Case of the Dixie Ghosts Read online

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2012 by A. A. Glynn

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION

  For Julie and Quinn

  PROLOGUE

  THE LAST CONFEDERATE BATTLE FLAG

  On an August morning in 1865, sailors on the deck of the merchantman Barracouta, of Liverpool, stared open-mouthed across the sun-smitten waters off the coast of California at the flag fluttering from the high masts of the sleek vessel that had recently come into view and was now drawing closer to their own ship. “She’s built for fast travel and she’s armed,” rumbled the Barracouta’s grizzled bo’sun. “She has guns fore and aft—but look at her flag and where’s she been all these months? Better call the captain.”

  When the ship’s master appeared on deck, his astonishment matched that of his crew.

  “Damned rum business, encountering the like of her,” he exclaimed. “She’s like a ghost out of the recent past. I hope she has no intention of using those guns on us before we parley. She looks uncommon dangerous.”

  Soon, the British captain’s voice, amplified by a brass speaking trumpet, boomed over the water: “Ahoy, there! We’re the Barracouta, out of Liverpool. What ship are you? Your colours intrigue us!”

  A tall man among a cluster of uniformed officers aboard the other vessel raised his own trumpet to his lips and answered in a firm voice: “We’re the commerce raider Shenandoah. I am Commander James I. Waddell, Navy of the Confederate States of America. I have the honour to command this craft on the active service of that nation.”

  The English captain’s astonishment echoed in his answer: “Are you not aware, Commander, that the war between the American states is over? It finished a good three months ago. Have you been off the face of the earth that you do not know it?”

  “We have been in arctic waters, destroying Yankee whalers, for a long spell,” replied the American. “We had word the war was going badly with us some time ago. I trust you are not jesting and it has indeed ended, sir. If so, with what result?”

  “I regret to report that the Southern Confederacy was defeated. The North’s Mr. Lincoln is dead—assassinated. The old union of states has been restored,” the British captain shouted. “My nation kept aloof from your internal affairs, but I think it right to tell you that the present government of America is calling you people who raided United States’ merchant shipping on the high seas a set of pirates. There’s every danger of your being executed if you give yourselves up in an American port. For myself, I’d hate to see skilled and brave sailors swinging from the gallows when they believed they were serving their country.”

  There was a brief interval of heavy silence, then Commander James Waddell replied:

  “We’re aware of what the Yankees think of us, Captain, and I’m obliged to you for your kindly sentiments and for the news, dreadful though it is. You may tell the world that when you met us we were contemplating a bold attack on San Francisco which we heard is poorly defended, but we altered course to sail well away from an America where the Union has triumphed at the heavy cost of Southern lives.”

  “Where are you bound?” asked the master of the Barracouta.

  “That’s a matter for consultation between my officers and myself, but I have a notion your own pleasant land, where I once spent a goodly spell, will be mooted as a good choice.”

  “Will you strike your colours, sir?” asked the British captain.

  “Never, sir! We doubtless have a long voyage before us, but we carry what must be the last Confederate battle flag to fly in the breeze and, by thunder, we’ll bear it proudly to whatever port we finally come to rest in.”

  The captain of the Barracouta gave an appreciative chuckle. “Your courage does you credit, Commander. May you have a good voyage—and may you not meet any hostile Yankee warships.”

  Exactly three months later, after an arduous journey, navigated by her young sailing master, Lieutenant Irvine Bulloch, and cautiously putting in at several ports for a modicum of supplies, the Shenandoah approached the mouth of the River Mersey, wreathed by the first of November’s fogs.

  Off the estuary stood a British warship, HMS Donegal. Waddell signalled her and, through her captain, formally surrendered to the British government.

  The following morning, escorted by the Donegal, the Shenandoah docked at Liverpool. It was a kind of homecoming for the vessel. For it was in Liverpool that she started her life as a Confederate raider.

