Well-well, could that be the alley where the clothes of the devil dog had been discovered? Joshua wondered, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. I'm going to have a quick word with this secretive doctor.

  As if hearing the thoughts, the dark man looked directly at Joshua and a wave of cold swept the new Marshall as if winter had entered his soul.

  Shivering all over, Joshua felt a pang of fear, then a flicker of rage welled within and he grimly started forward. The physician seemed to be startled by that. Don't like being on the receiving end, do you? Joshua sneered. I've been shouted at and badgered by the best in the world. A cold stare isn't going to make me pass water. By God, I hate bullies!

  Still staring at Joshua, the physician stepped backwards into the shadows and vanished from sight.

  Coming to a halt on the sidewalk, Joshua raised an eyebrow at the disappearing act, then raised the other. One moment the doctor was there, the next, he was gone. Poof. Just like a stage illusion by a master magician. Master magician. The president's words from yesterday came rushing back with shocking clarity. Every dog has a master. Army generals often watched battles from distant hilltops to keep track of the fighting. Could this have been the person who dispatched the devil dog? Had Joshua just seen the true face of the enemy?

  And if he was, exactly what would I have done if a man twice my size resisted arrest? Joshua thought in galvanizing clarity. Used harsh language? Written him a citation? His pocket knife weighed heavily in the vest pocket. I could have always trimmed his cigar, or whittled a flute.

  Turning abruptly around, Joshua headed directly for the armory once more. Guns. I want guns. The biggest available.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Located just behind the stables was a large sheet of stained canvas covering a huge mound of fresh green hay for the horses. But that was just camouflage. If the Confederates ever discovered that the armory for the Executive Mansion was located inside the hay, they'd have snipers shooting at it day and night. However, the stockpile of munitions was located far enough away from the Executive Mansion that if it exploded, the blast wouldn't kill the President. Hopefully. Guns, it seemed, were a two edge sword, Joshua quipped privately. I should remember that bit of wisdom.

  Maneuvering through a maze of hay bales, Joshua reached the canvas sheet, and pushed aside a flap. A short passage lead through more bales and ended at a wall of sandbags with a Union corporal standing behind holding a brace of pistols.

  "Password!” the man barked menacingly, but then he smiled. “Oh, it's you. Come on in, Marshall. The president told us to expect y'all today."

  "Personally?” Joshua asked, surprised. Honest Abe was the soul of efficiency. I expected him to send Mr. Hey with a note.

  "Yas, sir,” the corporal replied in a thick Southern drawl, holstering the weapons. The Union soldier was wearing black leather gloves, and the guns appeared to be a hodge-podge of spare parts, either half-built, or half melted. It was difficult to say. “But y'all should know better than ta enter without announcing yourself first. Been mighty jumpy around here since last night."

  Joshua grinned. “True enough. Is Sgt. Montgomery here yet?"

  "Since dawn!” the man shouted from behind the sandbag wall. “Get your arse over here, son, and let's make you a man."

  That had a rather ominous ring, and Joshua moved warily around the barrier. He had never been inside the arsenal before and had no idea what to expect.

  Past the bulwark, the spacious interior of the makeshift redoubt was packed with additional sandbags along every wall, and massive oak beams supported a riveted ceiling of cast iron. Safety lamps hung above open barrels of water, tin buckets of sand rested in niches, and numerous hand-lettered signs proclaiming swift and terrible retribution to anybody fool enough to light a match. One strategically-placed placard bluntly stated: ‘Smoking won't kill you. We will.’ Ah, the delicate subtlety of the military mind.

  Controlling a smile, Joshua had to admit that he was impressed. He had never seen a more fireproof room in his life. And folks were afraid a sniper could make the armory explode? The rebels would have to hit it with a SeaCoast mortar to even dent this hidden fortress, which was probably the whole idea. Hmm, multiple layers of defense equaled safety. That sounded important, so Joshua made a mental note to try and remember the sage bit of wisdom.

  Gleaming weapons were everywhere. Racks full of rifles, pistols and shotguns, crates of cavalry swords, baskets of French petards, and a small mountain of black powder kegs.

