Gilding An Age

By Kurt Burke

In this sequel to Kurt Burke's acclaimed novel, Sailor Story:
John Carlile returns from British North America, determined to make his fortune following the end of the Civil War. Finding employment with the trans-continental railroad, he soon discovers that the industrialist elites in control of post-war America are determined to continue collecting

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Peterson
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087964478

Book preview

"The chances are that a man cannot get into congress now

without resorting to arts and means that should

render him unfit to go there."

--Mark Twain, from The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today (1873)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For Rhonda, who insisted that I continue to follow my dreams. For Autumn, my little professor. And for Abigail, who kept my attention focused and strengthened my plot lines.

Further thanks to my brother George who provided the critical editing, along with historical and geographical fact-checking for this work.

This is a work of fiction and the stories portrayed in this book are imaginary versions of factual events, although many of the characters were real. I certainly apologize if anyone feels I disparaged the character of someone now-dead more than a hundred years. If anything, I hope I brought to light the importance they imparted to the history of the nation and the subsequent impact on its development. Any resemblance to real people in the fictional characters I portray is unintentional, just my effort to make the story interesting, amusing, and believable.

KB

Nebraska Territory 1866

Washington D.C. 1866

Southeast Missouri 1866

Menah-tsee-us, the Crow guide

Prologue

Sunday, February 25th 1866

Night was falling when the two riders made a sudden turn off the main road south to Fort Erie, a right turn toward the lake shore which, although not visible as yet through the trees, was only a few hundred yards distant. The men could not have been more different. One was taller and well made, dressed in a dark suit and topcoat, the other short and thin with the distinctive dark complexion and hawk nose of a part native French-Canadian trapper.

Upon entering the forest, the remainder of the day slowly faded completely and the larger man had to fend off stray branches that threatened to pluck the hat from his head. The horses picked their way gingerly along just the trace of a rocky path. Snow was still present in spots and covered the ground under the trees where the sun could not reach, but the subtle reflection from the white crystals provided enough ambient light for them to make their way. They slowed even further as the path began to turn and slope down toward the water, the men keeping a tight hold on the reins in an attempt to further control the animals. They could see Lake Erie now, extending into the distant horizon where the black of the water was only a subtle shade darker than that of the sky.

Arriving on a beach that was really just rocks, gravel and the remains of tree trunks, flotsam and branches that the winter storms had deposited, the men finally dismounted. They tied their horses off on a post that formed the foot of what looked to be a tumble-down dock. A boathouse of sorts occupied the seaward side and was just a splotch of even darker black against the mist and sky. The men stomped out onto the dock, shaking off the stiffness accumulated from hours of riding in the cold weather. Without a word spoken they made their way out to the door of the house.

Bolanger, the Canadian, produced a key from his pocket and opened the padlock securing the door. It was well oiled as were the door hinges. In fact, the entire structure was far sturdier than it appeared. He prided himself on the maintenance. It was his workshop and hideaway, a place few knew of and even fewer would know how to find.

Yanques, he thought to himself as he pushed open the door and gestured for the other man to enter. Ils ne peuvent jamais rester assis. They can never sit still. Always running from something or running to something. Not civilized, like the French, which he proudly claimed to be. This, however was a simple business transaction, although the men had worked together in the past, during the war. They had subsequently continued their amiable relationship, based on that trust. Sainte-Catherines was too small of a town for them not to meet on occasion and to be aware of each others’ business. Je serais content avec elle. I’d be happy with a rich girl who can cook, the dialog continued in his head. Why would anyone run away from that? And you are a doctor, an educated and respected man.

He struck a match, the flare of light almost obscene in the pitch black interior, then used it to light a lantern hanging from a hook by the door. The place smelled to him of home, like burnt metal and fish. Both men went immediately over to a birch bark canoe that was upside down on chocks in front of a workbench containing a fair collection of tools and several firearms in various stages of repair. The canoe was lightweight and it barely required effort for them to turn it over and place it in the water by the pier. Dowsing the light, the men assumed their positions in the canoe. The doctor was in front, Bolanger in the back as he was the more practiced and skillful, they used their paddles to push away and navigate out into the night. No need for conversation, they had done this before.