  Created for the fast tea run, to bring tea to the British Isles, she was originally named the Sea King.Through a combination of finances from wealthy British supporters of the rebel Southern government and that government’s most effective and remarkable secret agent, who happened to be the half-brother of Lieutenant Irvine Bulloch, the Shenandoah’s sailing master, she was secretly acquired in Liverpool and refitted for the warlike role in which she distinguished herself.

  British customs officers came aboard as Waddell retired to his cabin to write to Lord Russell, Queen Victoria’s Foreign Minister, surrendering the vessel, with all her supplies and armaments, to the British authorities. A short time later the ship’s company gathered on deck for a last time and, in a brief ceremony, the last active Confederate battle flag of the American Civil War was lowered not on the American continent but in Liverpool, half a year after hostilities ceased

  Among the ship’s officers, keeping low behind a group of taller men was the mysterious little hunchback known only as Mr. Fortune. No one knew anything definite about his background except that he was supposed to be some kind of Confederate official who had slipped away from the capital, Richmond, Virginia, on the fall of the Southern government. He somehow made his way to the Azores and came aboard the Shenandoah when she put in there to resupply. He was suddenly there one morning, visible with the officers among whom he was quartered and who seemed to give him some special respect. He never mingled with the common seamen.

  He was not a prepossessing presence, small with his back burdened by a marked hump. His civilian clothing was travel-stained but respectable, and such as a modest businessman might wear. His face was lean, lantern-jawed, and that of one used to hard living. Under bushy brows, he had remarkable, glittering eyes. He said little but, when overheard in conversation with the officers, his accent was notably Southern.

  Commander Waddell appeared on deck, walking with his characteristic limp caused by a wound received in a duel over an affair of the heart when a young cadet at the U.S. Naval Academy. He was accompanied by his steward who bore a large wooden box out of which the necks of several bottles protruded.

  The half dozen British customs officers, who had boarded to check the ship’s contents, stood in a row close to the companionway in order to guard against any of the crew slipping ashore and illegally entering the country before being officially recorded.

  Waddell gave them a genial nod. “Gentlemen, we have a small quantity of choice port picked up on our travels,” he announced. “I trust it will not be seized as contraband.”

  The heavily-bearded senior customs man matched his geniality.

  “Not at all, Commander. It’s accepted that a captain may have a quantity of bottled cheer in his keeping for hospitality’s sake.”

  “Then let hospitality be the word,” said Waddell heartily. “Will you and your officers join us in a glass to mark such a favourable end to our voyage?”

  The customs man shook his head. “Alas, no, sir. It’s against regulations when we’re on duty,” he said dolefully.

  “Then my officers and the ship’s company will drink a toast to your queen, who has graciously granted us sanctuary,” Waddell responded. “Steward, break out the p
ort and the glasses.”

  The customs officers snapped rigidly to attention when Waddell raised a full glass and, in the accent of his native North Carolina but as solemnly as any president of a British military mess, intoned: “Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria!”

  The non-drinking customs men chorused: “Queen Victoria, God bless her!”

  They failed to see hunchbacked little Mr. Fortune hastily slip out from the group of officers behind whom he lurked and move under the cover of a deckhouse. Behind their very backs, he nimbly and noiselessly descended the companionway. He disappeared into the dank river mist creeping over the cobbles of Liverpool’s cargo cluttered docks.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A LADY IN DISTRESS

  Detective Inspector Amos Twells of Scotland Yard stood outside the vast oaken doorway set in the forbidding wall of London’s Newgate Prison, with Septimus Dacers at his side. He lit his pipe and blew out copious volumes of smoke, as if trying to fumigate his whole person after he had endured the prison’s foul atmosphere.

  “Well, now you’ve seen them with chains on their arms and legs and ticketed for the Australian boat, you know that Dandy Jem and Skinny Eustis are out of our hair for good,” he commented. “The colonies underneath the world are welcome to them. I’ll admit I regard you as an interfering busybody, Dacers, as I do all of you so-called inquiry agents. If you wanted to be a detective why didn’t you start at the bottom by joining the force and braving the dangers of the streets as a plodding peeler? But I’ll own you did a capital job collaring that ugly pair of swell mobsmen, especially after Jem came close to filleting you with that huge knife. You’d hardly meet a danger as severe as that even if you were a regular policeman.”

