twice.”

 “That too, but he also shot a hole through his own upper hull to create a firing port so he could level a gun at Varuna. Can you picture that? But the tactic didn’t work and Varuna raised hell until the rising waters silenced her guns. Eight men got the Medal of Honor serving on Varuna. It was the only ship we lost by the way. Hartford got a bit singed when a Rebel tugboat pushed a fire raft into us. Sure made the gunners nervous. Too much powder gets spilt in those night time operations. Anyway, the official report was that we sustained reasonably light damage because we only lost the one ship, but when I’m in a saloon, I don’t toast the skill of our gunners that night. I toast Lady Luck, because she helped the Union more than Mother Nature did.

 One of these days I’m going to take a boat ride up the Big Muddy to my home town, just so I can remember it in a more peaceful setting. You know that’s one thing the Union soldiers had going for them. They could go back home and never return to the physical places where hell came to visit. A lot of the Southern boys might ride their horses past some spot every month or so and get a fresh supply of bad memory. I would advise many of them to go out west.”

 “Why didn’t you stay there?” asked the detective.

 “For the same reason you don’t stick around after you knock a hornet’s nest out of a tree.”

 “Hornets don’t have to drive you clear out of a forest.”

 The monk shrugged and said, “You befriend people in these places that you go to. You fear for their safety. You want to get as far away from them as possible for their sakes.”

 “Is that why you left Louisiana?”

 The haunted look returned to the monk.

 “No, and this is where I get started on the real story. This is where the nightmare is born of old legends and tales meant to keep small children in line. A tale best told in the daylight.”

 The monk stood up and poked his head out the nearest door to make certain that no inquisitive brethren were eavesdropping. Such things did happen from time to time, and he sure as hell didn’t want that today. The monk then resumed his seat, supremely confident that the Pinkerton man wasn’t going anywhere.

 Chapter Four

 The U.S.S. Hartford’s main anchor dropped in the shallows of Atchafalaya Bay some three miles from the mouth of the Atchafalaya River. An unremarkable piece of Gulf coastline situated some thirty miles west of New Orleans. Just past midnight Master Gunner William Longpenance was summoned to the captain’s quarters. Farragut’s executive officer had been given temporary command of the steamer while the squadron commander was meeting with Geoffrey Weitzel, current mayor of New Orleans.  Lt.Com Samuel McKnight slipped a key into drawer lock and extracted a large envelope that would almost need a Bowie Knife to get open. The acting captain tossed the envelope to the other side of a small desk.

 “We’ll be launching a long boat in a few moments. It will take you up the Atchafalaya river to a rendezvous point just downstream from Brashear City. There, and only there you are to open that envelope and read its contents.”

 “Me sir?” the gunner asked incredulously.

 “You’re the man who grew up around these parts aren’t you?”

 “Not exactly sir. I was raised in New Orleans. I did visit Brashear City to hand deliver a package, but I don’t know anyone who lives there anymore.”

“Then we can only assume that it doesn’t matter,” replied the officer.

 “Yes sir. Is that all sir?”

 “You’re not to go in uniform. Change into your knock about civvies and then get to the boat. The four men selected for the oars have their own instructions, but you are in command of the boat. Keep the men quiet until you reach the rendezvous point.”

 “Very good sir.”

 Longpenance turned on his heel and left the cabin. Back at his rack he became the first sailor in Naval history to feel unhappy while changing into civilian clothes. He didn’t know what was going on, but the fact that he had been selected by the Brass to do something important bothered him a very great deal. Obviously some high ranking planner needed a local boy for a job; that was easy enough to understand. But the kind of attention he was getting was dangerous; at least in his mind. Did The Company have people working in the records department of the military? Were they still interested in his whereabouts? Probably not, but Father de Real had hinted on more than one occasion that William’s fate was intertwined with this organization that thrived before his grandfather was born. (Whoever the guy was.)

 Since the penalty for spying was death, Longpenance did not like the feel of this assignment. He could only take a small measure of comfort in the fact that Brashear City was a hell of a lot different from his home town. New Orleans had plenty of whores and thieves, but after the war began the local constabulary had to add spies to the list. People would be on the lookout for spies in that city of sin. But the town he was heading for was a sleepy little back portion of the war. Hopefully he would run some stupid little errand and get back to the ship. At the time, he couldn’t imagine himself doing anything else.

 Most civilians would have missed the mouth of the Atchafalaya, trying to row to it in the dark, but these were Navy men who were always mindful of tides, currents and compass headings. Their target was an opening in a vast sea of Sparta Cord Grass that was about four feet high and outlined the river current for miles going upstream into the interior. That and lily pads were all that could grow in such a wet environment. But an hour before dawn they spotted the first bald Cypress trees with their customary curtains of Spanish Moss, which really wasn’t moss at all but everyone called it that.

 “Maybe we should get further away from shore,” one of the oarsmen muttered.

 William recalled the orders for silence but he allowed the man his observation. The moon light was strong and their waterway was almost half a mile wide so visibility was good except along the shore. But the passing terrain would hold no two legged dangers at night, and that was the only kind that mattered to William

 Understandably, that was not true of his companions.

 “What was that?” another man queried when he heard a noise off to their right.

 William smirked at the man. Did all these guys come from New York or something? They were fortunate that they weren’t camped out on this somewhat drier terrain. Some critters like bears, deer and snakes would be most active at dawn and dusk. Others like the raccoon would keep these boys jumping in the dead of night. So a row boat was a good place for them, if they had to be out here at all. Only the insects were a problem. William regretted the absence of citronella, or at least a strong cigar.

 “I hear the rivers have gators all through these parts,” another man muttered.

 “Yup, but most of them are too small to mess with a man.”

 “What do you mean most?” queried the sailor.

 “Don’t you understand English?” growled the misbegotten Southerner.

 That shut everyone up for the next hour. Then they entered an early morning fog that they did not need. It delayed the much wanted sunlight and caused some apprehension when the scent of manmade fires reached their section of the winding waterway. In soon enough a man shaped silhouette waded out into three feet of dark water and held up his hands to show that he was unarmed.

 “You all from the ship?” he asked as the boat pulled up to him.

 “Yea, tired but anxious to find out what we’re supposed to do here.”

 “Hell Mister I don’t know. You’re supposed to tell me what to do.”

 Longpenance took out the envelope, opened it and with an effort read his instructions in the poor morning light.

 “You’re supposed to take me to a sugar mill that’s located along the bank of this river.”

 “That would be the Loren Mill. Way on the opposite side of town.”

 William climbed out of the boat and addressed the sailors.

 “I know you’re all tired but you need to head back down river immediately. Faster you get back out on the gulf, the sooner you’ll be safe.”

 The Union men could hardly argue with that. New Orleans had center stage, but a Union warship anchored off shore could possibly draw the attention of at least a handful of locals armed with hunting rifles. Longpenace waved them off and proceeded to follow the guide who briefly introduced himself as Jake. The two men skirted the town for the most part, but William easily recalled the small town he had visited while still in his adolescence. Sugar was the number one industry but there was also grain, produce and the always useful tannery. William didn’t spot a single man in gray, but that didn’t surprise him. The Mississipi delta area was the only piece of swamp land the North was really interested in at the moment. Still—every mother’s son owned a gun and they would be very sympathetic to their neighbors to the east. Nobody liked invaders. People were just funny that way.

 The city’s location was interesting, and a bit precarious. Technically it was perched on an Island. Lake Palourde was on one side of town. On the other was the Atchafalaya which featured the bizarre ability to connect with the lake on both ends of the municipality; thus forming an Island. Of course there was the annual threat of flooding when the hurricanes and heavy rains came. Certainly the sugar producers didn’t like that, but there were enough slave hands to move the product off the Island when the water levels got too high.

 The Loren Sugar works was constructed with a very expensive grade of brink. It was in fact the finest building in town, yet it did not dominate the commercial dock section located on the river front. Oddly enough, it had been built on the lake side of town which was first to flood when the heavy rains came. William couldn’t imagine why the owner had done that, since the establishment was not a newcomer to the town.

 William was left at the front door with the instructions, “Tell them Sam sent me.”

 The naval gunner nodded half to himself and entered the building. The foyer had been designed like an enclosed porch with huge window on both ends so that any breeze coming off

the lake could benefit visitors waiting to be received. No one was at the front desk, but a large hunting dog had been tethered in a shady corner. It began to bark but without any hint of hostility.

 “Works better than a bell,” William thought to himself.

 A moment later a sweating bear of a man shuffled into the reception room and squinted over a pair of dirty spectacles. He was perhaps forty, with a bushy mustache and a double chin. The fact that he was looking at a stranger put him immediately on his guard.

 “You the fella wanting to sell a freight wagon?”

 “No, Sam sent me.”

 The man with the heavy jowls studied the visitor carefully but with a deadpan expression.

 “I hope your mount isn’t rented.”

 “No horse. I came up river.”

 “You rowed up from the coast alone?”

 William shook his head slightly.

 Long boat crew brought me. They’re on their way back now.”

 “H-E double tooth picks, that kind of foolishness we do not need.”

 “Would you like to elaborate on that, Mr---?”

 “Gregory Mac Donald. Yes sir, I will elaborate since I require competent help and you just might need a tuck here and there. Your crew of sailor boys should have hidden themselves and their boat to wait out the day. Then they should have gone back down river after nightfall.”

 “Oh for God’s sake , do you think they were in uniform and singing Battle Hymn Of The Republic?  Anyway people have only one thing on their minds right now and that’s what’s going on east of here,” stated William.

 “Does that long boat belong to a ship that is now sitting off the coast?”

 “No. As soon as we launched, our ship headed towards Texas, planning on returning in about ten hours. If I had been running the show, we would have used a fishing boat, but in all fairness that wouldn’t have gotten me here as quickly.”

 “This operation isn’t about speed, it’s about secrecy. That is the most important thing you are going to learn today. Have you ever been to the town of Gray?”

 “Nope, never even heard of it.”

 “It’s just a place where locals can buy or fix what they can’t grow or mend on their own. It is also a place where you will change horses.”

 “I’m to be a runner then? I gotta warn you that I’m not the best rider in the South. I’ve spent more time on water than in a saddle.”

 “So you’re actually in the Navy?”

 “Yup. Master Gunner William R. Lonpenance, at your service.”

 “Lord what a name for someone trying to look ordinary. In any case, you are a runner if you are discovered. Otherwise you are a mail carrier. We have already set you up with that appointment. You will be given the particulars in Gray. Your route will officially be between there and New Orleans. You have never been here, and you never will be. Except once or twice a month when you will need time off to tend to your sick mother.”

 “But in reality I’ll be here, picking up a sack of sugar?”

 “Five pound bag, but it will only look like sugar. Now follow me.”

 William was taken back into the production area where he experienced just a bit of sensory overload. There were many water pipes, vats, tanks and guard railings. The only thing that truly stood out was the monster grinding wheels that were turned by a steam engine that had pipes running both in and out of it.

 “Mr. Longpenance, you are no longer in the U.S. Navy, but you are still in the service of your country. I am, for all intents and purposes your superior officer, and I could have you taken out into the swamp and shot, without any legal consequences.”

 “Me and the dog huh?”

 “This is no laughing matter, Mr. Longpenance. The substance you will be carrying is worth more than your life, or the lives of everyone in this mill. It is a powdered extract from a poppy that we didn’t know existed until seven years ago.”

 “So it would be a member of the papaveraceae family,” William said with just a hint of smugness.

 As a former smuggler from Asia, he had heard a lot of talk concerning poppies, even though he was mostly into weapons smuggling.

 The older man didn’t bat an eyelash but came back with, “It’s a distant relative of the sanguinaria or bloodroot. But its usefulness is compromised by its very finicky maturing characteristics. Most plants of this type require a warmer climate than what we have here. Not so in this case, in fact every time we tried to grow it farther south, we failed. That is why we are forced to operate in what has recently become enemy territory.”

 William’s smile did not reach his eyes.

 “The government thinks this stuff is important? Does that mean we are following the example of the British with their Asian drug trade?”

 The new boss shook his head, not the least bit offended by what William was suggesting.

 “We’ve been working on the most effective pain killer known to man. We damn near went public with our work back in 58. But when we realized that war was coming and that we couldn’t move our operation out of the country, much less up north, we maintained a policy of total secrecy.”

 “Maybe the Confederate States would be willing to share the benefits of the program, if you’re that far along.”

 “Perhaps they would. Then on the other hand, possibly not. We haven’t expanded our operation to accommodate two armies at war. Here, let me show you what I mean.”

 MacDonald stopped in front of a silo shaped tank of iron. The back section was a cleverly disguised door that, when opened, displayed eight levels of shelving. Each contained boxes filled with chemistry equipment that was small enough to be portable.