There was only a breath of a breeze and the surface of the water appeared calm, although what small swells there were could be heard distinctly marking their rhythm on the nearby shore. Even this sound faded as they pulled further out into the open water. Bolanger began to warm to his task, switching sides with the paddle to keep the craft straight on course. There were no other disturbances out on the water, the fishing boats and merchant ships were all docked for the night. The canoe barely created a ripple to denote its passing, and both men were careful not to create an errant splash, especially as they closed on their target.

It took less than an hour to get to their destination, the lights of the city of Buffalo making the sky glow behind the dark warehouses, piers and businesses that were closed for the night. No one seemed to be moving around in the harbor area, however the USS Michigan was anchored just off the lighthouse, her white paint clearly visible each time the light made its circuit. There was a lantern in the stern rigging, but the navy didn’t seem overly alert in spite of rumors of the Fenian Brotherhood planning a raid on British North America. Still, skirting Bird Island and getting into the basin would take them within two hundred yards of the old battleship.

Once inside the entrance channel they were easily lost to sight among the plethora of other craft at dock there. Now they could hear stray sounds of laughter as well, sailors at play in the drinking establishments on Water Street behind the docks, contrary to the two hundred-year-old blue laws. As they glided up to the wharf, the doctor displayed remarkable agility scaling the piling, then kneeling there while Bolanger slung the duffle bag and medical valise from the bottom of the canoe up to him.

The Doctor quickly faded from sight among the storehouses lining the shore. Mission complete, Bolanger pushed off and began the return trip to his lair in a craft that was now unencumbered and seemed to skim across the water. "Au revoir, mon amie, I shall miss you," he said to himself. Then barely aloud, to the water and the night sky, John Carlile, be vigilant on your return to the United States.

1

Like many other Confederate officers and dignitaries, after the war I feared being held responsible for events beyond my control. Thus, I fled these United States and settled in British North America, Sainte-Catherines in Ontario to be precise. I knew from previous experience the difficulty involved with legal extradition from that country. I resumed my profession as a physician in a quiet way, determined not to attract the attention of any authorities and going by my middle name Arthur Carlile, or just Doc to further separate myself from my past. My knowledge of the inner workings of the Confederate Secret Service, my employer during the last year and more of the Civil War, made me a target for others seeking to keep their own prior activities a secret.

With the news of the trial of the Lincoln assassination conspirators, I kept as close an eye on the newspapers as possible to see if any testimony revealed my name to the tribunal, but unlike my old friends Sam Mudd and John Surratt I seem to have been forgotten. I often wondered if my father, with his clandestine political contacts and continued wish to pass along his legacy to me, had pulled strings to keep my name out of it. But then again, my nemesis George Sanders got off clean as well. There was more evidence to tie him to the Lincoln conspiracy and his hands were far dirtier than mine.

The trial itself was a sham. Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, with whom I was also acquainted, had insisted on a military tribunal instead of a civilian trial. Since he was more or less the political power within the administration, he got what he wanted. A tribunal meant that a panel of nine Union officers were judges, the prosecutor was also the legal adviser to that panel and the defendants were represented by Union officers who had careers to consider. The defendants could be convicted by a simple majority of the judges, only five and they could be sentenced to death by a vote of six. The witnesses were coached on their testimony, received rewards for coming forward and simply lied. Louis Weichmann and John Lloyd, both members of the conspiracy, avoided culpability by testifying as the prosecution dictated. The defense was given two days to prepare their case. No surprise that they were all convicted and four sentenced to death, the hanging happening immediately to forestall any appeal. The whole circus took less than two months. I think Mary Surratt was hanged in lieu of son John, who had escaped to Europe and was in hiding. Mary was simply a widow woman trying to make a living running a boarding house. Besides, hanging women in my opinion spoke to the deterioration of the country’s moral fiber.

Three things caused me to change my mind about Sainte-Catherines. First, that there didn’t appear to be anyone pursuing me. Still, I kept a close eye out to make sure I was not followed in my daily activities, or if there appeared to be strangers asking about me in town. I was familiar with strategies like doubling back, watching for a tail in shop windows, avoiding routine and the like. I kept my door locked at all times and a scrap of paper in the jamb when I was away so I could tell if anyone had entered in my absence.