  In the center of the armory, Sgt. Montgomery sat behind a battered desk covered with journals and ledgers, the mounds of paperwork looking as incongruous among the impressive array of deadly weaponry.

  "Sorry about the mess,” the sergeant apologized, easing down the twin hammers of a shotgun and placing the smoothbore on the desk. “We're moving to our permanent quarters in the Treasury building next week. Packing, you understand."

  "None better,” Joshua said honestly, taking a seat on a long packing crate of bayonets positioned before the desk. “And we keep this arsenal alongside the Executive Mansion because..."

  "Are you honestly asking me that after last night?” the sergeant retorted gruffly, crossing his arms. Both sleeves were rolled up, exposing numerous tattoos.

  "Yes, I see your point,” Joshua conceded graciously. “When we need guns, we will need them fast."

  "It's a balancing act,” the sergeant admitted, raising and lowering his hands as if weighing objects. “Is this danger bigger than that one? We make calculated decisions, and hope for the best. Smart soldiers don't prepare for what the enemy might do, but for what they can do."

  That sounded like good advice. I'm going to need a journal soon. “And last night proved you chose correctly."

  "Too bloody right, it did,” the corporal boasted proudly, brandishing a gloved fist.

  "Johanson, go water the horses,” Sgt. Montgomery sighed, waggling his blunt fingers in dismissal.

  "Sir!” the corporal replied, snapping a brisk salute and disappearing behind the sandbags.

  "Hayfoots,” the sergeant snorted, using the slang term for a new recruit. “Greener than persimmons, and only half as smart."

  "Well, I'm new to being a Marshall,” Joshua said amiably. “How about giving me a handgun, and let you get back to work?"

  Sgt. Montgomery grinned in amusement. “Just like that, eh?"

  "Of course. What else is involved?"

  Leaning back in his chair, the sergeant gestured at the vast array of weaponry on the wall. “Feel free to take anything you want."

  I have to choose? “To be honest, sergeant, I can't tell a Springfield from springwater,” Joshua admitted. “I don't even know what the corporal was carrying. Deuced odd thing, I must admit."

  "You wouldn't want one of those.” Opening a drawer, Sgt. Montgomery pulled out a thick ledger. “That was a Savage .36 revolver. Notice the gloves Johanson was wearing?"

  "Yes. They're need to operate the weapon?"

  "Try that the other way around. He needs them to operate the gun. The Savage is a weird gun, you cock the hammer by using a forefinger, from below, not with a thumb on top."

  Joshua chewed on that. “So why the gloves?"

  "Because he has no thumbs,” the sergeant explained, opening the ledger and starting to turn pages. “Last month, the boy was issued one of those triple-cursed Colt revolving rifles, and all six chambers ignited with the first shot. The very first! Poor Johanson is lucky to have kept so much of his hands."

  The rifle blew off his thumbs? “Is the Colt Firearms company working for the rebs?"

  "Not officially,” Sgt. Montgomery muttered in dark humor, dipping a quill into a colony of ink. He started to scratch in the ledger. “Just another wild arse design. Scientists, eh?” The sergeant looked up with a fiendish grin. “However, last week I sold all of our Colt repeating rifles to the rebels at a very low price. Now it's their blessed nest of bees."

  And their thumbs. Joshua was quiet. This was not a job for the squeamish.

  "Care for some help choosing?” Sgt. Montgomery asked, head down while writing.

  "All I can get,” Joshua asked, glancing over the gleaming collection of deadly ironmongery. “What do you suggest?"

  With a flourish, the sergeant finished writing and closed the ledger. “First things first,” he said, throwing the quill at the colony of ink. It flew like a dart and hit dead center. “You are now officially in the log book. What's going to be your new name? I'll need it for your pay voucher."

  "Why in the world would I require a new name, sir?"

  "I'm a sergeant,” Montgomery growled dangerously, his bushy eyebrows joining in the middle. “My parents were married."

  More military humor. Joshua repeated his question with the appropriate correction.

  "Because, if you live to retirement, unlikely by the way, you will not want all of the enemies you've made over the years to come hunting you down for revenge."

  "Revenge?” Joshua squeaked, his throat going tight.