  Septimus Dacers, tall, lean, and clean-shaven in contrast to his companion whose face was fringed by muttonchop sidewhiskers, was a few weeks off his fortieth birthday, but he looked on the slightly older Twells almost as a father figure. He chuckled, knowing that the ever-complaining Twells, while a holy terror to London’s wide assortment of villains, had a heart as good-natured as it was lionlike. Twells and his fellow Yard officers might scorn those who set themselves up as private detectives, but they had learned that calling on Dacers for occasional assistance was always a worthwhile move.

  Twells noted that his chuckling caused Dacers’ face to reflect a spasm of pain.

  “How are the ribs?” he asked.

  “Still bandaged but improving. The bandages will be off soon. Luckily, the knife didn’t really penetrate, but I had a bad enough cut along my side.”

  “I’d like to shove that knife down Dandy Jem’s throat,” growled Twells. “Still, there’s some comfort in knowing they’ll put him on a hard enough diet in New South Wales. Did old Lady Caroline Braithwaite slip you a handsome reward for snatching her jewels out of the sticky fingers of the mobsmen?”

  “She did very handsomely by me,” said Dacers. “Very handsomely indeed.”

  “That’s another thing you fellows have over us,” snorted Twells. “You stand to net a pretty tip as well as a fee, where we have to make do with only a policeman’s pay.”

  Dacers grinned and answered with mock pity: “Ah, it’s such a shame that tipping a peeler can be construed as bribing an officer of the law.”

  The pair walked down gloomy Newgate Street, which was even gloomier than usual under a leaden sky this late February of 1866. Both men felt the satisfaction of knowing that two of London’s most glib-tongued confidence tricksters of the “swell mobsmen” variety had been transported for life. They were caught after some sharp detective work, with Dacers aiding the Metropolitan Police, and with some highly dangerous scuffling at its climax.

  “What’s your next move?” asked Amos Twells.

  “To take the omnibus back to Bloomsbury”

  “Where your ever accommodating landlady, Mrs. Slingsby, will doubtless feed you sumptuously, then you’ll put your feet up while I still have hours of duty before me,” grumbled Twells.

  The two parted company, with Dacers going in search of the Bloomsbury omnibus, smiling to himself and reflecting that Twells never changed. He would not be content without something to complain about.

  The winter evening was drawing in, and the first wisps of a threatening fog were beginning to appear in the streets. On the pavements, jostling pedestrians were, as usual, hugging the inner portions of the footways, avoiding the kerbs where the wheels of passing carts and carriages were throwing up gouts of horse foulings. The air was increasingly chilly, and Dacers began to look forward to a relaxed evening in warmth and comfort.

  When he arrived at the lodgings he had occupied since his first struggling years, he opened the street door to find his landlady, Mrs. Slingsby, waiting in the hall. She was a statuesque widow whose rather severe exterior disguised a tender nature.

  “Mr. Dacers, you have a visitor,” she announced. “A young lady, an American, I think. Miss Roberta Van Trask. I told her I expected you to return fairly early, and put her in the parlour rather than have her waiting in your rooms. I made her comfortable with some tea.”

  At the mention of the visitor’s name, Dacers’ eyes widened. “Miss Van Trask, how surprising,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs. Slingsby.”

  “You know her, then?” said Mrs. Slingsby, her sharp features brightening. She made no secret of her hope that her bachelor lodger would one day find what she called “a nice wife.”

  “I have that honour,” he answered, and his landlady’s face brightened a little more.

  He entered the parlour, hoping none of the unpleasant odours of Newgate Prison lingered about his person, and found a woman in her middle twenties sitting in the usual rather awkward position due to the wide crinoline skirts of the period. She wore a trim velvet jacket and had a small hat on neatly braided black hair. Her attractive, open face would have been more attractive still had she not looked distinctly troubled.