Second, although the city was friendly and I was making an adequate living, the harsh winter of ‘65 put me off the place. I had been through the city during the war and had liked it there, but that had been in the summer months and mostly I detested the long, dark, snowy and cold days that were Ontario in the winter. The frequent snowstorms had caused me to be shut in for significant periods of time, and that often left me alone with my thoughts. Lonely can reach the point of unbearable at times, and making friends with a bottle of whiskey only makes matters worse.

Last and worst of all, I had taken a patient that required significant care. It was lucrative as he had money; he had suffered a bout with consumption of the brain which had left him partially paralyzed and I was able to attempt advanced medical techniques. Both he and his wife had remained upbeat in spite of the disability inflicted on them and as a result of his inability to work. I had been experimenting administering treatments with magnetic black spinel crystals obtained from Sweden, which seemed to be assisting in his recovery. Then he suddenly had a seizure and abruptly passed away. I couldn’t even bring myself to ask for the remainder of my fees. His wife had fed me supper on occasion and I had to consider that sufficient. When I continued to get those supper invitations after his death, I began to believe I was in the running to be his replacement.

Thus, when the weather broke in February of 1866 I packed up and went south, bidding adieu to my new Canadian friends and heading down to make the crossing of Lake Erie at the Niagara River, my connections from the past ensuring this could be done in secret. I had heard that Missouri offered cheap land so my destination became St. Louis. It didn’t take me long to realize that the war had not ended in Missouri. There had been too many killings of innocent family members of the combatants and these events remained personal for the people involved. Jayhawker Kansas cavalry were actively tracking Confederate soldiers returning home and killing them indiscriminately. As a result, the Missouri irregular cavalry units under those such as Bill Quantrill and William Anderson refused to disband and were still raiding both army supply movements and civilians that were said to have given information to Union troops during the war. In addition, constant rumors of insurrection among the newly freed blacks prompted massacres of those poor people. The hate was still palpable in the air.

In St. Louis I met a former officer, Major Charles Campbell, CSA, who had served at Shiloh. Slightly built with a thin mustache and aquiline nose, he favored suits of a military cut coupled with string ties. He frequented the bar at the Planters Hotel where I was staying. A former West Point graduate in ‘61, he indicated that he had been disappointed with how the Confederate forces had been handled and had resigned. I had the impression also that those he considered inferior had been promoted over him, or maybe he had lacked sufficient gumption to assume command when his regimental commander and then the commanding general of the army were killed right next to him. I didn’t note anything about him that spoke of character and for a young man he certainly spent significant time in the lounge drinking, smoking and complaining of his lot in life. Perhaps his war experience had left him with the nightmares, mine certainly had.

I had that regiment functioning with a high degree of efficiency, he told me. Those generals destroyed it. We were put into an untenable position but we held it! he stated with pride. Saved the Louisiana artillery, too. We lost over two hundred men in that fight, they had to consolidate us with another regiment afterward. Besides, he said. Missouri troops should have been fighting for their own state, not on the other side of the Mississippi River.

My service comprised having to travel to England and Canada along with other countries and included many states in addition to my own, I had remarked. Wherever they needed my efforts, I said. I believed that the United States government had become tyrannical and I was duty bound to serve the cause.

"Well, that’s the navy for you." Said with a trace of a sneer. I had of course been judicious in the amount of information I was willing to reveal. In any case he did inform me that many former Confederate soldiers were being hired on to build the transcontinental railroad. That information started me planning my next move.

In March, after most of the seasonal flooding had subsided, I boarded a riverboat up the Missouri River with my destination being Omaha, the capitol of the Nebraska Territory and headquarters of the Union Pacific Railroad. The newspapers were full of the progress of the endeavor nearing Lone Tree Station, a huge cottonwood tree landmark and pony express stop on the Oregon trail in Nebraska. The weather was sunny and warm and I was in the mood for an adventure. Besides, I’d heard plenty of stories of Indian fights, gold strikes, buffalo hunts, the western desert and the Rocky Mountains. Sounded just like the place I should be.

2

I boarded the stern wheel steamer Amelia Poe on the 30th of March for the twelve-day trip upstream to the north and west. After stowing my belongings in the berth assigned, I returned to the deck for casting off. When the clamor of making way into the current and channel had subsided, I pulled up next to an officer at the rail that I had heard a crewman referred to as Mr. Calhoun.

Viewing the change in the water at the turn from the Mississippi to the Missouri , I remarked, Now that is one muddy river. More for just something to say than for any other reason.