 “This is the smallest of our five hidden cabinets. Everything comes out after sundown. That’s when the real work commences. But as you can imagine by the size of things, we can’t work with poppies the way we do with sugar cane. Besides, the flowers don’t grow in abundance, which is why we didn’t even know of their existence until fairly recently.”

 “And you can’t set up farming operations,” pressed William.

 “Indications are that it wouldn’t work. Even if secrecy was unnecessary,” confirmed the boss. “But we are hopeful that after the war we’ll be able to start a plant hybrid program that will change all that. In the meantime we manufacture enough painkiller to aid the hospitals in the Washington area. Although the doctors aren’t allowed to know precisely what they are working with.”

 “If you guys got caught would they shoot you? I mean, you’re not spying or building weapons, right?”

 “No, we’re just using southern soil to grow a southern plant that only benefits the north because we won’t share it. Does that merit a firing squad or hangman’s noose? I don’t know, Mr. Longpenance. I try not to think about it.”

 “Ok, so when do I head home?”

 “If you are referring to New Orleans, you will proceed immediately after sundown. But first I must purchase you a horse, since the government didn’t see fit to give you one.”

 “The ship’s hold was fresh out,” quipped William.

 “You are a pip. May I at least take comfort in the fact that you are well acquainted with New Orleans?”

 “I know the streets, and the places where you check your soul at the door.”

 “Then perhaps your recruiter isn’t as dimwitted as I first thought,” Mac Donald conceded.

 “It would comfort me if I knew he wasn’t Catholic,” said William.

 “Why is that?”

 “Let’s just say that this is one time I would really like to see a separation between church and state.” 

 Chapter Five

 Just before sundown William was introduced to a common brown quarter horse named George. The four year old stallion was reputed to be indifferent towards anything that might scurry out of the ferns or flap out of the tree tops. Since horse traders produce their fair share of liars, William carried his water, pistols and special package on his person. If mount and rider should separate, the rider would at least have his essentials with him. Not a bad policy when riding long distances in the dead of night.

 As it turned out, William’s ride from Brashear City to Gray was instructive but uneventful. The ten mile trek with George indicated that the stallion truly did have a temperament well suited for the work he had to do. William was satisfied with the condition of the road and began to think that maybe this land assignment wouldn’t be bad at all. Then a storm blew in and when he reached the halfway station, an old man responded to some kept geese that announced newcomers almost as efficiently as a dog.

 “Ready to change mounts?”  the old man inquired with a lantern in his hand.

 “No. I believe I’ll take George here all the way in. We’ll just give him a light meal and a proper drink.

 The old man’s name was Jed, and he squinted at the younger man as he dismounted.

 “If you say so, Mister. But since you’re a new hire, I think you aught to know that a fresh horse might be a good thing to have before daylight comes.”

 William ignored the comment and asked, “You got papers for me?”

 “I do. Everything you need to know to be a proper mail carrier in these parts. Full instructions. I’m hoping that at least. I don’t read as good as I’d like. When I get my new spectacles I’ll practice up some. But I figure the gent who put quill to paper most likely knew what to say. You give it a gander and if you got any questions, fire them off before leaving. Got some stew for you in case you’re hungry.”

 “At 2:00 a.m.?”

 The old man shrugged. “Comes with the job. Tend the station and be ready for the riders. Rest of the time I’m generally playing checkers with Bill Strunk over at the general store. Don’t dare play with the black smith. He’s an awful sore loser.”

 William shook his head in wonder. Land locked towns had always seemed strange to him, but ones located on the edge of useless swamps didn’t make any sense. New Orleans had disease, crime and bugs the size of mice; but they also had commerce.  Why would a man put down roots where supply wagons could get bogged down with a sudden change in the weather?

 “Well, since you bothered, I guess I could stand a mouthful.”

 While partaking of his repast William stared at the double barreled muzzle loading shotgun that hung over the door. A good weapon for a man with failing eyesight. The barrels were a good thirty-six inches long. A hunting piece primarily, unless it had to serve as something else.

 “I advise you to empty your bowels and bladder before you set out again,” said the old man at the tail end of the meal.

 “Proud of your outhouse are you?” William joked.

 “The house---yes. The hole---no.”

 “How long have you been here?”

 “Sixteen months. Before that I was a cook in a fancy eating place.”

 “In Orleans, which one?”

 “Macey’s.”

 “Yea I’ve passed that place a time or two. Never went inside though. Kind of place you take a lady friend, and I didn’t have one in that town.”

 “Well, when I began to fill out, my ma sort of encouraged me to stay outside of town. Then later on when I was making my own way, I didn’t have time to play the gentleman with any woman who was looking for a husband.”

 “That didn’t make a great deal of sense to the old man but then it didn’t have to.

 “Just let me give you some advice young fella. You ever been to Lakes des Allemands and Salvador?”

“Nope. I was shown a map that told me that the lacks are about six miles apart and that I need to ride between them in order to get to where I’m heading.”

“There are other routes but it’s too damn easy to get lost on them. But there is something else you got to worry about besides getting lost.”

 William nodded with a grin and said, “Yea I know---horse gets spooked and throws you. Maybe gets bit my a snake on the trail….”

 “No, listen to me. If you see a man out there, and he looks hurt---don’t stop.”

 “You saying it could be a set up?”

 “I’m sayin that any man you meet out there in the dead of night, ain’t likely to be filled with the milk of human kindness. Oh---that reminds me…”

 The old man scampered off for a moment and quickly returned with a lantern.

 “You’re going to need this in some spots.  Trees get pretty thick about a mile this side of the channel.”

 “Channel?”

 “You never been betwixt Lakes Allemands and Salvador?”

 “Why should I have been? The Big Muddy (The Mississippi) is the life line to everything worth seeing in the New Orleans area,” reasoned William.

 “Yea--- well, what I’m getting at here is that a wide water channel runs between those two lakes. You gotta cross it where the markers show low water.”

 “I look for them. Horses can swim but I don’t know how good mine is at it.”

 “Ain’t no joking matter young fella. One time a rider got bogged down and the horse shook him off while getting free. Oh he got his mount back after an hour or two, but he felt mighty queersome  a foot. That trail ain’t what it used to be. Mind what I said about approaching anyone you see out there.”

 “I am not easily separated from my possessions, but I appreciate the warning, almost as much as the meal. Well, I suppose I had best be off. Hopefully we will speak again.”

 “Best chance of making that happen is by remembering what you’ve been told,” the old man said as they left the station house.

 Twenty minutes later the courier was back on the lonely trail, now aided slightly by the weak glow of his lantern. It had occurred to him back at the station that if there were any unfriendlies on the trail, the portable light would announce his approach and make him a better target. But with the light a horse could trot along in most places rather than trod at a pace that would put him short of his destination at daybreak. Still, the rider was ever mindful of his little container of fire. He had never used a lantern on horseback before and he didn’t like to think what would happen if he accidentally burned his mount.

 He kept it in his left hand, because if he should need a revolver he wouldn’t want to be aiming with a tired arm. He wondered how difficult it would be to attach a long metal rod to the saddle horn and have a lantern hang free on both ends. That idea became more and more appealing as the weary miles added up. It was especially vexing that the trail remained draped in shadow but much of the landscape to the right and left was illuminated by the moon when the tree formations thinned out. The path was located on a ribbon of high and relatively dry ground that could support the trees growing along the route. But off to the sides the earth was lower and perpetually saturated with bog water. Hence the trees fared poorly and died out quickly.

 Listening for sounds of danger was pointless. Bull frogs, crickets and their cousins the katydids dominated the night air. While growing up he had been told that most sounds had to do with mating. William could easily believe that. The messages were pretty much universal.

 “Up here sailor,” was something he could understand in about twelve different languages.

The critters in nature weren’t all that different. They’d get that certain notion in their head and do what needed to be done. Trouble was, killing came just as natural, and real sudden.

 William kept inspecting his flanks even though he had long ago given up on the idea of spotting anything. He just kept looking because anything basking in the moonlight was more pleasant to behold than the endless shadow realm that existed between the healthy trees. So it was that the rider happened to be looking to his right when he spotted a movement some fifty yards behind a Cyprus tree that had long ago fallen over to provide a climbing log for turtles and the like. Instantly he reined up and focused hard on the spot just as the moon was slipping behind a cloud. There was a shape there and it was definitely man like. But William guessed that there was probably about a foot of water out there. If a man was hunting for something in the area he would be keeping to the path instead of trudging through the worst of the wetland. All the same William stayed locked on to that shape and after a couple of minutes his vigilance was rewarded.

 The man like thing moved again. Toward a canopy of moss that had formed on the only remaining branch still attached to the rotting trunk. William weighed his instructions against his self confidence and then turned the horse to the right. As he proceeded into the drenched bottom land his target disappeared altogether but the curtain of moss would not allow an undetected evacuation so William proceeded forward at a cautious pace. When he was twenty feet from the curtain he dismounted and tied the horse to swamp pine that was gamely trying to start a life in mucky soil. Then with the lantern in his left and the Colt in his right he tensely circumnavigated the remains of the Cyprus and aimed his colt at a startling form.

 Standing there in the weak lantern light was a man in ragged clothing. He appeared to be quite old and emaciated and William relaxed his guard slightly.

 “Just keep your hands in plain sight Old Timer and you won’t have any trouble with me. Are we close to a farm? I wasn’t expecting to meet up with anyone for at least another six or seven miles.”

 The figure just stood there, giving William nothing to listen to except the soft night sounds that were perpetual.

 William then tried a greeting in French but got the same empty response.

 “Would you like a snort of whiskey? I got some in my saddle bag. You shouldn’t be out so far from the path anyway. You might step into a sink hole or something. Come on now…”

 William came closer, and as he did the moon came back out from behind the clouds. That’s when he received the shock of his life. Maybe the man really was ancient, but his facial characteristics suggested that he was ailing from something a whole lot worse than old age. His lower torso smelled like old guts and his hand was as cold as death. The ex sailor had seen a lot of pathetic souls in his travels but this one was not only gruesome, he was haunting a swamp where no human was supposed to be after dark. He was about to comment of the man’s clammy skin when the wraith like being suddenly clamped hold of William’s throat. The courier’s eyes went wide in amazement. The creature certainly did not exude anything like an aura of power, but now he was very close to suffocating William without so much as a single derogatory word.

 Using only one hand the mysterious being mindlessly maintained a grip of steel that no martial arts move could terminate. After making an honest effort to avoid draconian measures, William finally drew his pistol back out and shot the forearm that had defied his brute strength. A bone emerged from the other side of the soiled shirt sleeve and that ruined limb was immediately  replaced with another arm

 “Oh for crying out loud,” thought William as his throat was grabbed again.

 Once again the colt punched a hole through a filthy shirt sleeve, only this time no bones protruded from the other side. William’s breathing privileges were no longer in danger of being revoked, but incredibly, the floppy wristed man tried to hug William for the purpose of getting close enough to bit him.

 “Jesus H. Christ, you are too much!” shouted William while backing away with a feeling of revulsion.

 All feeling of pity had fled from the courier now that he realized he was in the presence of a madman who possessed limitless vitality and little in the way of a nervous system. The wretch continued to advance as William continued to retreat. Finally William launched a front kick that took the man solidly in the testicles. It stopped the creature for a grand total of one heartbeat and William got the distinct impression that the man would not let up so long as William was there. So he decided to make a run for the horse. Hopefully he would get to it and mount up before the madman could bit his leg, or maybe even the damn horse.

 The ex seafaring man had always mounted horses with a kind of slow awkward pause. But on this occasion he managed to get into the saddle with the grace of a Mongol warrior. William really did have cause to fear that the bullet ridden lunatic would bit his horse in the ass so he kicked the animal in the ribs while bellowing a command to get the critter moving. But an instant later the madman’s head exploded and William turned with the colt once again in his hand.

 “Don’t shoot, I am not your enemy!” shouted a man who was now standing some forty yards east of where a brainless corpse was now laying.

 William allowed the barrel of his colt to stray off to the side a bit, but he kept it ready for any sign of treachery. The man who was now approaching him was mindful of where he was pointing his weapon, even though it was now a harmless muzzle loader. The man holding it approached carefully and then stooped to pick up the lantern where William had discarded it. With the help of the extra light William discerned that the man’s weapon was a ten gauge rifled musket; most suitable for big game hunting in places like Africa. He also sported a bowie knife, but the gun was the big mystery.

 “My name is Yancy Lamont and that man I just shot was an escaped lunatic from an insane asylum. You are very lucky that he did you no injury.”

 “That was made apparent to me, Mr. Lamont. He tried to strangle me as well as bite me. I was in the process of fleeing the area when you killed him.”

 “Then you will support my contention that the shooting was justified?”

