Blue and Gray Tales of Mystery

By Brendan DuBois

REVIEWS

"...Brendan DuBois is one of the two or three finest short story writers of my time." --- mystery editor and author Ed Gorman.

"To say that Brendan DuBois writes thrillers is equivalent to saying that Faberge was pretty good at decorating eggs." --- Crippen & Landru

DESCRIPTION

As we commemorate the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the Civil War, award-winning mystery author Brendan DuBois has compiled a collection of seven of his short stories, all connected to the bloodiest conflict on American soil.

These stories include mysteries, alternative histories, and even tales of science fiction. Stories such as:

"The High Water Mark" --- A farm boy is scared out of his wits as he marches to a battle raging at a place called Gettysburg. But will his actions this historical day be the mark of a coward, or an unexpected hero?

"Gettysburg Dreams" --- A Confederate officer is preparing his troops for the upcoming battle, but one of his soldiers --- whose grandmother is skilled in the arts of voodoo --- tells him of a vision of the future, a future that is terrifying...

"Last Hours in Richmond" --- As the Union forces battle their way closer to Richmond during the last days of the war, a tired woman who runs a boarding house does what she can do to survive... even if it means breaking the law...

This unique anthology also includes:

-- Author forward and afterward

-- Publication history of each story

-- Author insight on how each story was written and published

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brendan DuBois of New Hampshire is the award-winning author of sixteen novels and more than 120 short stories. His latest novel, "Deadly Cove," was published in July 2011 by St. Martin's Press.

His short fiction has appeared in Playboy, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and numerous other magazines and anthologies including “The Best American Mystery Stories of the Century,” published in 2000 by Houghton-Mifflin. Another one of his short stories appeared in in "The Year's Best Science Fiction 22nd Annual Collection" (St. Martin's Griffin, 2005) edited by Gardner Dozois

His short stories have twice won him the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, and have also earned him three Edgar Allan Poe Award nominations from the Mystery Writers of America. He is also a onetime "Jeopardy!" game show champion.

Cover art by Jeroen ten Berge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brendan DuBois
• Release date: Mar 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301341061

Book preview

Introduction

As a long-time lover of history from an early age, I was fascinated by going into old cemeteries near where I lived, seeing tombstones marking the final resting places of New Hampshire boys and men that had served in the Civil War. It seemed hard to believe back then that the violence and disruption of such a conflict would reach this far north into rural New Hampshire. In trips throughout New England, it was rare not to find a statue of a Civil War statue in the town common or town square. And as I got older, the same was true of other states, except, of course, the uniforms on the statues looked different once you went below the Mason-Dixon line.

Although I wasn’t a deep student of the Civil War, I did read the books of Bruce Catton and Shelby Foote, occasionally read the magazine Civil War Illustrated, and like most of America, I was glued to the television when Ken Burns (a fellow New Hampshire resident) has his Civil War series broadcasted on PBS.

One would think that after all these years, interest in the Civil War might have waned, but if anything it has grown. As William Faulkner once said, The past is never dead. It’s not even past. As a nation, the United States is what is today because of the Civil War. The railroad, the telegraph, tabloid newspapers, the reach of the Federal government: its expansion and use of all these areas occurred during those bloody four years. How and why it started --- state’s rights, tariffs, slavery, economic conflicts, the role of government or some combination thereof --- are endlessly discussed and debated. I doubt these debates will ever be ended or resolved, but in the meantime, the books will continue to be written, the tales will be told.

In this anthology are a collection of my short stories that have a connection with the bloodiest conflict that was fought by Americans. I began my writing career by being a mystery author, but along the way, I’ve been asked to write stories for original anthologies that had a Civil War theme. Writing these stories turned out to be fun and a challenge; fun because I always like writing to a request, and a challenge because I needed to do research to get the facts right.

And speaking of facts, I need to apologize upfront for the errors and inaccuracies that appear in the following tales. I’m not a historian, or an amateur historian, but one who just loves history and who’s fortunate sometimes to write stories with a hisorical theme. But I do know that those who are Civil War experts take their history seriously; here, I beg for your forgiveness, for I’m sure I’ve gotten some details wrong.

Here, the stories are not necessarily battlefield tales of heroism and sacrifice. There are tales of mystery, of suspense, even of science fiction. But what they all have in common are the stories of random men and women in America, caught up in a maelstrom of conflict and history, doing what they can to survive, no doubt wondering if the happenings of their lives and their struggles would outlive them.