  “Miss Van Trask, this is a most unexpected pleasure,” he greeted. “I’m sorry I was not here when you arrived.”

  The girl smiled rather wanly. “That’s all right, Mr. Dacers, your landlady was very kind to me.”

  “And how is your father?” Dacers asked, drawing a chair closer to his visitor and sitting down.

  “His general health’s a great deal better than for some time, though I fear all is not well with him in other respects. I called on you, hoping you can help.”

  “I will if I can, you may be sure,”

  “Mr. Dacers, I know you can be trusted,” she began, dropping her tone as if frightened of being overheard. “I knew that quite instinctively when you first came to our home to escort my father on his mission to Liverpool a couple of years ago, and, of course, Scotland Yard recommended you to Mr. Adams in the most glowing terms. You looked after my father excellently. He still speaks of you with admiration.”

  “And I admire him, Miss Van Trask. It was more than a pleasure to travel with so learned and pleasant a gentleman, even though it was the first time I ever carried a revolver on an assignment.”

  “A revolver, yes, that brings me to the reason for my being here,” Roberta Van Trask said. “I’m sure what I have to tell you will go no further, but I am very worried about my father. I fear his position with the diplomatic service of the United States may be in danger.”

  Septimus Dacers was surprised. He could hardly imagine that a man so manifestly devoted to his country’s well-being as Theodore Van Trask, who held a key position in the United States Embassy under Ambassador Charles Francis Adams, the son of the late President John Quincy Adams, could endanger his standing through any dereliction of duty. He had escorted Van Trask to the US Consulate in Liverpool on a most urgent mission, on which they carried vital documentsb and he had taken the measure of the man.

  “Tell me more,” he pressed.

  “It concerns a visitor my father had a few days ago,” said the girl. “A rather coarse man and an American—a Virginian. One cannot live in Washington as long as I did wi
thout recognising a Virginia accent, Virginia being just across the Potomac River. This man rather pushed his way into our home, demanding to see my father. When my father appeared, he was somewhat frightened and took him into his private room, closed the door and, pretty soon, there was the sound of angry arguing. My father, as you know, had suffered a spell of illness and I became alarmed, fearing he might get too excited, so I intruded, surprising them both.

  “The man was standing close to my father quite menacingly and my sudden entry caused him to slip something into the pocket of his coat very hastily, but I saw what it was. It was a gun, a Derringer, the same kind of nasty little weapon John Wilkes Booth used to assassinate Abraham Lincoln. I think my father was being threatened with it at the moment I opened the door.”

  “Do you know the name of your visitor?” Dacers inquired.

  “He announced himself very roughly when he shoved past our butler at the street door. He said he was called Fairfax, but I think he was lying. It’s an old and honoured Virginia name and it just didn’t fit the man. He was obviously no Virginia aristocrat. After my intrusion, he left hurriedly, leaving my father looking very shaken.”

  “And did your father tell you anything about the man and the reason for his visit?”

  “No. And, ever since, he’s been preoccupied and appearing dreadfully worried. He hardly says a word to anyone. He’s clearly much disturbed, and I fear both for both his health and his position. Mr. Adams places the utmost trust in him, as does Mr. Henry Adams, the ambassador’s son and private secretary. I’m apprehensive that whatever is worrying him will eventually disturb my father’s valuable work at the Embassy.”

  Septimus Dacers nodded. He remembered from escorting her father to Liverpool that U.S. Consul Thomas Dudley and his staff there treated Theodore Van Trask with grave respect. Britain was neutral in the American Civil War, and Dacers learned nothing of the exact reason for Van Trask’s mission to Liverpool. But that port, a major link with America, had played a significant part in the conflict. It was there that the famous Confederate raider Alabama, which wrought severe damage on United States’ merchant shipping, was built in secret. There, too, the sleek and speedy Shenandoah, originally built for the tea trade, was converted into a commerce raider for the Southern rebels. The representatives of Ambassador Adams were constantly trying to track down the elusive agents of the Southern states who organised these menaces to the commerce of the North.