 “Indeed, although I could have killed him myself and chose not to.”

 The man with the big gun went to stand over the corpse and inspect it briefly. He was dress like many people in the region. Long sleeve white cotton shirt, common work trousers and boots to protect against snake bite. The extra wide belt held the bowie knife case and perhaps a pistol on other occasions. The man appeared to be in his late twenties and was built for both speed and strength. William didn’t trust him, but he was glad to meet up with someone who could explain what the dead man was about.

 “This will go down hard with the next of kin, but in the long run it is for the best. He would have spent the rest of his life in chains if I had taken him alive.”

 “You’re a lawman then?”

 “I am a bounty hunter but on this occasion I was hired to find and apprehend the lunatic James Haskell. As you can see, I failed in part, but with your testimony we should be able to put this unfortunate business behind us in short order.”

 “Do you always try to capture men with an elephant gun?” William said with just a hint of gallows humor.

 “I do not go after gentlemen killers, Mr….”

 “Bill Lawrence,” William quickly lied.

 The swamp hunter committed the name to memory and said, “I will pay you fifty dollars if you will help me load the body into my wagon and accompany me to the residence of my employer. There we will—“

 “I have pressing business that cannot wait,” William interrupted. “When that business is concluded, I will contact the sheriff and report what took place out here. I will state that you shot the man while he was attempting to do me great harm. That is the most I can do for you.”

 Lamont didn’t say so, but that offer didn’t sit well enough for him and he decided to do something about it. He drew his bowie the instant the rider turned his back on him. But the distance for a throw was off by three paces. Lamont’s well practiced sense of distance told him that and compelled him to adjust the distance before William could get his horse moving. William for his part was on his guard and only intended to look away for an instant. In the poor light William was aided by the fact that the bowie knife had a white bone handle, so the lantern was dropped without pause and a colt was drawn as Lamont’s throwing arm cocked back.

A life hung in the balance during that instant when Lamont decided whether or not to send the knife out to meet flesh. His survival instincts were good, and the reward was that William didn’t drop the hammer on his colt.

  “You can drop the knife, and you can step over here and pick up the lantern,” said William.

 With a hint of fatalism the man swamp man complied; fairly certain he would not be given an opportunity to make a third mistake.

 I don’t have time to conduct an in depth interview so let us see what can be accomplished by having you turn your pockets out before I go.”

 The other man hesitated for an instant but knew that a protest would be pointless. Two folded pieces of paper then dropped to the ground and William nodded with satisfaction.

 “Just leave them laying there. I won’t try and read them here but I’ll get around to it come morning. Now I want you to march off west along the trail. As long as I see a lantern moving I’ll be happy. I’ll leave your rifle and knife here. It would be a burden to carry so much steel into town and I don’t believe I’m likely to run into any elephants so close to town.”

 “You won this round fair and square, Mister, but I won’t be so careless the next time.”

 “What makes you sure there will be a next time?”

 “Because my employer owns the law in this parish, that’s why.”

 William was tempted to say that his boss was bigger than any sheriff, but what kind of secret agent would he be if he did something that stupid?

 “Get a move on, before I give more serious thought to that threat you delivered.”

 The swamp man complied, knowing that if his adversary was of a mind, he could bury two bodies in this part of the country side and they would never be found.

 William retrieved the parchments when it was safe and then proceeded on toward New Orleans. He wasn’t sure how his new employers would react to this very bizarre occurrence, but he reasoned that they would be happy enough that he didn’t kill anyone while delivering their goods. On the other hand it was entirely possible that they would be very un-happy that a guy like Lamont was still free and functional on a vital courier trail.

 The horseman touched the papers that he had stuffed into his pocket. His desire to read them grew with every mile; as did a feeling of foreboding.

   

Chapter Six

 The predawn hours were cool; almost chilly, but the young man who was belly down in the weeds was sweating as if it were high noon in the fields. He was scared, and he had good cause to feel that way. He was only seventeen years old and the most serious transgression he had ever committed with when he stole a pie, knowing that Auntie Marcy had backed a whole passel of them anyway. Now he was running for it. He didn’t have a single dime in his pocket, nor any plan to speak of. A travelling parson had told him about this wondrous thing call a Underground Railroad, and that it could take him to free land up north if he was brave enough to try for it while the parson was available to pass him on to other kind white folks.

 Daniel was a slave who fancied himself brave enough. He didn’t know how railroads worked or what he would do amongst white people in the snow country, but he was willing to do work for each meal and pay close attention to the lessons would come with free living. Most likely his friends would be sorely put out by his decision to run. They would have to work harder to make up for his absence. It was common knowledge that Mr. Theodore Barns wasn’t going to buy anymore slaves and it would be another ten years or so before any of the small fry could take on the full weight of Daniel’s chores.

 Daniel regretted that very much. Mr. Barns would probably have a fit and carry on something terrible. But there was no turning back now. Reverend Abernathy was on the way, and besides: as a free man he might be able to someday get Auntie Marcy freed. That would sure even things for all the times he had made her unhappy. So when a light finally appeared under the giant weeping willow, he sprang from his waiting place and in doing so severed all ties with the planation that had made up his entire world.

 The reverend placed a reassuring hand on the nervous boy’s shoulder and ushered him to the back of the heavy wagon that stood waiting. Daniel climbed into the box and hunkered down so a tarp could be draped over him.

 “Reverend Abernathy sir, I was wondering if it would be possible for you to write me a letter of apology that could get mailed to Mr. Barns. I’m thinking that if I explain how sorry I am about leaving, maybe he’ll be more Christian like to the folks still in his care.”

 Abernathy grinned at that, even though he was a man who tended to be overly preoccupied with his responsibilities.

 “I shall do what I can to appease your former master, Daniel. But you should always remember that one man has no right to own another. Mark me, in just a few years your Mr. Barns will be lucky if he isn’t homeless. “

 “Why is that Parson?”

 “Because the Confederacy will not surrender until everything of value is used up in the effort to remain independent. The north has enough men and materials to keep the war going until the men in gray are nothing but walking dead. What kind of life will Barns have when the Riders of the Apocalypse are done with this land?”

 “The riders of what?”

 “When you go to your reward, you will learn the secrets of the entire universe,” the minister stated. “Until then do not be overly concerned with things that you do not understand. So much is pointless in this world. Now try to get some sleep back there. I have important things to go over in my mind.”

 The wagon creaked along with the ever present night sounds until it reached a very unusual farmstead. The house had burned down years ago and the outbuildings were showing obvious signs of neglect. But the barn was in excellent condition, featuring stout doors and windows that were set high on walls that were built to last. The pastor brought the wagon up close to the smaller of the two barn doors and then yanked the tarp off of his unusual passenger.

 “This is where you will be staying for the time being, Son. Dawn is just a few minutes away and we only transport fugitives at night. I apologize in advance for the poor accommodations but we don’t want to give any slave hunters reason to think that this barn is anything but what it appears to be. In any case, you won’t be here alone for very long. That I promise you.”

 The young Negro climbed out of the wagon and entered the barn while the white man remained at the doorway. Daniel only vaguely noted that the door swung outward and sported a heavy iron bolt. There was a lantern hanging from a rafter in the very center of the barn, and Daniel moved towards it, hoping to find a place to sit down within the pool of light.

 “Remain quiet until your next contact arrives. I need to secure the door now.”

 Daniel stood awkwardly beside the hanging lantern and peered back as his benefactor who then swung the door towards the frame.

 “Thank you, Reverend Abernathy.”

 The white man didn’t answer. The door closed completely and Daniel could hear the bolt being worked on the outside. Only then did it occur to the young man that things might not be as they seemed. But this was no time to lose faith. After all, as a slave he was the property of a local resident. Slave owners never stole from each other, therefor it was inconceivable that he could be destined for the auction block. Besides, Abernathy was a genuine preacher man. Even Auntie Marcy said so. All he had to do was stay calm and everything would turn out alright.

 The runaway slave scanned his surroundings for the second time. The barn was completely empty but that was understandable. No one lived on the property and with times being as hard as they were it just stood to reason that the building would be vacant. There was only the mystery of the locked doors, but that young Daniel reasoned that every now and then a runaway might lose his nerve and try to strike out on his own. That would have to be discouraged. So with his apprehension in check, he sat himself down with his back to a wall and watched the sunlight grow stronger out the south window. An hour later he fell asleep and was found that way by his next contact, another white man named Silas Turner. Silas also had a wagon for Daniel to ride in, but at least he was given a pair of baked sweet potatoes to eat while hiding under another tarp. Their starting point was only nine miles from the famous southern city but heavy rains and a lack of engineering manpower for two years made their road a challenge for anything on four wheels. It didn’t matter. A lightly loaded wagon could get pulled through just about anything and the driver had gone this way many times before.

 When they reached their destination, they were in the back of a five acre estate that had development encroaching on three sides. On the remaining side was a protruding finger of swamp land that was a couple of feet deeper than the surrounding acreage so every time it rained hard all of the water in the neighborhood collected in that strip of bottom land. The masters of the estate learned to stay inside the mansion most of the year and keep the windows shut.

 Most people in that quarter of the city believed that the original owner of the mansion was none other than Jean Lafitte. Supposedly he was given the land by someone who would be very far north by the time the pirate discovered that the place was best suited for growing mosquitos. On the other hand Lafitte purchased many things that he himself never used. It is possible that the original occupants were whores, crippled seamen and the offspring of the two. The next master of the domain might have come along during a dry spell, or perhaps he might have been an admirer of the original owner. In any case, with a tannery on one side and a above ground graveyard on the other, the mansion and it’s out buildings were left pretty much free of squatters who were superstitious, or had a sense of smell.

 Daniel spotted the huge sculptures of the grave yard when he was allowed out of the wagon. They were one-hundred yards distant but that only made them seem more ominous to the already nervous ex-slave. The driver opened what first appeared to be a storm cellar door that would take him underneath the mansion. This didn’t make any sense initially since the water table in the area made it impossible to dig without getting flooded out. But when Daniel and his driver reached the bottom of the stone steps, he noted that the walls and flooring were made of wood. The basement was very much like the hold of a ship and could not have been very old. The strange chamber measured twenty feet square and contained a chair and a simple desk with a lantern, a stone crock jug and an empty glass. Daniel noted that in one of the far corners of the room there was a curtain that hung seven feet to the ceiling and was perhaps three to four feet in width. It stood out somewhat against the starkness of the chamber, but the driver quickly brought the youth’s attention to the contents of the desk.

 “Sit down Daniel. Let me pour you some lemonade. Escaping from slavery is thirsty work or at least it can be when you don’t bring a canteen with you.”

 “I’m sorry suh, I didn’t know I was supposed to do that.”

 “No no, it’s fine Daniel. You didn’t do anything wrong,” the driver assured him. “In fact it’s such a common thing that we decided to offer our guests something to drink whether they ask for it or not. Some folks are too shy to ask even when they’re down right parched.”

 The driver chucked briefly as the young black man gratefully drank from the offered glass.

 “It is rather amusing when you think about it, Daniel. People put their very lives in our hands, yet they are often too shy to ask for a drink, or even where the outhouse is. Well, I can assure you that you don’t have to be shy with me. Anything you want, all you need to do is ask. For instance: if you are still fatigued from your first night as an escaped slave, I could allow you to take a little nap while we wait for my friends.”

 Daniel’s eyes grew heavy just a few seconds later and he nodded slightly.

 “Yes suh, I’d be grateful suh.”

 “Really? Well just step this way young sir. We have a cot leaned up against the wall here….”

 The curtain was pulled aside and sure enough, there was a portable cot that had seen some use in the war with Mexico. Four heavy leather straps hung from the sides of the cot, but the escaped slave was rapidly growing too weary to notice. With the cot properly positioned, the young man lowered himself heavily onto it’s light weight frame. The driver then walked over to what was supposed to be a back wall and knocked on it gently. Suddenly a door sized panel swung out and a powerfully built man in his late twenties stepped out of the portal.

 “The professor was getting impatient,” the big man said in a mildly scolding tone.

 “The roads are getting worse. This war is a wonderful distraction but it does create certain difficulties. Every now and then I pass a formation of soldiers who give me the eye. They wonder if I might be carrying food stuffs. One of these days they’re going to want to take a look under the tarp.”

“Too bad you can’t smuggle women. That would be easier to explain,” the big man said with a sly grin.

 He was called Cheval , and he waited for the usual complaint that would come as he picked up his end of the stretcher for what (to him) was a short and easy move.

 “Ugh---why can’t we put this thing on rollers?” Turner complained. 

 “The professor has us running about gathering plants, tools and pieces of hardware; I don’t have time to search for tiny little wheels for a stretcher,” growled the big man. “Besides, I was told we’ll probably be moving in a few months and everything is going to get buried with the lab.”

