Northern Blood Page 3

  Quickly, Seamus pressed his short blade to Little Dick’s neck. A quick cut and the man would die here. “Now you’re gonna be alright, but if you keep this up, I’ll kill you.”

  Little Dick groaned. “I’m done.” His knife clanked on the floor.

  “Yes, you are.”

  Seamus sheathed his knife back into the sleeve of his frock coat and picked up the Bowie knife, flipping it to the hilt while avoiding the red on its tip. “Fine blade, a bit too heavy though.” He tossed it to Jimmy.

  Jimmy caught the knife by the hilt and wedged it through his belt. “Thanks, chap.”

  “You men need to leave,” Harris said.

  Seamus faced him. “We’ll keep your little operation here between us. But on account of this event we’re going to need a regular gift.”

  Harris shook his head in disgust. “What do you want?”

  “Ten percent.”

  Harris’s lip lifted, but the rules were clear. This was non-negotiable, compliance or shutdown. “Fine.”

  “We’ll see you next week.” Seamus looked down at Little Dick holding his hands on his belly. “I’ll see you soon, Little Dick.” Seamus donned his top hat and walked out the door.

  The two Plug Uglies stepped into the daylight. The temperature was mild today, promising some afternoon heat. Horses pulled carts filled with rattling barrels. Wagon wheels rounded over cobblestone roadways. Negros unloaded a boat near the river. It was a regular day in wartime Richmond.

  “You’re bleeding,” Jimmy said.

  Seamus looked down at his sleeve. Blood seeped through his brown frock coat. He dipped his finger through the sliced fabric. You never don’t get cut. His fingertip found the gash and he ran it along the wound. A few inches across. Not too deep. “It ain’t bad. But I’ll need Emma to fix my coat.” For a little extra, he could find a girl to do just about anything.

  “Seamus,” Jimmy said. His partner gestured his head toward a woman walking across the street. She had a handsome face, a broad square jaw, and an aristocratic nose. But it wasn’t these things that he recognized immediately. It was her clothes.

  Her black dress was a finely made garment. Exquisite stitching and padding, not like any of the loose ill-fitting dresses of the women that resided in this part of town. Much too fine for this area near the docks. It reeked of someone with money and status. Someone, in particular, a woman who had no business traversing the streets alone.

  The two men watched her walking up the street toward the center of Richmond like two hawks eyeing a rodent in distress.

  “You think that’s her?” Jimmy asked. He rubbed his thick mustache with his knuckle and thumb.

  “Matches the description. Come on.” Seamus burped and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, ignoring the warmth running down his arm.

  The two men strolled alongside the cobblestone street casually trailing the woman. She fit the description of a woman they’d heard about. Either way, he’d find out.

  There had been rumors since he’d arrived in Richmond about Union sympathizers. Most were only empty words and fictitious hearsay. But they’d rolled up almost twenty-seven since the Plug Uglies had started their work. A knife to the right throat, eyes in the right spot, or a broken limb or two had amazing results. His boys’ specialty was intimidation.

  They’d gotten a good taste of it in Baltimore. Everyone needed someone intimidated to make ends meet. The politicians needed voters swayed. The businessmen needed workers in line. Businesses needed protection from competitors. Everyone that had money needed something done. That’s where his Uglies came in.

  The Confederate government needed enemies rooted out and martial law maintained. Anything that was a bit more sensitive to the government was where his boys showed up. Everyone was well aware they were General Winder’s thugs, and no one seemed to care about their “unofficial” activities as long as Northerners were weeded out.

  They tailed her along Cary Street through the industrial district. Smoke hung in the air from the furnaces. Workers bustled around the shops in aprons with rolled up sleeves. Slaves unloaded lead ingots in crates from wagons to be cast into much-needed ammunition. It had been far too long since a shipment had been received. She made her way out of the industrial district and they followed.

  When she stopped at a shop, he nodded to his partner. Jimmy tugged his top hat a little lower on his forehead, covering his eyes, and kept walking.