He turned to give me an appraising look, and after a silent moment he must have concluded I was not going to be a chatty bother as he gave me a quick smile. Too thick to drink, too thin to plow, was the return quip, causing me to chuckle quietly.

We stood there in silence for a minute more before I said, Art Carlile, nice to make your acquaintance. Tom Calhoun, he replied. And likewise. At that juncture I turned away so as not to make a pest of myself.

The Amelia Poe was an interesting vessel to me due to my years of experience aboard sailing ships and seagoing steamers. She was 165 feet in length with a fairly narrow beam of 27 feet, but had a draft of less than five feet fully loaded. Amelia Poe was ideal sized for navigating a river like the Missouri. She could make ten knots into the current although she mostly didn’t try for full speed due to bends and twists in the channel that changed yearly and snags that hid just below the opaque surface of the water.

The lower deck housed a galley to the stern, then dining area, forward of which was a bar and lounge. Crew quarters were in the center of this deck then the engines that drove the paddles which were all the way to the rear. Two tall smokestacks vented the firebox, built so as not to cause the passengers to be irritated with the wood smoke and so also not to obscure vision from the wheelhouse. A considerable amount of cargo could be carried on this deck, more than two hundred tons. Two mastheads close to the bow were used as cranes for loading and unloading.

The second deck contained cabins and berths for the passengers, depending on how much you were willing to pay for the fare. Both forward and aft of this structure had delightful exposed deck space where passengers could relax in the open air, catching sunshine, breeze and the scenery available on the river. Standing on the very top was the wheelhouse where the vessel was steered and commands were given to the men in the engine room.

The riverboat could carry something over forty passengers, although some of these just slung a hammock with the crew or in the cargo area. I was told somewhere along the line that the cost to build the boat would be made up in just one trip to Montana and back.

Once settled in, I was determined to do some scouting of my destination by taking advantage of the loose conversation in the common areas. To that end I started with dinner, listening closely to what was being said around me. I quickly found that most of the passengers were headed for Fort Benton at the confluence of the Yellowstone River, either continuing on from there for the Montana gold fields or bringing supplies to equip that lot. Afterward I moved to the lounge, a closed in room without windows. My thought was that this room was originally designed as a secure store room, but had been converted in an effort to extract just a bit more money from the passengers. Roughly half the tables to starboard formed a bit of a casino, featuring a roulette wheel, poker area and a large, half-circle faro table with room for ten players.

I had learned the game of faro during my time in England during the war, the basic strategy was to bet light until much of the deck was out, then take advantage of the better odds available when numbers began to be eliminated. Faro had just begun to get seriously popular in the American west where there was money to be made for hard and dangerous work.

After losing the first couple of rounds I noted that the dealer was sloppy with the box, leaving the possibility of just a glimpse at the losing card for the next round. I began to suspect he was doing this on purpose for the benefit of a player two to my left, who had the best side view. Instead of making a scene, I decided to take advantage. My first effort resulted in a split, but then after winning half on a four- nine diagonal I noted what could only be the top of a Q peeking out the box edge before sliding back into place. On the bet I parlayed my win onto the queen, topping the wager with a penny from my pocket to denote that I was betting on the losing card. After my win on that round there was a subtle look exchanged between the man to my left and the dealer and he was much more careful with the box after that.

Still, by playing multiples, keeping track of the abacus to determine cards remaining in the deck, and then by taking advantage of the dealer’s sleight of hand when it came up, I managed modest winnings by the end of the night. Most of the others at the table had been drinking, so by keeping my chips in messy odd piles and staying mostly quiet, few were aware that I went away a winner.

After cashing out, I pulled up to the bar next to the man who had been in cahoots with the dealer and ordered a beer. While the bartender was off pouring it for me, I asked the man next to me, How long have you known him?

He continued to look straight ahead as if I wasn’t there. The guy was tall, a little over six feet, but thin. His face was thin too, with a prominent nose that had to have been broken at some point and a bushy mustache underneath. His overall demeanor and erect posture, along with his complete lack of physical response made me think, Soldier. Next, And armed. Final thought was, Virginia accent, but with a twist.

Without turning to look at me, but with a look of amusement playing about his dark eyes, he answered, Known who?

Why the dealer, of course, I said with an easy smile.