  The passage way was sleeved in heavy wood just like the highly deceptive reception area. It was relatively short, but it never seemed so to the weaker of the two litter carriers. When Turner’s hands were about to lose their grip on the cot frame they passed through another doorway but that one was not required to be disguised as a wall.

 “Damn,” breathed Turner as he was allowed to relinquish his burden, “just made it that time.”

 The antechamber was twice the size of the bogus reception area, also with the overall appearance of a ship’s hold to keep the surrounding ground water at bay. In the center of the chamber was a tub that measured seven feet by three. Restraining straps and mounting fixtures made it plain enough that the tub was not for simple bathing. The bottom of the tub had a drain port and a five gallon carrying jug sat on the wooden floor underneath the tub. In the beginning the tub’s interior had been the silvery color of stainless steel. Now it was mostly a brownish color in most places.

 The young black man was stripped naked and then placed in the tub with his wrists and ankles secured with the straps. The two men then returned to the outer chamber where they encountered three other men descending the stairs. All three men were wearing floor length coats of black and as soon as they were down in the basement they removed the coats and stood in the disposable white linens that were so necessary in their work.

 “The subject is still asleep?” asked a gaunt, pale skinned man in his early sixties.

 “Yes professor. We arrived just a bit late, but I believe you’ll find that this fellow is the best specimen I’ve brought so far. I’ll bet he could have run all the way here from where I recruited him,” said Turner.

“Do you have another one lined up for tomorrow?”

 “Yes sir, assuming that we don’t experience another no show. Sometimes they get all excited about escaping but then get cold feet at the last moment. Slavery doesn’t generally bring out the adventurer in a man after all. That’s why---“

 “Your recruiting efforts have been satisfactory Mr. Turner,” the older man interrupted, “however I am not entirely pleased with the man you hired to track down Haskell.”

 “Lamont is a very good man, Professor. A bit rough around the edges but you have to expect that sort of thing from swamp men.”

 “I am not referring to his personal habits, Mr. Turner. While you were bringing in this specimen your Mr. Lamont reported to me that he shot Haskell. That is not what I hired him for.”

 “Haskell was a loose cannon Professor. He knew that he was carrying the stage one drug in his blood. You said it yourself that the subject should never be allowed to know what has been done to him. It can make a difference. If Lamont dropped the hammer on the man, it must have been because Haskell couldn’t deal with his situation. Did Lamont say anymore?”

The older man frowned at the undesired question and resumed his march to the back of the underground testing facility. Professor Thaddeus Mercier had the patience of a fisherman ninety-eight percent of the time. He had a chemical laboratory set up in the mansion and when he was synthesizing compounds you couldn’t ruffle his feathers with a brick. But every twenty-four hours he would produce a variant of the  sanguinaria derivative and at that time become anxious and impatient to once again venture into the realm of demigodhood. No one enjoyed the professor’s company at that grim hour. Not Horus the lab assistant, nor Nathan the butler. Most certainly not Jock and Henry who had to accompany the professor in case the subject needed man handling.

 Turner didn’t want to stay and wasn’t required to do so. The big man would leave with Turner, but mostly to make sure that no one got anywhere near the testing site when the professor was ready for another go at the subjects. He would show up with a black leather case that measured two by five inches. It contained a single item that would have been called rare, even in the most renowned hospitals of the world. The hardened silver tube was three millimeters in width and two inches long. It was attached to a glass plunger device that Mercier was very proud of. It was the forerunner of the modern hypodermic syringe, and it was a technical marvel to complement an even greater marvel. Albeit not a very altruistic one.

 When he was in his customary position over the subject he would target a portion of the heart that was not shielded by a rib and then mutter a short supplication.

 “Let this one come around on his own.”

 The two assistants always wondered who the professor was praying to, considering the fact that the man of letters had stated more than once that he did not believe in God. At any rate, that uttering would be followed by a d’artagnan like thrust that had the assistants wincing a bit the first few times. Then the subject’s pulse and respiration would decrease, and if left alone he would merely sleep until the drug finally wore off. But if the man on the cot received a good slap on the face, he would open his eyes and stare at the ceiling with a deadpan expression. Then one of the assistants could produce a .31 caliber revolver, point it at the subjects intestines, and fire a shot that would not even make the subject blink.

 Then the subject would be instructed to lift each leg in turn twelve inches, even though such an exercise would normally cause excruciating pain to any man shot in the abdomen. The last subject kept it up until a loss of blood caused the subject to go into shock. Haskell had been a newspaper reporter who thought he was on the trail of a grave robbing physician. True, the neighboring cemetery vaults were never broken into, but a mausoleum could be a very handy place to hide a corpse temporarily. Haskell had been told that two men had been seen carrying something out of the west section of the graveyard on a moonlit night. Haskell knew that Professor Mercier had gotten himself thrown out of medical college for conducting unethical experiments, but the reporter didn’t realize how acute his nose for news was until the big grounds protector had him in a reverse bear hug.

 The professor was not anxious to kill an educated white man, so he made the captured reporter a deal: “Let me inject you with a drug that is designed to kill pain, and if you survive, I will merely imprison you until we are too powerful for you to harm us with a legal action.”

 Needless to say Haskell didn’t buy that for an instant, but rejecting the offer was likely to get him killed prematurely, and he had friends who would be looking for him after a time. So he accepted his captor’s proposition, having no way of knowing that he would suffer a seizure and end up clinically dead. His body, like all the test subjects before him, had been placed in a nearby mausoleum until it could be shipped to a boiler that possessed a very large firebox. In such macabre surroundings the reporter regained consciousness, but his thinking processes were now severely limited. He had become the prototype of a semi-successful project, but it would take weeks and several sightings by the locals before Mercier would realize that his subject was actually back on his feet.

 In the meantime the serum was used on additional subjects and the results proved most gratifying. He learned among other things that the subject’s frame of mind at the time of the injection was very important. The subject needed to be focused on the task at hand at the time of the injection. Mercier’s employer knew what that task would be, and how well it could work. The project continued on, and plans were in the works to relocate to a more secure location, but Mercier wanted Haskell back for additional study. The reporter was the only educated man thus far used in the project, and the professor chose to believe that such a thing mattered.

 The current subject was awakened, and his plea for mercy was cut short by the usual precise stab. Mercier waited patiently for the expected change in life signs, but to his delight the young man on the cot didn’t grow drowsy or close his eyes even for an instant. The ex-slave made no attempt to speak, but his eyes suggested that he was on a different level of consciousness than all the subjects that had gone before him.

 After several moments the man with the pistol asked, “Shall I shoot him now, sir?”

  Mercier hesitated for a moment then said, “Bring me the pike hanging on the east living room wall.”

 The professor was referring to the weapon that had once belonged to an ancestor who had fought in a Caribbean sea battle. As pikes go it was on the short side, a mere nine feet. The shaft was very thick, and a cutlass would be hard pressed to cleave it in two. A month ago the chemical genius would close his eyes when the revolver was about to go off. Now he gripped the pike in his own hands and instructed his zombie like patient to rise up onto his feet. With an effort, he drove the point of the weapon deep into the black man’s abdomen, then let go of the shaft and stepped back a pace.

 “Young man, what did I just do?”

 “Without any sign of fear the young black man replied, “You stabbed me suh.”

 “Would you like to remove the spear from your stomach?”

 “Yes suh.”

 “Then by all means do so.”

 Daniel grabbed hold of the pike shaft with both hands. Five inches of crimson wood and iron showed itself an instant later. The assistants lamented the fact that this experiment was placing far more blood on the floor than what tended to occur with a .31 pistol ball. But the significance of the achievement was not lost on them. With a chemical tweak here and there the professor was gradually developing real live zombies. Daniel died three hours later. To make certain there would not be another Haskell like phenomenon, Mercier had Daniel’s heart cut out.

 Lamont didn’t mind. It was easier work than trudging through the swamps.

Chapter Seven

William had little difficulty finding the address he had been given. It was on a branch of Canal Street which could be found by simply keeping one’s eyes open. The long open through way was a visual border between the older French quarter of the city and the newer uptown section largely populated by Kentuckians and other Midwestern folk. The reason for the street’s name was simple enough to understand. The city fathers were going to build a canal that would allow ships to be pulled up into the heart of the city, but more discreet political forces decided that there were enough sailors staggering around drunk and getting into fights.

 William had always resented the implication. In his youth many of his heroes had been sailors, and drinking was good for the local economy. Admittedly sometimes an innocent bystander would catch a punch meant for someone else, but most of the time all you had to do was keep your eyes off of other men’s women and you’d be fine. Now all William had to do to stay out of trouble was keep his horse out of certain alleys and ignore the women who would sometimes call down to him from an upstairs balcony. The shop he was looking for sold men’s footwear and was doing pretty good business all in all.

 Confederate soldiers were wearing out their shoes and most of them had to go barefoot for as long as the weather permitted. But some of them had relatives in the city who were willing to buy them shoes, so a cobbler could make out very well indeed. William stepped into the establishment and was assailed by the smell of leather and chemicals used to soften, preserve and color the wears. The proprietor was what you would expect: slightly humpbacked, bespectacled from too much detail work, and too old to be in the army. Never the less there was a keen intelligence in the older man’s eyes and William didn’t have to work to get the man’s attention.

 “You look like you’ve ridden a fair piece. Kind of interesting since the day has just started.”

 “Was in the saddle all night long,” responded William.

 “You have a package for me?”

 “Depends on what your favorite color is.”

 “I have three: red, white and blue,” responded the cobbler.

 William handed the man the packet he had been protecting all night and then asked, “Can I report a problem to you or do I need to speak to someone else?”

 “Well, everything sort of goes through me,” said the cobbler. “Name’s Quincy by the way. I already know your name; real or made up. So what’s the problem?”

 “When I was still on the swamp trail coming here I spotted a lone man on foot. He was crazy and tried to bite me like a rabid dog. A sharpshooter blew his brains out and claimed to be some sort of bounty hunter. But what makes this story even more interesting is that the bounty hunter tried to stab me in the back before I could leave. Now maybe he just didn’t want anyone knowing that he shot that man, but I got the impression that there was more to it than that.”

 “So did you kill him?”

 “No---I wasn’t sure how you would feel about that,” answered William.

 “So you turned him over to the Sheriff?”

 “Uh, no---I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about that either.”

 “Well sir, you did the most important thing by getting the packet through. But next time, search him for papers.”

 “As a matter of fact….”

 William handed the cobbler the papers he had confiscated on the trail.

 “Gun parts list with prices. Place called S&S Repair. Never heard of them.”

 “Me neither. How long before I have to start back?”

 “Anytime you feel like it. You won’t be need for several days now.”

 “Well in that case I think I’ll check out that gun shop.”

 “Are you a detective then? In my case, I received a letter from home about six months ago. My brother had been approached by the Union War Department. By letter alone I was recruited to help the northern cause by functioning as a go between here in this shop. But I’ve never had to venture forth to do anything more complicated. You must be the next level up in the spying game.”

 “I’m not speaking from a great deal of experience, Mr Quincy, but I’m inclined to think that spying is no game. But anyway, I’m going to check out that gun shop because that gentleman I met in the swamp threatened to come after me. When a man does something like that, it’s a good idea to learn all you can about him.”

 “What makes you think the proprietor of the gun shop will know who you’re asking about?”

 “Well, in this town lots of people own derringers. Some even own a shotgun. But I’m thinking that a ten bore rifled musket will stand out even in a gun shop.”

 The cobbler nodded to himself as William turned and headed back out the door.

Chapter Eight

 Roy Palmer was pretty much in the same boat as the covert cobbler. He was kept busy because everyone in the parish wanted their gun in good working order in case the Yankee soldiers turned Visigoth. Cash was in short supply but Palmer was willing to get along with the barter system rather than fold up shop. He was well established in the old city and could get just about anything that one would tend to spend money on. (Bearing in mind that he was an old man and didn’t need any of the female companionship that the city was famous for.) But unfortunately, not all of his clientele was inclined to exercise patience and understanding during the lean times that often accompanied a war.

 “I’ve come for my trade rifle, Palmer,” declared a burley lumber hauler named Corey.

 The old gunsmith rolled his eyes with his back to the customer and said, “I told you five days ago that you are toward the bottom of a long list of people who pay on time even if it is in chicken eggs or horse feed.”

 “And how many of those people get tempted to break a finger or two when they get mad?” growled the younger man. “That’s why I don’t work in Mobile no more. My cousin runs the biggest smuggling operation in the city. I was working for him and got a little carried away while I was collecting some money that was owed the boss. So I was sent west to oversee some lumber moving cause it doesn’t involve collecting. But that’s business. This is a private concern. I want my gun back, and I don’t want to wait behind some merchant who shoots snakes in his basement with birdshot.”