  The sergeant grinned. “Don't worry about it. Besides, the Army has a lovely funeral plan for U.S. Marshalls. Granite headstone, real wood coffin, twenty-one gun salute, the whole magilla. They spare no expense shoveling you into the ground."

  "How delightful. Any chance of a drink?” Joshua muttered, massaging his temples. Before she passed away, his mother had always told him not to do that, because it would give you gray hair at that point. Of course, that was just an old wives’ tale. Then again, his mother had been an old wife.

  "This is the army, son. Do you need to ask?” Montgomery chuckled, opening a drawer in his desk. Pulling out a half-filled brown bottle and two relatively clean glasses, the sergeant set them on the desk, and filled both tumblers.

  "Here you go,” Sgt. Montgomery said in a friendly tone, pushing one over. “Try some of this Kentucky whiskey. Want a water kicker?"

  In marked disdain, Joshua glanced at the water barrel where a lazy bluebottle fly was buzzing above the scummy surface. “Good Lord, no."

  "Smart move. Confusion to the enemy!"

  "Confusion to the enemy.” Taking the glass, Joshua let the rich peaty aroma waft, then knocked it back in a shot. A gentle warmth spread across his body, and he slid the glass forward. Courteously, the sergeant refilled it and the marshall downed it again.

  "Pretty good, eh?” Montgomery grinned in pride.

  "Yes. Although that isn't whiskey,” Joshua said, raising the glass to inspect the fluid in the light of the safety lamp. “And it has never been near a map of Kentucky, much less the actual state. But still, it warms the heart, and that's a truth."

  "Not whiskey?” Sgt. Montgomery said, holding the bottle close to his face and scowling at the label. “But I paid top coin for this!"

  "Sorry, but it's moonshine,” Joshua advised, taking a sip and holding the homebrew on the roof of his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Mmm, I'd say ... late autumn corn mash, too much beet sugar, cooked in an old copper kettle, and filtered with charcoal made from maple trees."

  Unable to confirm, or deny, the outrageous statement, the sergeant decided to accept it as fact. Lincoln didn't hire fools for his household staff. “You know booze the way I do guns,” the soldier laughed, putting aside the bottle.

  "One of my many duties here,” Joshua smiled, turning the glass watching the amber fluid swirl. “Make that my former duties. I have a new job now, so perhaps a new name would be appropriate."

  "Trust me, it is. What is your full name, anyway?” Sgt. Montgomery inquired. “Never heard you called much of anything but ‘hey you,’ or ‘more'!"

  "Joshua Parnel Witherspoon."

  "That's a mouthful. And memorable. You need something more bland. John Doe, George Smith, James Bond, something dull like that."

  "A name easily forgotten?” Joshua asked, leaning forward on the crate and resting the glass on a knee.

  The sergeant smiled. “You catch on fast for a hayfoot."

  "Strawfoot,” Joshua replied, gesturing with his left hand. “What kind of pseudonyms do the other U.S. Marshalls use?"

  The sergeant took another sip, smiling as innocent as a preacher on Sunday.

  Blushing, Joshua felt a rush of comprehension. Right ... Stupid question. Wheels within wheels, and all that. Welcome to the secret service of America.

  "Sergeant, have we ever tried to kill President Jefferson Davis?” Joshua asked out of the blue, his tongue loosened by the potent liquor.

  Aghast, the soldier stopped drinking. “Are you insane?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  "Thank you, that's what I needed to know.” Then the devil dog was not a retaliatory gesture.

  Suddenly, a woman's high-pitched scream cut the air, and both men stood. Then the scream came again, and they relaxed, recognizing the source. Mrs. Lincoln must have just learned about the ruined India rug.

  "That is not a happy woman,” the sergeant muttered, holstering his weapon.

  Finishing the drink, Joshua nodded agreement. “And wait until she finds out about Mr. Hey and the bushes."

  Another piercing scream came, even louder than before.

  "She knows,” Sgt. Montgomery smiled. “Now about your name..."

  Back to business. “Well, my first job was fetching refreshments for the gentleman patrons of a private club for, ahem, soiled doves..."