  Tailing someone usually required more of his gang. It also helped to know where they were going, but in this case, since it was only him and Jimmy, it took a bit more tact.

  Jimmy strolled past the shop, hands in his pockets. He would travel the street within eyeshot of the shop and wait. Then they would take turns following behind. They would do this all the way back to the woman’s home, taking notes on who she met with and who she saw.

  Seamus dipped inside the shop, removing his top hat and running a hand over the crown of his bald head. Baked goods lined the counter, and he could feel the stuffy heat coming from the oven in the back. Two negroes manned it, using a long stick with a flat end to remove bread.

  A man with a wispy mustache and an apron stood behind the counter. White flour dusted his clothes. His eyes darted toward Seamus with nervous disdain. The woman in black pointed at a pile of scones, and the man smiled at her. She handed him money; Seamus noted it was a greenback. Northern tender and the only currency that held any real value. The shop owner placed the scones in the woman’s bag.

  Seamus slowly walked along the baked goods. The entire establishment wafted a fluffy and delicious aroma. His mouth began to water. The woman turned and he glanced away, leaning in to study loaves of golden bread.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the shop owner said. “If you aren’t going to buy, you can leave.” He’d pegged Seamus for a poor man and probably a thief.

  “Bugger off, ya Yank lover.”

  The man’s face reddened. “How dare you come into my shop and insult me.”

  “I do as I please.”

  The owner grabbed a stick and marched around the counter. “You can leave!”

  Seamus licked his lips. His eyes darted at the woman as she stepped onto the street. He quickly flashed the owner a smile. “We can discuss your business operations later.”

  The owner waved a stick at him. “Who do you work for? Maxwell down the way? I would love to meet with him.” He pointed his stick threateningly. “You come on behalf of them women?”

  There had been plenty of unrest in the city as more people came for work. Prices on regular goods like food soared as the Union blockade got a little tighter. At one point, a riot of women had tried to burn down this bakery and others for price gouging the citizens of Richmond.

  In reality, that was the cost of doing business during a war where supplies were short. In the end, the rampage was blamed on Negros and women with loose morals, but both working- and upper-class women filled the streets with war-time anger.

  “Winder,” Seamus spat.

  The owner paled. And now for the first time, he realized he wasn’t looking at some thug or sailor, but one of the Confederacy’s detectives. His eyes shifted downward. “I meant no disrespect, sir. I thought you were someone else.”

  Seamus laughed. “You know who that woman is?”

  “Of course. Everyone does. That’s Crazy Bet.”

  “Elizabeth Van Lew?”

  “Aye, that’s it, Elizabeth. Has some money that one. You know, I hear that when her father died, she took all of her inheritance, marched down to the slave auction block, and bought three families. Signed their freedom papers on the spot.”

  “Sounds like an abolitionist to me.”

  “Sounds like the actions of a mad woman!” The store owner laughed nervously. “Waste of money.” His eyes shifted at the colored men still working. “What I’d do with a few more.”

  “She come here often?”

  The owner gulped. “Every now and again. Usually after she’s visited the prison.�
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  “She ever leave you anythin’?”

  Beads of sweat formed on the shop owner’s forehead. “Never. She only buys scones to eat,” he said, shaking his head in nervous little jaunts.

  “Well you see, I must be going. But I think you and I will speak again soon,” Seamus said with a nod.

  The owner’s smile faded a touch. “I am a true patriot, secessionist to the core.”

  Seamus didn’t respond and stepped outside. He immediately skimmed along the street in the direction of the wealthier citizens’ homes. He vaguely could make out Jimmy’s top hat in a sea of people.

  Without being too conspicuous, he jogged until he closed on Jimmy. She turned a corner at a redbrick townhome and into an alley. Jimmy stole a glance behind him, made contact with Seamus, and kept walking. Seamus turned the same corner and followed her.

  She stood motionless like a marble statue. He stopped, watching her. Pointing at the heavens, her voice grew louder filled with torment. “You have misled me, my Lord!”