 “Your cousin put you in charge of lumber because it’s something you can’t drink up, knock up or sell to ship’s captain in secret. But the only thing that matters around here is how I do business and I do business on a first come first serve basis unless I see some really big money; and that doesn’t happen in times like these.”

 Corey grabbed the gunsmith by the shirt and almost lifted him off the floor.

 “I’m thinking you can fix my gun with a broken foot. So I’m asking you now if that’s gunna be part of your way of doing business.”

 “Funny you should bring up the subject of criminal organizations,” said William from the other side of the shop. “I work for such an outfit, and I don’t like being kept waiting anymore than you do. So I suggest that you let go of that man and get the hell out of here.”

 Cory gazed incredulously at the stranger for a moment then released the shop keeper.

 “Who in tarnation are you?”

 “I don’t feel like telling you. Now get out.”

 Cory’s expression went from one of amazement to one of cruel resolve.

 “Sure Mister, but I’m taking your nose with me.”

 The foul tempered customer drew out a wicked looking fighting knife and advanced on William; who drew his own blade and held it foolishly at head level as if he meant to stab a pig. As was intended, Cory closed the distance with a grin, thinking that he was up against the worst knife fighter in all of New Orleans. At such times some men would look into the other man’s eyes. The most pragmatic would stare at the opponent’s weapon. William did neither. He took in the whole image of his enemy; from head to toe. At that time movement was not as important as distance however, and the later would be measured by a man who had made an art of it.

 At precisely the right moment William’s foot swung out with machine like efficacy. Cory had been distracted by the knife, which only came down when the kicking foot was being lowered. The pain in Cory’s testicles clouded his mind to all else for an instant, and an instant was all William needed to execute his pig stab on a muscular forearm. Cory’s brain now registered a slightly different form of pain, one that was a bit less intoxicating, and his own hand closed on the now abandoned handle for the purpose of pulling the blade back out. But a straight punch to the chin ended both the pain and the self awareness of the man, who then dropped like a sack of potatoes.

 “Good Lord---from one frying pan into another,” the gunsmith muttered to himself.

 “I’ll arrange to have him thrown in jail for a bit,” promised William. “It’s not likely he’ll hold you to blame for this.”

 “Actually mister, I was thinking I might be in trouble with you now.”

 “What would bring you to that conclusion?” asked William as he pulled his knife from a piece of meat.

 “You said you belong to gang. How does that concern me?”

 “Actually, I wasn’t entirely truthful with the gent. I’m William Longpenance, and I’m sort of a private detective working for a very wealthy fellow. Before I remove that pile of debris from you floor, I need to ask you about a gun.”

 “Well sir, that does happen on occasion. What kind of gun?”

 “A 10 bore rifled musket.”

 “Lamont’s gun?”

 “The same.”

 “Well, it wasn’t purchased here. He just needed to get a hammer spring fixed. Then he asked if I could get him a few more spare parts that might go bad on him in the future. You see, he’s got himself a foreign made gun that was manufactured in small numbers. In a few years it might be hard to find parts for the piece. If you plan on keeping a gun like that, and giving it a work out, you might be wise to have a few spare parts available so you don’t need to have a metal smith make you a spare part. That kind of thing is more expensive.”

 “Yea, I know all about that. So what can you tell me about Lamont?”

 Part time bounty hunter—part time gator skinner. Never gave me no grief, but he’s a sight more dangerous than that fool on the floor.”

 “Got any mutual acquaintances?”

 “Yea, the man who runs the tannery just west of the St. Nicholas Cemetery. His name is Aaron Dupont. He takes the gator hides for one thing or another.”

 “This Lamont fella ever have a brush with the law?”

 “No idea. Lots of men straddle the line in this city.”

 “I know, but the kind that will be coming after me will have both feet squarely on one side; the bad side. Wish I was wrong about that.”

 The shop owner suddenly looked pensive.

 “You got any money to spend on something nice?”

  William frowned at that. Usually when he heard that line it meant that he was in the company of a pimp.

 “You got a sideline going old man?”

  Palmer disappeared into a back room for a moment and when he returned he was holding a very large revolver rifle. A converted LeMat to be exact.

 “Well I’ll be damned,” breathed William as he was handed the weapon.

 The famous LeMat was created as a nine shot .42 or .35 calber ball and cap revolver with a 16 gauge shotgun barrel where the cylinder pin would normally be located. It was more cumbersome than a Colt revolver but offered it’s owner a significant advantage in fire power. This LaMat was in the rare carbine version with eighteen inch barrels and a wooden shoulder stock. William dilated at the sight of it.

 “Why isn’t that thing in the hands of a Confederate officer? Don’t you know there’s a war on?”

 “Yea, got that impression from all those Union ships steaming up the Mississippi,” Palmer half joked. “Truth be known, I was raised in the north and only came down here because I hate the cold. Of course, down here I’ve learned to hate snakes, pushy white trash and bugs the size of mice. I guess the world is imperfect just about anywhere you go. Anyway, I’m inclined to think you should be matched up with this weapon---if you can pay me for it.”

 “Well, I don’t know…” William half mumbled to himself while checking the contents of his pocket.

 Then something occurred to him. He quickly went through Cory’s pockets and found twenty-eight dollars.

 “What do you say?” inquired the customer as he placed a pile of coins on the counter top.

 “What a coincidence, that there is the exact price. But I hope you can get Cory to believe that he lost his coin someplace other that here.”

 “Don’t worry, I’ll slug him again before his little brain starts taking notice of things again.”

 “That much thumping might make him simple minded,” warned the gunsmith.

 “Hell, what’s he go to lose,” grumbled William as he sat the unconscious man up in order to get him into a fireman’s carry.

Chapter Nine

 William got lucky, the tannery was large enough to merit a receptionist during business hours. So after pouring some whiskey over Cory and then depositing him in the carriage of a well to do banker, William trotted over to the tannery in order to call on Mr. Dupont. Like most local business men, it was not in Dupont’s nature to spread idle gossip concerning fellow citizens. But since gator hunters were a dime a dozen, and because William had stated flat out that Lamont had killed a man in the swamp, the business man decided to share the one piece of information that proved useful.

 A few weeks ago Dupont just happened to be looking out a window facing his unusual neighbor and he saw Lamont part company with the neighbor’s grounds keeper before heading for the tannery with a wagon load of gator hides. It was not usual for the grounds keeper to chew the fat with anyone, so Dupont easily recalled the encounter. That got William to wondering if perhaps Lamont was selling gator hides just so he’d have an excuse for frequenting that part of town. In any case, it was time to touch base with the cobbler. When he was still ten paces from the shop’s front door the proprietor grabbed a double barreled percussion 12 gauge that was wrapped in a canvas case.

 “I just got instructions half an hour ago to help you check out the Mercier estate.”

 William gave the cobbler a puzzled look and asked, “Who told you I was in that neck of the woods?”

 Now it was the cobbler’s turn to look surprised.

 “I didn’t know you had gone there. I just got a message and have been patiently waiting for you to return.”

 “But who the hell is keeping track of me? I don’t mind being watched, but it might prove useful to know who it is in case I need to signal for help.”

 “I only meet with a courier who doesn’t even give a name,” said Quincy. “He picks up and he drops off. I read my instructions and then burn the paper. That’s how it works.

 “Alright, but don’t you have something smaller to shoot? I’d just as soon avoid making a lot of noise if it comes down to a fight.”

 “I’m a cobbler, not a pimp or gambler. Besides, I tried to shoot my cousin’s derringer once and couldn’t hit a thing. With a 12 bore gun, you don’t need to be practiced.”

 “Same thing is true of a club, and it’s quieter. Just remember Mr. Quincy, we’ll be trespassers on some else’s property, so keep  the hammers down on that piece until there’s real trouble.”

 “Whatever you say, I’m an expert in punching holes in leather---not people.”

 William nodded in approval. He would have preferred the company of an experienced fighting man, but if a neophyte is required, better someone who is wise enough to recognize his own limitations. When they got to the swamp edge of the estate, William pointed to an outbuilding that was seventy feet from the mansion.

 “You hunker down next to the wood pile there in the back. That way you’ll only be visible from the cemetery side. I’m going to sneak into the mansion and see if I can find anything worthy of my attention.”

 Then as an after thought William asked, “That message only said you should help me check out the Mercier place?”

 “That was it. Fact is all I’ve ever done is operate from my shop. I can’t even tell you how my mysterious boss knew that I’d be willing to do this.”

 “We’ll mull that over if and when we get out of here,” muttered William as he lead the way toward the center of the property.

 By the time the two men reached the back of the outbuilding Quincy was fairly drenched in sweat.

 “If I find out that my dear loud mouth brother told the War Department that I’m the brave adventurous sort, I will strangle him with my bare hands,”  the cobbler silently vowed.

 “Ok, wish me luck,” William said in a low voice.

 “I’ll take the luck for myself. God seems to have already endowed you with everything else,” the cobbler joked because he was frightened.

 The professional fighting man paused but refrained from comment. This was no time to bring up the subject of his truly bizarre past. With a mental shrug he proceeded on toward the mansion. He and Quincy had waited in the swamp until the night bugs had fairly driven them out of the wet land. It still wasn’t as late as William would have had it, but he had been told that this Mercier fellow was an old man and therefor would likely retire early along with any domestic help.

 William wasn’t surprised to find all three entrances locked, even though it was an uncommon practice to lock doors in a crime free neighborhood. Because of the mosquitos all the wi ndows were closed, but there was a kitchen window that was reachable without a rope and grappling hook, and it was unlatched, possibly because the cook wasn’t very security minded. William chided himself for not bring climbing equipment so that would have enabled him to pick and choose any window in the house. But fortune had provided him with an entry point and at least he didn’t have to worry that someone might have their sleeping quarters in the kitchen.

 As William eased himself onto the building he continued to wonder why he was fortunate enough not to be hearing the barking of a dog. Most estates had at least one, and it was no small challenge killing a sentry dog when it’s master was nearby. Of course the constant barking at other animals could get on a man’s nerves, and Mercier had his own security guard protecting the grounds, so the absence of a dog did not overly reoccupy the intruder’s thoughts. In any case, the objective was to find a desk where Mercier conducted his business affairs. Hopefully he would find something of interest, and hopefully there would be some moonlight coming to make the papers readable.

 William was just about to leave the kitchen when the household delivered a unpleasant surprise. There was a staircase not far away and it sounded as if a whole bloody procession of people were descending down it.

 “Martha left half a ham in the ice box sir. I could wrap it up and take it along,” said a young male voice.

 “Jock, how many times must I tell you never to eat food when working with the chemicals,” an older man scowled, “besides which Cheval would probably beat you to it in any case.”

 Horus and Henry allowed themselves a small grin. Jock was always thinking about his stomach, which admittedly was a more practical vice than the one Henry was devoted to. He kept regular rendezvous with a woman in the cemetery. Some people would find that odd but there was in fact a certain logic to it. It was one of the few places in New Orleans where you could take privacy for granted.

 Only when the footsteps began to diminish did William allow himself to relax and take his hand off of his pistol. Then he had to make a decision; follow the late evening procession out the door or gamble on finding some important documents in the dark with so many wide awake people running about. Then it occurred to the intruder that there was no horse and wagon hitched for a ride outside. He had scouted the property quite carefully and affirmed the location of the grounds keeper before advancing on the kitchen window. That meant that those men were tending to something very nearby. Poor Quincy would be having a fit right about now. So William climbed back out the kitchen window and cautiously made his way back to where his partner was indeed anxious to share what he had learned.

 “William, you are a sight for sore eyes,” the cobbler whispered. “Do you know about those four men? They came out the front door of the mansion and then headed around the southeast corner. Is there another horse stable that way?”

 “No, nothing except a basement entrance.”

 “Why would they have one of those?” asked Quincy, “the water table is so high around here any basement would be flooded most of the year.”

 “Yea, you would think so. Alright, I’ll check it out. You stay here and make sure that no one comes up behind me from this direction.”

 The cobbler looked puzzled as well as uneasy.

 “Well, does that mean I should get the drop on him and hit him over the head?”

 “I would consider that a viable option,” William replied before setting off.

 A minute later he was standing over the big stairwell cover that had been built forty-five degrees relative to the surface of the yard.

 “They must have gone down this,”  William thought to himself, “there’s no other place close by where they could have gone.”

 Squatting down beside the trap door, he very carefully opened it a crack. He thought he heard distant voices but felt more than saw that it was late enough to risk following the party down the stairs. With his pistol out he ventured forward and couldn’t help but grin at what he found. He ran his hand along the smooth wooden wall that joined so perfectly with the matching ceiling and deck. The basement was functioning like the hold of a ship. The waterlogged soil of the bayou country was on the other side of that peculiar hull, but on Earth would anyone want a basement bad enough to build something like this?