You must be new hereabouts, was the answer. Some questions are best left without asking. Too many ways for a fellow to get lost. Big country, big river, you know.

Which is why I didn’t ask at the table. Doc Carlile, I introduced myself while forwarding my hand. He took it, this time turning to get a closer perusal of me. "Major Edwards, he said.

CSA, I said flatly. A statement, not a question and no animosity in the tone.

That got a laugh out of him. With Joe Shelby, a staff officer. Mostly paperwork and the like.

Right. Staff officer for a raiding cavalry unit had more duties than that. But from my mouth came, Yeah, I worked for Bill Spotswood at OMS. Paperwork and the like. As a Virginian Edwards would be very aware of who William Spotswood was. I received an amused chuckle from him for my efforts.

At that juncture my beer arrived, so he raised his drink and announced, Well, here’s to a couple of armchair soldiers! We clinked glasses, then lapsed into silence for a few seconds, studying our respective drinks. Well, that would make you a sailor-man then anyway. What brings you out here to the middle of the prairie? he asked.

Went to Canada after the war, I said. Didn’t like the winter and heard the railroad is looking for people. What about you? I returned the query. I heard Shelby went down to Mexico with his men.

Maximilian wants to be a benevolent father to the Mexican Indians, he won’t take our support as a foreign legion. The Frenchies won’t send any more soldiers or money to support him, they’re under pressure from the United States who’re in favor of a weak and chaotic Mexico. His tone was beginning to ramp up at this point. If Juarez is successful in retaking the country, he will take away our colony and probably attack us in the bargain. Some of us might start over in Argentina, there is another colony there, but I’m here scouting out Missouri reconstruction.

Not much being reconstructed from what I can see, plenty of war and murder still happening in Missouri, I remarked. Imposed Republican government and Jayhawk Kansas cavalry to do the law enforcement. I’m heading for Nebraska and maybe see some of the west.

At that point I finished my beer and bid him good night, but offered to swap war stories on what was looking like a long trip. On my part we were slated for twelve days to cover the 400-some miles to Omaha. Edwards told me he was going only as far as Kansas City. As I was going back to my berth, I saw him order another whiskey then refer to the dealer as ‘sergeant’. But it was always good to make some local connections even if he wasn’t going to get me information on the railroad operations. I determined to expand my social connections to smooth my arrival in Omaha.

Major Edwards left us in Kansas City as promised, along with his dealer friend the sergeant. Until then we had a few lively conversations regarding our mutual war experiences, of course tainted to make us heroes of the cause. For my part I completely omitted any connection I had with the Wilkes Booth scheme and I’m very certain that Edwards had skeletons he left in the closet as well. Such is the nature of conflict.

Meanwhile, I cultivated my relationship with Tom Calhoun, the ship’s officer. He was obviously a hard core Yankee from Pittsburgh, so I avoided any talk of Reb sympathies. Instead I concentrated on the perils of river navigation and coupled that with some of my experiences as a ship’s officer. The only decent pieces of information I did manage to get were that the Union Pacific Railroad had contracted with a company called Crédit Mobilier of America to actually build it, and that the directors of Crédit Mobilier headquartered out of the Herndon House Hotel on Ninth and Farnham Streets overlooking the levee, wharf and railroad shops further down toward the riverfront. At least I felt I had a decent place to start once I got to Omaha. I had also padded my purse with about a hundred dollars in gambling winnings, so I felt I could make a decent presentation of myself.

3

On arriving in Omaha I had no difficulty finding the Herndon House Hotel, as promised it was visible from the levee where I disembarked. I crossed the tracks and skirted the lake there, then walked up the hill. The hotel was a fine structure, a square brick four-story affair with more than a hundred rooms on the southwest corner of Ninth Street. I was disappointed to find out at the desk that they had no room available for me at the moment, especially after crossing the sumptuous lobby adorned with significant hardwood molding and plush red velvet overstuffed chairs. After the dismal lodgings aboard ship I was looking forward to something a bit more refined. Apparently Omaha was not only headquarters for the Union Pacific, Crédit Mobilier and the postal service, but was base of operations for the Army’s Department of the Platte. This meant any officer above the rank of captain was housed in the hotel as well. I was referred to a boarding house three blocks south and west, a frame house on Eleventh Street belonging to an old widow woman with an