  He was taken aback. She spun around. “Oh, thank God, there you are.” She speedily walked toward him. Her eyes were almost vacant like he was a ghost, nothing there at all.

  A slight grin curved the left side of his face. “Ma’am.” He pointed at her for a moment. “Say, I know you. You’re Miss Van Lew, right?”

  A pleasant smile settled on her lips. “Why, yes, I am. It is a pleasure to see you again, young man.”

  He let out a soft chuckle. “I’m hardly a young man.” For Chrissake, he was thirty-two, at least that’s what he thought.

  “Say you wouldn’t mind if I took a look inside your sack, do you?”

  “Why of course, Mr. Lincoln.”

  Seamus snatched her bag and dug through the scones. Unsatisfied he upended it, letting the baked goods fall to the ground. Nothing else fell from the bag. No papers or notes. Just plain round biscuits that were now soiled with mud and piss and dirt.

  “Oh, President Lincoln, why did you go and do that? Mary Todd is going to be so upset when I don’t show with the scones. She just loves scones, Mr. President. You know that.” She bent down scooping the scones back into her bag, and he glared at her with narrowed eyes. Ain’t no way she’s this crazy. She’s faking. She must be.

  He crouched down next to her while she gathered her scones. He studied her and she continued her task. “We be watching you, Crazy Bet. You think you got everyone fooled. Well, you don’t.”

  A fierce glint overtook her eyes and they both watched one another as they stood. Her eyes held a shrewd intelligence. Then as quick as it’d come on, it faded. She grinned wildly. “Thank you, Mr. Lincoln.”

  “I ain’t Mr. Lincoln. Just consider me a concerned citizen.”

  Her brows narrowed and she cocked her head. “You should burn for what you done to the South, Mr. Lincoln. You’re no good.”

  “Don’t try to fool with me.”

  “I do apologize. I must find something else to bring to dinner, Mr. President.” She paused, cocking her head the other way. “You’re not as tall as I thought you’d be.”

  He spat out a laugh and let her pass by as he shook his head. “Have a good dinner with Mr. Lincoln. And remember, we will be watching.”

  He moseyed on out of the alley and waited for Jimmy on a street corner. He returned roughly twenty minutes later. “She went home. No further stops. Mumbling to herself the whole time.” He glanced around and his voice grew quieter. “She’s got a big house, Seamus. You sure it’s a good idea to follow her?”

  “It’s a perfectly fine idea. The rich are spies just as much as the poor.”

  “But the poor know less important people.”

  “Very true.”

  “She’s crazy anyway. You should have heard her conversatin’ to herself. You’d think she was in the middle of a group of ten people.” Jimmy adjusted his top hat even higher on his head almost to the point where it might fall off. “People be crossing the street to avoid her, and others laughed at her. Maybe we should take another look at the prison guards. You know some of them are taking bribes.”

  Seamus eyed his partner. “Everyone takes bribes. We don’t want no small fish guard taking money to buy a bottle of whiskey. I want the leader of this spy ring and Miss Van Lew knows who that is.”

  Jimmy sighed. “I’m hungry. Let’s try that tavern near the foundry. Hear they have a good stew.”

  “Then we’ll grab Leon and Harold. I want eyes on that house. She knows something.”

  ***

  Elizabeth Van Lew busied herself in her kitchen, dropping the sack of dirty scones on a table. A young colored girl appeared and began digging through the scones.

  “They fell on the ground. Better crumble them up and feed the chickens in the back.”

  The young woman looked at her questioningly.

  “One of Winder’s thugs tailed me from the prison. Goddamn hooligans and strong arms.”

  “There’s no note, ma’am.”

  Elizabeth shook her head in anger. “No, there’s no note. I’m pretty sure another one of them followed me here, and I couldn’t double back to the church.” She spoke to herself for a moment. “Which means we will have to wait for the signal every night.”

  “Mr. Henry won’t like that.”