 As if on cue the crack of a pistol resonated out of an antechamber not far ahead. William dropped into a lower stance and his pistol rose up higher, but his eyes told him that there was no one there to shoot at just yet. With small light steps he advanced on this unhappy mystery until he could actually make out the mumblings of the group that stood beyond the last doorway.

 “Now get to your feet,” an older sounding voice instructed.

 After a pause the same voice said, “Let us try something different here. Shoot him in the pelvis Jock and let us see if he is able to stay on his feet.”

 William had heard enough. Charging in he located the man with the small caliber Colt and shot Jock square in the heart without ceremony.

 “That was to get your attention,” he growled at the remaining three. “Now we’re going to---“

 William paused as he suddenly took in the particulars of the man sized sink and the array of surgical instruments that were ready for use. The fact that a black man had been shot in abdomen merely reinforced William’s theory that these characters were part of something that went beyond slavery.

 William focused on the black man’s wound for a moment and said, “Hey, you better lower yourself down on the floor. Old Man, wrap a pressure bandage around his waist and do a good job or I’ll shoot you in the same damn place.”

 The old man did what he had to do to keep from being shot. But no one (including William) believed that the Negro would be alive when the sun came up. When the bandaging was completed the newly acquired prisoners were ordered to step away from the fallen Baby Dragoon revolver so that William could safely pick it up. Then he made an empty promise of getting help for the black man and proceeded to march everyone else out of the secret hideout. Quincy came out of hiding when he saw that his partner was herding a pack of prisoners towards the horse barn.

 “I sure hope we got some kind of legal leg to stand on here,” said Quincy as he came out of the dark.

 “We do. An escaped slave was shot by them in the basement and he’s in a bad way.”

 “A slave that’s the property of one of these fellas?” Quincy hastily inquired.

 “I don’t think so. Looks like they’ve been playing some sort of sadistic game with others before now. Maybe quite a few.”

 “Good, because shooting your own slave and spitting on a public walkway will get you pretty much the same amount of jail time.”

 “I fear you have much more to be concerned about than the legal ramifications of a citizen’s arrest,” said the old man. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am---“

 “Professor Thaddeus Mercier,” interrupted the man with the pistols. “Yea I know who you are and I don’t doubt that prosecuting you would be an uphill run. So while my friend and one of you other two gents gets a wagon hitched to a horse, why don’t we go over a proposition that would be beneficial to us all.”

 Mercier hesitated for an instant and then said, “Henry, hitch up the wagon for these gentlemen while I listen to what this remarkable fellow has to say.”

 “Keep your distance Quincy,” warned William.

 “Hope the grounds keeper will do the same,” the cobbler responded before disappearing into the barn with Henry.

 “You…”

 “Horus,”  piped in Mercier.

 “Get down on your belly with your arms spread out and stay that way until we’re ready to leave. Professor, why don’t you come a bit closer to me and turn around. If that grounds keeper shows up, we don’t want him waking up the neighborhood with gunfire.”

 “Cheval is most likely watching our every move,” said Mercier.

 “Just so he doesn’t do anything to interrupt my train of thought. Horus and Cheval will carry the black man back into the first chamber where there’s no blood, bodies or drain tubes. We’ll go get the doctor and explain that an escaped slave was shot while trying to steal food. Then tomorrow I suggest you get rid of Jock and your oversized bath tub.”

 “We are not going to visit the Sheriff?” queried the professor.

 “Not if you’re willing to answer one question. I’m sure you’re able to guess what it would be.”

 “Ah yes, that brings us back to your rather unflattering assumption. You think I shoot Negros because I dislike them.”

 “It did look that way, but now I sense that my imagination was playing tricks on me. Why pray tell, did you have that man shot in the stomach?”

 “Because I am developing a revolutionary type of medicine that will be of great benefit to our soldiers in the field. I cannot deny that the experiments are unethical, but Negros die all the time for reasons far less worthy than what I have to offer my fellow man.”

 After a pause William said, “You know what? I actually believe you. I thought for sure you would toss a lie in my face.”

 “The truth in this case, is far more powerful than any deception could possibly be,” reasoned the man of letters. “Unofficially speaking, I’m doing the right thing. I admit that I was quite squeamish about the whole project in the beginning. Fortunately I got over it.”

 “Yea, that’s the sad thing about killing. Repetition can sort of hollow you out.”

 Quincy and Henry then came out of the barn with a horse and wagon.

 Professor, you will ride beside us on the buckboard. As for that wounded slave; your hired help can scare him into keeping quiet but that’s all. I want him to have a fair chance to survive this. That’s part of the deal.”

 “You’re a very trusting sort, Mr…”

 “You can call me Bill. I’ll have someone meet with your doctor at a later time. If I find out that the Negro was encouraged to pass on, I’ll come looking for you after the war.”

 “You would do that because of a slave?”

 “I’ll do it because I like to make good on my mistakes. If you kill any more people, I’ll consider you a mistake.”

 Mercier got hold of his doctor and told the required tale in front of William and Quincy. Then the two Union agents made their excuses and parted company with the better educated men. On their way back to the leather shop Quincy said, “I guess I’ll have to run for it now. I can’t possibly hope to stay out of trouble with those villains running loose.”

 “Yea, I’m afraid you’re right Quincy, and I’m sorry I brought all that down on you. But your mysterious people wanted us to check the place out and in doing so we pretty much waded into the muck all the way. Unless you got instructions to the contrary, I think we should leave town together. Head back on that swamp trail of mine.”

 “But you might run into that that man with the elephant gun,” the cobbler pointed out.

 William spotted a couple of store window manikins and then grinned to himself.

 “You know what Quincy---suddenly I find myself hoping for just that.”

 The older man frowned in puzzlement. For him, this had been one hell of a night. 

 

Chapter Ten

If you wanted to study the history of American architecture, you could spend your entire life in New Orleans and it would be a life well spent. In 1831, a relative late comer by the name of Samuel Hermann built an estate that to this day is regarded as one of the historic jewels of the old French quarter. In 1844 Hermann suffered a devastating reverse of fortunes and was forced to sell his magnificent property to a legal genius named Judge Felix Grima. The judges intellectual prowess proceeded him in his many travels, and during the civil war he and his family spent a great deal of time out east.

 But most citizens of New Orleans were not inclined to evacuate the city when the Union forces took control of the city. Most certainly the residents of the cities’ criminal underworld  wouldn’t be going anywhere. In fact, there was a criminal organization that was actually thriving in one of America’s darkest periods. In the living room of the Grima house a special meeting was taking place. The host was the judge’s legal secretary; a young and very ambitious man named Gunther Listrom. The other men present were Cesar Rodriguez, Albert Dousette, Carlos Rivera and  Lorenzo Piero.

 Crime lords one and all, visiting a home that belonged to a legal scholar. Listrom took no pleasure in this, anymore than he enjoyed giving orders to slave servants. He was little more than a non-judgmental man who intended to work certain political realities to his advantage. He had become a working arm of a criminal organization that had use for New Orleans. Not the first, but quite possibly the grandest. Only time would tell.

 “Gentlemen, by now you have ascertained that I am more of a clerk than an ambassador, so let us skip the niceties and get right down to business. Mr. Rodriguez, has the iron clad reached Mobile yet?”

 “Si, but it cannot continue onward until the weather improves. The seas are too rough at this time.”

 “That is fine, so long as the vessel reaches the rendezvous point before Farragut decides it’s safe to assign patrol duties to his invasion fleet. I just received word that the counterfeit iron clads have been built and are under wraps so to speak. But if the Union Navy should spread out in the wrong direction, our launching depot could possibly be discovered and we certainly don’t want that.”

 “I am down to three ships, Mr. Listrom. I will not commit a single one of them to this operation if the Union forces discover that a fleet of wooden iron clads intends to create a diversion in the delta region,” the smuggler Rivera stated categorically.

 “Every kingpin maintains control over his own resources,” Listrom reminded them all. “This war is a double edged sword. It justifies inflated prices on our wares, but we live with the constant danger that a military force could crush our operations at any given time. However, my people are working on a newly formed project that might be of great interest to some of you gentlemen, which is why Mr. Dousette had been invite to attend this meeting. His field is narcotics smuggling, and he will be conducting distribution operations for a new product that will someday change the face of modern warfare.”

 “I will be happy to learn all I can about this new product after the present operation has reached a satisfactory conclusion,” said Piero.

 Listrom mentally rolled his eyes at the statement and then pulled out a much used river map from a very thick folder.

 “Let us go through this one more time Gentlemen. The bottom portion of the Mississippi river is a splendid place for a smuggling vessel to play hide and seek with the occasional government patrol vessel. But now that the Union Navy controls the area, it is too dangerous traveling up and down the river, even with dozens of branch waterway that can accommodate ocean going smugglers. We are sitting on eight tons of valuable merchandise that was supposed to reach New Orleans, but did not because of Farragut and his damn fleet. We cannot sit on all this merchandise forever, so we are in the process of creating a spectacular diversion that will draw the Union fleet back out into the gulf and give us one last chance to deliver a large cargo to our customers.”

 “But there is no reason to suppose that the entire fleet will leave the Mississippi river,” growled Piero. “Surely they will leave some of their vessels in the area of the city.”

 “Of course, but the river patrols will have to be discontinued, and the entire dock area will no longer be choked with northern warships. An early morning fog and just a tiny bit of luck will be all we’ll need to unload our goods once the majority of the northern fleet is sailing across Lake Borgne towards The Rigolets.”

 The Rigolets is a channel connecting the gulf lake of Borgne with the purer fresh water lake Pontchartrain. The later body of water borders New Orleans itself, but it’s inferior docking facilities made it an unworthy objective for Farragut. Fort Pike guarded the rigolets channel, but that waterway would only accommodate a marine assault which was no longer a concern to either army. But it would serve a criminal purpose well enough, at least a body of scheming crooks hoped that it would.

 “Admittedly, when word reaches the Union Navy that a fleet of iron clad vessels is bound for Fort Pike, the brass will be skeptical in the extreme. But no less than three dozen mounted men will deliver the same message from different points along the waterway. Farragut’s people will be forced to believe that the Confederate Navy has lost it’s collective mind, and that half a dozen iron clads exist in that backwater area.”

 “Five wooden decoy boats towed behind one real iron clad?” asked Piero, and not for the first time.

  “The armor is only thick enough to turn aside a musket ball. Can’t make a towing vessel too heavy after all.”

 “Well, we have all agreed to gamble, but if this does not work out I will insist that my brother-in-law was responsible for my end of it,” grumbled Piero.

Dousette loudly cleared his throat and Listrom was quick to pick up on it.

 “As I was saying, we’re developing a new drug; a miraculous pain killer that will enable a soldier to keep fighting for a time even when mortally wounded.”

 “And who will pay us for this drug—the north or the south?” asked Rivera.

 “Every military in the world, once they see what the drug can do. This war will be the proving ground once we have enough of it manufactured. In fact it could even have peace time applications, but I don’t wish to look that far down the road just yet.”

 “What is the origin of this drug?” queried Rodriguez.

 “The Company had directed me to tell you that the information is classified.”

 “That is not the first time you have used those words,” Rodriguez pointed out.

 “Nor will it be the last,” said Listrom without blinking. “I am not a kingpin, I am but a humble representative of an organization.”

 “This---Company that has so much for us to believe in, would recruit better if they were more open,” said Piero.

 “Yes, I suppose that is true,” admitted the Anglo, “but anonymity is what they prize above all else. Still, I’m willing to take you all into my confidence by informing you that The Company is an international criminal organization that is centuries old and always in the thick of any enterprise that turns a pretty penny. London, Singapore, Lisbon….They ‘ve been around.”

 “And now our beloved New Orleans matters to them?” probed Rodriguez.

 “Yes, for one very good reason,” said Listrom before gesturing Dousette to take over.

 “The product of which we speak, can only be harvested in Louisiana,” said the drug lord with a ghost of a smile.

Chapter Eleven

 Yancy Lamont could not believe the gall of his adversary. First the son of a bitch rides away and leaves him as if he was nothing. Then he raided a crime syndicate safe house and once again just rode away leaving dangerous men still breathing. Now he was riding down the same trail where he and Lamont locked horns not long ago. Well sir, it was time to reward audacity with a .76 caliber chest smasher. The fact that there were two riders didn’t mean a thing to Lamont, he only needed to kill one of them, and most likely the other gent would cripple his horse running down the poor trail in a state of panic.