What follows are these tales, with brief pieces on how and why I came to write them, along with their publication history. I do hope you enjoy them.

The Invisible Spy

In a campsite near the furthest point of the Union lines outside of Petersburg, Virginia, Colonel Thomas Cabot of the Union Army slowly paced the length of his tent. It was nearing dusk and with each passing minute, his impatience grew and grew, like an increasing hunger, like being out on a long march with nothing to eat save an old hunk of hardtack. His adjutant, Captain Jacob Shaw, looked up as he polished his boots. Colonel, this pacing ain't going to help much, you know that, he said.

I know, Jacob, I know, he said, pausing as he looked out the open tent flap, seeing the lines of canvas tents, as far as one could see, in a farmer's hayfield. But we have been promised this information, and I in turn have promised the general that we will have it before the evening is out.

The sound of the brush against the leather was almost rhythmic, reminding Cabot of his time as a music teacher, back in Boston. Keeping time, one of the first things he taught.... From a teacher of music to a leader of men, and what strange events over the past few years had conspired to take him out of the cool brick buildings of Boston to this hilly and swampy landscape in Virginia, now criss-crossed with trenches and forts.

Then there is nothing you can do but wait, sir, his adjutant said. Wait and be patient.

Wait and be damned, Cabot muttered, looking out again through the tent flaps. Just a few miles away are the rebs, and among those damn rebs is a spy, working for us, who has promised me information tonight, before we go to battle tomorrow. Think of him over there, trying to slip through those rebel lines and pickets. I can rightly tell you, Jacob, that he's not thinking of being patient.

Shaw made a dismissive sound as he continued the polishing. That's a nasty business, spying. Don't rightly hold for it, sir.

Cabot kept on staring out at the parade ground, at the soldiers going through their nightly ritual, preparing for their evening meal, while he continued waiting and looking for the visitor that was promised to him tonight.

Spying is mentioned in the Bible, I'll remind you, Jacob, Cabot said softly. And if it's in the Good Book, and can help us defeat the rebels and free men from bondage, then I don't mind spying, not at all.

Cabot crossed his arms, rocked slightly on his heels. What I do mind, curse it all, is waiting. Just standing here and waiting.

It was dusk, and already, it was cold. Corporal Harmon Brewster of the Army of Northern Virginia shivered as he stood at his post, on the Halifax Road outside of Petersburg, just a few miles from the Union lines. Already he could hear the distant thuds of cannon fire, as the damn blue-bellies tossed shells into his regiment and others, still enduring this long siege.

He heard some low talk and laughter, and he looked over to the small rise of land, which rose up to the west. A small fire burned there, as his relief sat there and warmed up with a handful of others. Their task tonight was to check whatever traffic was going through on this road, making sure all had the correct passes to let them pass through the regiment's lines. A boring task, almost as bad as drilling in camp during those long months of winter when nothing much ever happened, but he found he was nervous, as he stood there, rifle in his hands. For tonight, he and the others were looking for a spy, a spy that had been giving the Federals details on their forces and their lines.

He shivered again, remembering the warning from Lieutenant Morgan, who was one of the figures up there around the campfire. The lieutenant had gathered them together earlier and said, Be extra watchful tonight, boys. It's no secret that the Federals are preparing for another assault. Word is that they have spies among our lines, checking the number of regiments and where they're located. This road comes closest to the Union lines. If a spy is going to try to pass through our lines tonight, this'd be a good place as any for him to try.

Harmon had wanted to ask a question of the lieutenant but was too shy to say anything aloud, in front of the other men in the company. He was a corporal but most of the men just ignored him, for they knew he was young, probably the youngest in the regiment, and Harmon was sure that they were right. When he had enlisted, more than two years ago, he had only been fifteen. But he had gone to the recruiter and had raised his right hand in an oath, saying that he was over eighteen. Of course, what he had done -- what many other farmboys in his county had done -- was to scrawl the number eighteen on a piece of paper and put it in inside his shoe. That way, he hadn’t been lying. He really was just over eighteen.

On this day he had a couple of questions, and thankfully, some of the other men had spoken up. Sergeant Mortimer had said, Lieutenant, just what in hell are we lookin' for? We can't expect a fella to approach with a paper signed by that baboon Lincoln, saying he's working for the Federals.