  “I know, but he doesn’t have a choice. You said yourself the orders came from Davis’s mouth. He’s sending all the prisoners south.”

  Mary eyed the scones. “He did, ma’am. Those were his words.”

  “Then we must help them escape while we can. As many as we can.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You go on out the back and find Mr. Henry and tell him to be ready tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mary said. Her servant left the kitchen. One could say that Mary Jane Bowser was the most vital spy in the whole network. She’d been put into place, directly into Jefferson Davis’s very home, by Van Lew’s skillful hand. Mary was extremely smart, capable of memorizing entire conversations verbatim.

  Her words had given the Union the upper hand in many engagements, but Kilpatrick’s raid was still giving her fits and starts at night. She gave every scrap of information she could get her hands on, but if they didn’t use it, what more could she do? She had told them and Butler that they would need a force three or four times the number that had come with Kilpatrick. Butler hadn’t even stirred from Fort Monroe. Hard to imagine, considering she was in Richmond. It all led to a wasted effort with many dead and captured boys to show for it.

  Poor young Ulric Dahlgren’s body sat on display near the center of town. His coatless body was wrapped in a dirty U.S. Army blanket. Birds and flies feasted on his rotting corpse. In his current state, he was hardly recognizable save for the sign.

  A sign had been placed around his neck that read DAHLGREN THE HUN. It made her sick to pass that sunken-eyed corpse every day. She would change that too. Given the right time, she would undermine this abomination of the Confederate experiment. But first she would liberate the man. The man that saved the Union’s pride. A mysterious young colonel named Wolf.

  She took her custom-made Derringer pocket pistol from inside her dress. It was a single-shot pistol. She carried it loaded and would use it too if need be, on that prick Plug Ugly if he got too close. Then she’d play the “he tried to touch me” card. And they’d believe her too because that bigger prick Winder had hired a bunch of thugs to run his counterspy network and a crazy rich lady could never be a part of a Union spy ring. Ha! That didn’t mean she wasn’t careful. She’d hidden messages in hollowed-out eggs and written notes with invisible ink.

  No, she was a careful woman. She had to be when she was treading such an openly fine line in a society at war. But if that man thought he was going to scare her, he needed to reevaluate how long he wanted to live in this life.

  She’d considered attempting to assassinate the leader of the detectives earlier in the year, but that would only make the Uglies more vigilant. And she wanted them drunk
and more interested in lining their own pockets than following any of her people. The tide was finally turning in the Union’s favor, and soon they would win this war. Then she could relax, but now she must plan. Every man she filtered through her network north was a man that could help end this war.

  Chapter Three

  Evening, April 29, 1864

  Libby Prison, Richmond, Virginia

  The Union officers on the second floor of Libby Prison were bedding down in their usual spots for the night. Heavy footsteps thumped upward on the retractable staircase, causing many a man to stare expectantly at the door. Anything that wasn’t a normal part of the routine caused immense stress.

  The door creaked open to their room and two bulky men entered.

  “Wolf!” Hank said. He scanned the huddled prisoners, squinting his eyes.

  “Cripple man!” Griff added.

  Wolf peered around for assurance against the obvious. These men could not be his saviors. They can’t be. They were devils escaped from hell itself in an enemy uniform.

  “If ya don’t pipe up, we’re going to beat ya worse!” Griff called at them.

  Wolf slowly got to his feet. These men must know his plan. There was no other way. Reynolds stood alongside him, straightening his jacket. The white-haired surgeon’s eyes clouded with worry. “Now, gentleman, this is no way to treat a man, especially one like the colonel.”

  The two brutes kicked their way through the crowd. A sharp thwack here and there hurried the prisoners crawling out of their path with yelps and curses.

  Griff smiled as he reached the surgeon, blocking his path. His tongue massaged chewing tobacco in his mouth. He pointed his whipping stick at him. “Listen, old man, don’t get in our way.”

  Someone must have lied. How could they have known? Was it all a ruse the whole time? A wicked and cruel way to torture my mind with hope.