 As was so often the case, the swamp hunter had to make his shot in the dead of night. But the moon was strong and the target seemed to have supreme confidence in his guardian angel. In any case, Lamont let out half a breath and squeezed the trigger as the horse moped along. The swamp lit up for an instant, and the rider flew out of the saddle with unnatural speed. The other rider paid his companion no mind and wisely shouldered past the lead horse and broke into a reckless gallop. Lamont drew out his revolver and advanced on the spot where his victim had fallen. The horse eyed the approaching human from a distance of twenty feet, debating whether or not to follow the other horse.

 Lamont didn’t spare the animal a single glance. He moved in a straight line to the still form in the middle of the trail. A form that seemed unusually pale in the moonlight. Suddenly the hunter tensed, and stared incredulously at the thing he had just shot. Never in his wildest dreams did he every suspect that someday he would find a store manikin in the middle of his hunting ground. But when he kicked the form over with his boot, the truth became apparent, and he knew that he was now in someone’s sights.

 “Once a bushwhacker always a bushwhacker.” said a familiar voice.

 “What’s honorable, and what works best, are two different things,” the hunter explained.

 “I agree with you,” said William as he came out of the darkness, “and I’m willing to spare your life a second time if you’ll clear a few things up for me.”

 “You mean you’ll actually give me another chance to kill you in the future?” Lamont asked in open amazement.

 “Nope. I’ll turn you over to some people I know. They’ll put you in a prisoner of war camp until the hostilities end. You won’t like it much, but at least you’ll still be alive.”

 “I didn’t realize I was shooting as someone with so much clout. You should have told me earlier.”

 “Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I don’t like killing people. I just do it when I need to.”

 “But that means I don’t have a good reason to tell you anything,” reasoned the hunter.

 “Sure you do. I said I don’t hold with unnecessary killing, but a man like yourself would probably prefer to be dead if both his knee caps got shot away.”

 Lamont gazed appreciatively at William’s revolver rifle.

 “I’ll make you a counter offer. I’ll tell you everything you need to know about your enemies, if you put me on a Union ship heading for Florida. I can make my way there until the war ends, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

 “There is the problem of credibility,” William pointed out.

 “Swamp folk don’t lie. We just do what we gotta do to come out on top. There is a difference.”

 William let out a sigh and said, “I’ve learned a thing or two since your last encounter. You have to tell me something I don’t already know. That is the deal.”

 “Well sir, you’re a fool, but you’re the best kind to lose out to so here’s what I’ve got to say: There is a really big gang fixing to take over the city. They found a way to make a hell of a lot of money with plants that grow around these parts. But them plants---they can do unnatural things to men as you saw earlier. I tried to kill you, there is no denying that fact. But it is also a fact that I saved you from becoming like Haskell. It works kind of like rabies.”

 “I gotta admit that I didn’t learn that from the good professor,” admitted William.

 “That might be because I learned it out here. You see, Haskell ran into a fellow trapper friend of mine before I could hunt him down. I ended up burying two zombies, not one.”

 “You’re losing me, Bushwhacker,” warned William. “I don’t believe in that shit.”

 Neither did I, but if you stop to think about it: how many voodoo priestesses have spent their lives talking about such things, even though it got them in trouble with the Catlics?”

 “Yea, the priests and nuns brought that stuff up a lot while I was growing up. They certainly have their own ideas about how things should work,” William said with a hint of regret.

 “Starting and ending with who and how to hump,” put in Lamont. “Then they get real smug cause they don’t have to worry about the pox. That’s why I like women with no teeth. You don’t get no cock rot and nothing gets bit off when she turns out to be crazy,” the swamp man said partially to himself.

 “Yea---well, I think I know the truth when it is so eloquently delivered. I’ll get you shipped out if you don’t try anything stupid between now and then.”

 The cobbler suddenly reappeared and gazed dourly at the unarmed swamp man.

 “You haven’t shot him yet?”

 “He’s too valuable, Quincy. Did you know that we’ll be fighting zombies before long?”

 “He told you that? Hell, zombies are just retarded people how stray out into the woods from time to time. Don’t believe one word that comes out if his mouth, William.”

 “Well, there is one more thing I’d like to talk to you about, Bushwhacker.”

 Lamont folded his arms and ask, “What would that be?”

 “Why didn’t you tell Mercier about the bite infection thing when you returned to town?”

 “Because he treated me like shit, that’s why. I’m not used to being yelled at, especially by men who don’t swear, fight, whore or even spit. Hate the idea that real men like myself have to ‘yessir’  to the likes of that book worm. Makes me want to get drunk.”

 “Or because it’s Wednesday,” Quincy muttered to himself.

 “I thought it was Sunday,” Lamont admitted with some embarrassment.

Chapter Twelve

 Gregory Mac Donald’s eyes were bloodshot from all the late night paper work that had befallen him. Not just because of William and Quincy’s recent sojourn, but because of troop movements in the area and a fact that he had been given additional responsibilities beyond the workings of the mill. Quincy had been debriefed and sent down river to get picked up by a steamboat, leaving William to wonder if the courier operation would now be aborted.

 “Despite the fact that the area is unstable, my superiors have decided to move our operation closer to New Orleans. This will take place in six to eight weeks depending on the weather. You will no longer be functioning as a courier. You’ve been assigned to carry out a task that would have constituted an appropriate action back in that basement lab you uncovered.”

 “Are you suggesting that I should have assassinated the professor?” asked William with a tired look.

 “Heavens no. You should have abducted him. Didn’t that occur to you?”

 “Not really. He accidentally did a very bad thing to one of his test subjects, why would you want a man like that in your production program?”

 “Because we have been operating with an ethical handicap, which means the competition is a leg up on us. This Mercier fellow could be very---instructive.”

 “He treats human beings like lab rats. Maybe I should have killed him, but now he’s probably very well protected,” William said flatly.

 “Let’s not just to any conclusions here,” advised Mac Donald, “even the president of the United States only has one bodyguard.”

 “Yea, heard it was General McClellan and the whole northern army.”

 Mac Donald shrugged slightly.

 “Don’t know where that joke is most popular, in the north or the south. Anyway, it’s time to introduce you to your new partner. The two of you are going to abduct Mercier before he can be relocated, or else see to it that he’s no longer part of any Godless experimentation program.”

 With that the manager rose up on stiff legs and led the way to the building’s back exit. Just outside the building there were two wood piles. One was made up of whole logs that had been cut into sections with a saw. The other pile was smaller, and it consisted of split cords of wood; reduced in size by ax cuts made along the grain of the wood. There was a chopping block embedded in the damp earth between the piles, and a tall broad shouldered man towered over the block with a well worn ax gripped in large strong hands.

 The wood cutter was a Negro perhaps twenty-five years of age. A clean white shirt hung from a wall lantern fixture, and the man’s black trousers appeared to be new. He also sported a fine pair of boots the likes of which would never be found on the feet of a slave. The ax continued to rise and fall the despite the arrival of the two white men. Mac Donald waited until the black man needed to work a stubborn piece of wood loose from the larger pile.

 “Simon, this is the man I was telling you about. William Longpenance; this is Simon Douglas.

 “Any relation to—“

 “No,” the black man interrupted as if he was tired of the question.

 Mac Donald stifled a smile and said, “Mr. Douglas here has the distinction of being the only runaway slave that was selected by Professor Mercier’s scrounger, but didn’t end up in that basement lab you discovered.”

 “Lucky you,” said William.

 “Luck didn’t have much to do with it,” responded the black man as he put his shirt back on. “I was an inside man for the Underground Railroad. When that two faced Abernathy offered to smuggle me up north I became understandably curious, since he was pretending to be one of my folk. So I skipped out on him when I sensed that I was a lamb being sent to the slaughter. When I got back to my home plantation I sent word out of my discovery. Didn’t know what would happen next, but a government agent showed up two weeks later pretending to be a slave buyer. He paid three times the normal price for me just so I could come here. It was explained to me that I’d be helping fellow Coloreds but in a different way.”

 “And chores like wood cutting keeps you looking like a normal hand around the property,” put in William.

 “True, but we also need to keep his hands callused. An outdoor slave with soft hands might look suspicious to one of Mercier’s people,” added Mac Donald.

 “Well, I can see I’m in the presence of real professional people here. So do we have a specific plan to go by or what?”

 Douglas didn’t know if William was being sincere or not, and it didn’t matter. He knew what his end of the mission would be, and nothing else mattered.

 “We’re going to give something a try,” said Mac Donald, “we’re going to set a trap to see what we can catch. The fellow who bought Simon for us is now in the process of asking every Tom, Dick and Harry about Abernathy. He’ll let it be known that concerned parties are on to that so called minister. We’re hoping that such a development will arouse their curiosity enough to put a tail on our man.”

 “What’s his name?” asked William.

 “Preston. James I think.”

 “Well, you better warn Mr. Preston to watch his back. A lot of things get sold in New Orleans, including information. Local people are always on the lookout for Union operatives. They could pick up on this Preston guy real easy.”

 “Did I mention that we’re setting a trap?” Mac Donald asked with just a hint of sarcasm.

 “Are we part of that operation?”

 “Probably not, but you’ll be given the means to communicate with the people who are. Your job will be to act on the information we hope to obtain if and when we catch someone with information to exchange for a light prison sentence. In any case, both of you know people in the metropolitan area who might have heard stories of slave escapes. No harm in you looking into that while waiting for the Preston trap to be sprung.”

 “Why is everything so sketchy in the spy business?” complained William.

 “Can’t you guess? It’s so if you get yourself captured, the information you give them will be just as vague as the information I give you.”

 “More and more I regret that the courier thing went sour,” said William.

 “A man of your caliber shouldn’t be wasted on simple chores, Mr. Longpenance. Just as Simon would have been wasted if he had simply escaped to flee up north.”

 William looked for some reaction from the black man, but his new associate remained silent and deadpan.

Chapter Thirteen

 After two weeks of trying to look conspicuous wondering in and out of low life drinking emporiums, ex-sheriff Jim Preston reported to Mac Donald’s field rep and it was decided that the opposition was now in hiding mode and would not show a fin on the surface of water. A few thousand Union troops had been given the job of policing a city that was fifty times their number, so the military governor quite wisely decided to make under the table deals with the movers and the shakers of the city, as well as instituting a bread and circus program for the poor.

 (Minus the circus.)

 That made it very difficult to detect the sort of abnormalities in the underground economy that might point toward another chemical experimentation program. It was always like looking for a needle in a haystack, but since drug related enterprises were ongoing and always striving to branch out, it wasn’t really foolish (exactly) to hope that you might catch just the right kind of fish in a lake that was a bit over stocked with every slimy critter you can imagine.  Since Farragut’s arrival, it was like trying to play a flute in a windstorm. Shortly after Preston and his fellow crook catchers gave it up, William and Simon headed for the state’s capitol. While impersonating a shoe shine boy, Simon had learned that an unusually large shipment of opiates was on it’s way to Baton Rouge. That seemed doubly suspicious because by then it was common knowledge that the Confederate government had evacuated the capital city and had set up shop in Opelousas.

 Since it was the best lead they could come up with, the two men used their influence with the Union Navy to get as far up the Mississippi as was possible at the time. Even when no CSA vessels were around to challenge their armor plated steamer, they were treated to the semi-constant bell ringing of .57 caliber musket balls bouncing off the superstructure from both sides of the river bank. Then when they found a secluded bend in the river, they off loaded their horses and headed over land to the Atchafalaya River, which was only ten miles from their destination.

 As it turned out, Lady Luck was smiling on them when they reached the parallel river system. Their quarry had forced a small side wheeler to take them up a section of the river that was currently in bad shape. As a result, their starboard wheel caught a piece of drift wood and was badly damaged. So they sat on the river bank waiting for a wagon to transport ten cases of opiates to a town that was busy playing host to the state’s bureaucrats and the many records that had to be transported with them.

 Once again Simon demonstrated his usefulness. All he had to do was walk up to the stranded white people and humbly ask them if there was anything he could do to earn a bite to eat. The answer was no, but it became plain enough to him that they were waiting on a wagon. The master of the side wheeler was highly resentful of the fact that the wagon would not contain repair parts, only a means to off load a cargo that the riverboat skipper now wished he had never laid eyes on. So with that information in hand, the black man trudged back to where William was hidden with the horses. The two men agreed that audacity was required in this instance, so they headed up the road to the state’s temporary capital until they reached the halfway point. Then they camped along the road until a wagon came their way.

 There was just one man riding on the buckboard, but William and Simon positioned themselves on opposite sides of the wagon all the same.

 “Excuse me, would you be on your way to the river?” asked William.

 The freight hauler stared at Simon for an instant, somewhat puzzled by the look in the slave’s eyes.