Somebody else spoke up. Or to have a paper from Mister Pinkerton, either, and they laughed, knowing how Pinkerton and his crew were working for the Federals, trying desperately to get information about where and how the Virginia regiments would appear.

Lieutenant Morgan -- his moustache heavy and flowing to each side -- patiently smiled at their questions and had said, Look, it's simple enough boys. Anybody and everybody going through on this road tonight gets searched. I don't care if it's the old granny hisself, General Robert E. Lee. We're gonna search everybody who goes through and look for any suspicious papers. Any maps, long letters or papers that have words on 'em that don't make sense. Like a code. Everybody gets searched, understood?

Sure, they had all understood, and Harmon had gotten the first watch, and as he came down to his post, somebody called out, Remember now, Harmon, if it's a whore going through tonight, you can search her petticoats without paying!

He had flushed at what had been said, and had said nothing in reply. Now he was at his post, a small lantern at his feet. While the others were up there, warming themselves around the fire, jawing and smoking, he shivered here, waiting for some damn person to come through here. His shoes were frayed and worn, held together by leather straps, and the knees of his trousers had worn right through both knees. His shirt was simple cotton but at least he had a wool jacket and a slouch hat, which he had pulled down around his ears.

The task tonight was simple enough. The road was straight enough at this point that he could hear or see someone approaching from some distance away. When he or somebody else saw someone coming down the road, he would call out a challenge. Loud enough for them and us to hear, Lieutenant Morgan had said. That way, he had explained, it would give the men around the campfire time enough to come down and help whoever was on guard duty.

Harmon leaned his rifle against his shoulder, rubbed his hands. He looked up at the campfire. Damn it, he was only supposed to be out here an hour before being relieved, and he had a good feeling he had already been out here long enough. But Lieutenant Morgan was the only one among them who had a watch, and who could be forgetful, especially when some good stories were being told.

Damn, it was cold, and then he looked up.

Somebody was coming down the road.

Colonel Thomas Cabot looked over at his adjutant, who was making a show of putting on his boots. Shaw was a rich man's son, from New Hampshire, and he had the best clothing and supplies in the entire regiment. But he wasn't a dandy, no sir, and Cabot had seen him fight as well as any other man during the long months of this bloody civil war. But what he didn't like was the man's pessimism, his dark ways of looking at things, which Shaw had no qualms in displaying.

You know, Colonel, I know you trust Sergeant Calhoun, and the spy that works with him.

I trust him with my life and those of the men in my regiment, Cabot said simply.

Yes, but just because it has worked once, does not mean it will work twice, Shaw observed. And to tell the general that you will have this information before the evening is out, well...

Cabot looked out again at the parade ground. I know. I was no doubt too eager. It may be foolish, yet, if it saves the lives of my men during the assault tomorrow, then I do not mind being made a fool.

A fool, yes, sir, but I pray that the sergeant is not leading us into a trap. I would much rather be a live fool than a dead hero.

Cabot said nothing, continued staring out the open tent flap.

The sound coming down the road was that of a wagon, the clopping of the horse's hooves, the rattling of the wheels, the creaking sound of the leather. Harmon picked up his rifle and called out, Halt, halt there, I tell you!

There was suddenly other sounds as well, as the other men came down from the hill, some carrying torches, and by the time they arrived and joined Harmon, someone said, Oh, hell, it's just Garner, that's all.

Harmon swallowed, saw that he was right. It was Jonathan Garner, a local sutler, and he smiled down from his wagon perch as the men with torches and rifles surrounded him. He doffed his cap and shifted his heavy bulk. Good evening, gentlemen. It truly is an honor to see our troops in such fine order on this cold night.

It was a two-horse wagon, and the wooden wagon was enclosed by canvas. Faded paint on the side announced GARNER SUTLERS Dry Goods Food Supplies Honest and True. Lieutenant Morgan called out, And where are you heading tonight? Garner leaned over. I've just made a delivery of blankets and camp stools to your regiment's quartermaster, and now I'm returning home.

Do you have a pass? the lieutenant asked.

I do, the fat man replied. From your own regiment’s colonel. And here it is.

From his clothing he produced a scrap of paper, which the lieutenant read by the light of a torch. Harmon stood by the wagon, rifle in hands, mouth watering. If only he had delivered some food, perhaps they could have scrounged something from the man. But blankets and camp stools... Nothing worth taking.

Lieutenant Morgan returned the pass, and made a bowing motion with his head. "I must beg your indulgence,