  "You were the beer boy at a brothel. Go ahead,” Sgt. Montgomery said, pouring them both another libation.

  Guilty as charged. Accepting the generous refill, Joshua chewed a lip in thought. “Anyway, I recall how laughable it was when somebody called out a fake name that the men used to register, and they didn't respond."

  "Drunks are never clever,” the sergeant agreed, raising his glass. “Rich drunks, doubly so. Here's to the Republic!"

  "Soiled doves in cream sauce!"

  Caught in the middle of a swallow, Sgt. Montgomery blew whiskey out his nose, and spent the next few minutes fighting for air.

  "Sorry, old brothel joke,” Joshua grinned impishly. “Couldn't resist."

  "Hells bells, don't apologize,” Sgt. Montgomery gasped, wiping his face on a sleeve. “I'm looking forward to using it on a smug lieutenant I know who desperately needs taking down a peg or two."

  "Smith?"

  "You've met the unctuous little toad?"

  "Wait until a regimental dinner,” Joshua suggested. “Hot soup coming out the nostrils should prove highly memorable."

  The sergeant smiled. “Nice touch."

  "Thanks.” Taking another sip of the moonshine, Joshua pursed his lip. “My new name must be similar enough to my real name, so that in a moment of stress I will respond and not give myself away,” he said, thinking aloud. Zounds, this was a dangerous game. But also exciting. There was a tingle in his stomach that had nothing to do with the moonshine. Perhaps he was beginning to understand his father's fascination with crime. Living by your own rules, working outside of society. The poor fellow had never realized that a man could have just as much fun protecting the rules, as breaking them.

  "Cream sauce,” the sergeant said aloud, jotting down a note on a scrap of paper. “All right, got a name yet?"

  "J.P. Withers,” Joshua said out loud, testing the flavor. It rolled smoothly in his mouth, and fell with a familiar comfort on his ears. Yes, that would do fine.

  "Nice choice,” Sgt. Montgomery said, adding that to the ledger. “And what's your birthday?"

  "May Fifth,” Joshua replied puzzled. “Why?"

  "No reason.” The sergeant turned to make a notation on a calendar, then took a small leather notebook out of his shirt pocket and scribble inside.

  Code. I've just been entered into a code system based on calendar dates, Joshua realized uneasily. If the rebels ever take the Executive Mansion, they'll never learn the real identities of our undercover agents. Mayhap I should join a group of merry men, or report my whereabouts to Sir Henry Fielding. All for one, and one for all! Lord, I'm getting obscure.

  "Done, and done,” Sgt. Montgomery said, finishing with a flourish, laying aside the quill and closing the book. “Now, let's get down to the important things. Give me your hand."

  Hesitantly placing aside his glass, Joshua did as requested. The sergeant seized his hand in a firm grip and began to painfully squeeze. Startled at first, Joshua got angry and gave back as good as he received until the Union soldier released the grasp with a chuckle.

  "By God, you'll do,” Sgt. Montgomery grinned, shaking his wrist. “Being a butler must be harder work than I imagined to give a grip like that! You'll have no problem with a handgun."

  Another mystery explained.

  "So, any preferences?” the sergeant asked smoothly.

  Joshua sensed a friendly test. “Anything but a Savage?"

  "You're learning,” Sgt. Montgomery complimented, wiggling a thumb.

  Going to a nearby trunk, the sergeant flipped back the lid to move things about inside, then returned to lay some handguns on the desk top.

  "Both of these are top notch,” he said, pulling out a satiny steel revolver. “This is a Starr .38, it's one of those new double-action pieces, and can use both loose powder and shot, or a paper cartridge."

  "A double action? Excellent,” Joshua said in admiration, then added, “And that means...?"

  The sergeant sighed deeply. “Civilians,” he murmured, as if the word meant something a gentleman would scrape off his boot before entering the home of a friend. “All right, listen up, strawfoot. A single-action pistol means that first you cock the hammer, and then you pull the trigger to make it go bang. With me so far?"

  "Yes. Pray continue, Euclid."

  "Don't get snotty, son,” the sergeant growled. “I work with artillery and know Euclidean geometry."

 

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