 “Yea. Some fancy dressed fella come up to me and hired me on the spot to take my rig to the landing. Said he had a cargo that needed to get to town today. Everything with four wheels is hauling government records and the like. So if you are in need of a wagon, you’ll have to wait until I’m done with those fellas on the mud. Damn if they didn’t wreck a side wheeler with half a forest floating in the water. Boat captain must have been real hard up for money to agree to such a thing.”

 “Or maybe he had a pistol shoved in his face,” said William who then smoothly drew out his Colt.

 Simon pulled out his own pistol which made the freight hauler go wide eyed in amazement.

 “That cargo you were hired to haul belongs to some pretty rough characters. They might offer you a second job that could involve risk to life and limb. We will spare you that danger.”

 William ushered the driver over to a stout tree that was some fifty yards from the road side.

 “What you fixing to do, Mister?”

 “I want you to bear hug this tree. I got a piece of rawhide here and I’m going to leave you here until we come back with the wagon.”

 “But what if you don’t come back. With the river shut down for a time, that road might not see another traveler until the boat parts get shipped out. That might not be for days,” protested the driver.

 “We’ll be back,” William assured him. Where would be go with a wagon load of opiates except to town?”

 “You mean pain killers?” queried the driver. “Well that don’t make any sense at all. The state government won’t make a stand against the Blue Belly’s at Opelousas and I know that for a fact. There is already talk about the government moving again within a year.”

 “Yea I guess that makes sense,” responded William as he applied the rawhide bindings.

 “So what the hell do you  want the drugs for? You can’t sell em in a small town like Opelousas, and if you steal my wagon to haul to another parish, my brother in law will hunt you down and hang you from a bigger three than this one.”

 “You will have your wagon back in a few hours, sir. I cannot tell you what I am about but surely you are intelligent enough to realize that if I was a criminal type, it would be easier to kill you than to tie you up.”

 “But you can’t deny that you are assaulting my person, taking my wagon without my leave and consorting with a Negro who is allowed to carry a deadly weapon.”

 “Would you feel better if I told you that he’s a lousy shot?” asked William.

 Before the driver could think of a suitable retort William shoved a makeshift gag in the man’s mouth.

 “Sorry, but I can’t take the chance that a rider might pass this way before we return.”

 William gave his victim a reassuring pat on the shoulder and left him with a silent promise to compensate the fellow even though it was a sure bet that he’d go running for the law as soon as he was able. He found Simon with reins in hand and his horse tied to the back of the wagon.

 “Too bad he isn’t a Reb soldier. Then you could have killed him instead of leaving a loose end behind us,” said Simon.

 “I take it you’ve killed a man or two in your day,” put in William while mounting his horse.

 “All for the cause,” Simon responded. “White men chasing runaways. Lowest form of life there is not counting Comancheros.”

 “Unless you know the man personally, you’re always risking a wrongful killing,” said William.

 The black man snorted at that.

 “Shee-it---a man’s out there in the middle of the night, prowling around where no man has a right to be after dark. What am I supposed to think, that he lost his way or something?”

 William was silent for a time, then he finally said, “I killed a man once who came at me out of the dark. Like you said, he shouldn’t have been there. But he was no criminal. He was no enemy of mine or anyone else. Granted, he was sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong---“

 “That there is another part of it,” interrupted Simon. “You don’t mind your own business, you gamble with your hide. Helping runaways was my business. I killed for them a couple of times. But if see some grinning ape taking guff from a white man, I won’t step into that. That slave is chained on the inside and I can’t help him with that. I can only help the men who have chosen to run for freedom.”

 “The man who came out at me from the dark was a Catholic priest. He didn’t like the idea of arming Chinese peasants with rifles. I guess he figured that a sword is the weapon of a professional killer, but a rifle can be used by anyone. That encourages bigger armies, and more dead.”

 “You were in China?”

 “Yup---smuggling guns. But after I killed that priest, my life became considerably more eventful; with good and bad luck stacked up to the sky.”

 “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 “It means that I wade through bad guys like Moses parting the Red Sea. I don’t get killed in the process, but I sure get hurt a lot.”

 “Well, I don’t see any body parts missing so maybe your life hasn’t been as bad as you think. Anyway, I have yet to meet a white man who would trade places with a slave.”

 William shrugged at that.

 “I talked to a butler once. His wife worked in the kitchen. They thought they had it pretty good. Sure, freedom is important, but their owner made them feel like they were free.”

 Simon looked slightly amused; but only slightly.

 “I never helped any butlers escape to freedom, just field hands. Anyway, when this war is over I’m going to have my hands full.”

 “How’s that?”
 “When the colored people are free, what do you think will happen to most of them? They won’t have the protection of their owners anymore, and there won’t be a lot of white folk offering them employment. They’ll need to get up north more than before. I’ve been promised operating money so I can keep using my escape routes, but I’ll be hard pressed to keep up with all the demand after the shooting stops.”

 “Maybe they should go west instead of north,” put in William. “They could work for the railroad, join the Army, prospect, farm land taken from the Indians---“

 Simon ‘s laughter was loud enough to wake the dead.

 “Good idea, White Man, keep them darkies out of the factories and mills up north.”

 “What the hell are you talking about?” responded William with heavy disapproval. “Maybe it’s time I explained to you that I am a world traveler who’s spent more time with non-white people than I have my own kind.”

“Who is your own kind?” queried the black.

 William briefly thought of his prostitute mother, her river rat acquaintances and the church people who were supposed to save him from a life in the gutter; except that he wouldn’t have ended up there because he was too damn smart. Not terribly wise, but smart. People who live in New Orleans and have a taste for travel will end up do it, and William’s experiences abroad had shaped him into the man that he was. One experience in particular. But he wasn’t going to share that with a Negro who was focused on anti slavery activities.

 William didn’t begrudge Simon his feelings, but one white man on a buckboard wasn’t about to say or do anything to change the ex-slave’s perspective on life. More to the point, it would never occur to Simon that a white man just might have issues that are as bleak as those experienced by human chattel. The white man gave a mental shrug. Life was a shit sandwich for people in various sizes. For both of them, the job in front of them was all that mattered at the moment. It was beginning to rain. Hopefully the road wouldn’t become a quagmire.

 When they reached the riverbank Simon pretended to be the subservient  laborer who only speaks when spoken to and William received his shipping instructions from a man who seemed vaguely familiar. The man’s name was Perry Grant and he didn’t exactly make their day when he announced that he would be accompanying them into town. William should have been prepared for that scenario but that would have encouraged a killing. William could now only hope that the bound and gagged wagon driver wouldn’t be able to make any grunting noises that could be heard from the road. As it turned out, the rain did a fine job of masking the driver’s attempts to hail them as they passed.

 William did his part by keeping Grant engaged in conversation as they rolled towards town.

 “How’d you get that riverboat pilot to push this far upstream? Everybody is saying that the river is in no shape for a large boat at this time.”

Grant fixed the driver with a disapproving look.

 “River wasn’t that bad until the last four or five bends. I didn’t tell the man how fast to go or where to steer. He agreed to ship for payment stated and his misfortune will be covered by the money paid out. He could have said no, just as you could have.”

 “Regular trade route west is pretty much useless now. Until the war ends we’re dependent on the government for most of our hauling business,” William pretended to lecture. “So we take all the business we can get until the wheels threaten to fall off.”

 “Same with the boatman. Same with every merchant, moonshiner and whore this side of the Mississippi,” Grant said with an irritated look. “But most are smart enough to know that we’re not paying for conversation.”

 William didn’t need a stronger hint than that. The rest of the shuttle was quiet enough. Just the creek of wood and the trudging of shoed hooves on a tolerable layer soil turned mud. The town of Opelousas was ringed in a huge band of white. Hundreds of large tents formed an outer perimeter along the outskirts of the town. A number of even larger tents were set up between buildings that had the space for it. Most of the men clad in gray were busy making certain that the townsfolk wouldn’t have to deal with the stench that so often accompanies nomadic military groups. William made a mental note to find out which regiment had been assigned to this rear area

 The town’s newly constructed hospital stood second only to the town’s Catholic church and it was rumored that the money for it came largely from New Orleans. (The townspeople didn’t knock themselves out trying to figure out why.) It consisted of two large wards and several storage rooms on the main floor and the doctor’s quarters and office upstairs. William grew uneasy as they approached it. He was sensing something, and he marveled at the experience almost as much as he disliked the position he was in.

 “Had to give that whore of a riverboat pilot every dollar I had on me to keep going,” muttered Grant. “I need to step into the office for a second to get more cash. Might as well park the horses at the trough, Boy, since the rain has freshened up the water.”

 In keeping with his station, Simon complied without hesitation.

 “I’ll help you with the boxes,” said William while dismounting.

 “No. I’ve got two men who will fetch them,” Grant responded. “We got some contagious patients inside. No point in risking your health when it isn’t necessary.”

 William feigned indifference, but he fully intended to visit the building sometime after dark. In the meantime they would have to find a place to hide. Circumstances being what they were, they wouldn’t be able to walk the streets indefinitely. The rain was starting to abate, and the town was coming back to life as most of the people were now withdrawing from their shelters.

 “Would you like to head back out and untie the real wagon owner?” William asked with a sheepish grin.

 “I get enough insults thrown at me every day as it is,” responded the black man. “Then I’d have to whup him just to keep him from trying to take his property back. So I’m thinking that the big hearted Sailor Man who tied him up should go out there and liberate him since all God’s children deserve to be free.”

 William frowned at that until he spotted a boy of twelve exiting a neighboring building.

 “Hey there Young Man, you got time to earn a silver dollar?”

 “Reckon my Ma would want me to make the time for a dollar,” responded the youth.

 “Good Lad. You familiar with the river road to the east?”

 “Ain’t many folks hereabout that aren’t.”

 “Heaviest section of woods is almost at the halfway point to the river. On the right side there are two knolls with a Cyrus past and between them that has three main branches. You march to that tree and call out loud. Then you listen for a funny sound. Likely you’ll find someone in need of assistance.”

 “What kind of need?” the perplexed boy asked.

 “The kind that is worth a dollar,” said William before tossing a coin to the boy.

 “The youth didn’t seem all together pleased with the answer, but he caught the coin deftly enough, and then began his hike out of town with a thoughtful expression.

 “Hope we can buy some vittles before we get the need for a hole to hide in,” said the black.

 “Me too. But I’m guessing that even if the driver of this rig manages to keep up with a twelve year old, he still won’t get back to town for another couple of hours. I’m not saying that we’ll be alright until then, but I don’t see any point in fretting over anything for at least an hour and a half.”

 “Does your brain really work that way?” asked Simon.

 “Most of it. Course I have to admit that a small part of my brain is telling me that we’re on the outer edge of trouble. But I suppose that’s just because we’re in danger of someone recognizing this wagon….”

 Suddenly Grant exited the hospital with three men in tow. Two were wearing white orderly coats, and the third man was dressed in a sovereign regency tail coat that gave him a very dashing look, which was precisely what he was accustomed to. William and the Dandy exchanged looks at a distance of forty feet and what followed was both instantaneous and automatic.

 Both men drew Navy Colt revolvers and extended their weapons with equal speed. Two shots cracked as one and two men staggered back with crimson stains on their shirts. The bolder of the two orderlies charged ahead to grab hold of William and was rewarded with a ball in the heart. Simon’s hand slipped into his heavy shirt and closed around his own pistol, but his eyes darted to the hospital’s front door as two more men spilled out with handguns ready for action. Grant now had a Baby Dragoon  out of it’s hiding place and was preparing to add lead to an adversary that he very much would have liked to capture for interrogation.

 Then almost as if he could read the man’s mind, William dropped his pistol and clutched his wound with both hands. The ball had punched a hole through the mean under the rib cage. Very painful, but not likely to prove fatal to the likes of William Longpenance. Simon relaxed slightly, relieved that the white man had done the sensible thing. He took his hand out of his shirt and tried to look scared, even though he wasn’t much good at that. The man that lost the duel with William was now flat on his back. William’s ball had shattered a rib just below the heart.

 The other orderly approached William and punched the side wound with all his might. Grant’s expression was now deadpan, and he gazed over to where the colored man stood immobile.

 “You belong to him?”

 “Yes suh.”

 “Well then, go fetch the sheriff. Your master is now a murderer.”

 As a spy, Simon counted himself lucky and hurried down the main street, but when he lost sight of the men behind him, he altered course and made a beeline for the nearest woods. All he could do now was make his way to the nearest Union controlled telegraph station. The mission had fallen apart because of his trigger happy partner. Simon presumed that Longpenance had a reason for blasting away as he did, but the results were unavoidable. The black man had never been terribly preoccupied with the thoughts of white men, only their actions. But to his dying day he would wonder why that gunfight took place. It was the most dumb ass thing he had ever seen, and no he had a long way to go without so much as a canteen of clean water.

CONTINUE CLICK HERE