When Claude Devereux's brother, Patrick, is killed at the Battle of Gettysburg, he's devastated.

But there is little time for grief. Devereux, a Confederate spy, has worked his way behind enemy lines in the North to become a prominent adviser to Secretary of War Edwin Stanton.

If General Robert Lee and his comrades in the South have any chance of succeeding in beating the Union, Devereux knows that he must keep his cover at all costs. So he steers clear of danger even when he doesn't want to do so.

One of Devereux's main tasks is to find out more about General Ulysses Grant, who has come to Washington to assume command of the Union army. The general is about to lead his troops on the Overland Campaign, a series of battles through the heart of Virginia.

Devereux must do all that he can to stop Grant in his tracks and help the South win its independence in Death Piled Hard.

Death Piled Hard

A Tale of the Confederate Secret ServicesBy W. Patrick Lang

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 W. Patrick Lang
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4401-2391-7

Chapter One

Homecoming

(3 July, 1863)

"Why do you think they will believe us?" Bill White had asked.

Devereux had ordered him and Sergeant John Quick to cross into the Confederate lines to describe to General Lee what Meade's intentions were for the next day. This was a sentence of death. The chance that they might survive the experience in the midst of the unfinished battle was very small.

The foolishness of this was like the order with which Lee had sent an army corps forward that day to certain ruin.

Devereux had not answered White. He could not answer. He was, for the moment, a dumb beast.

My brother is dead? Is it possible that Patrick is truly gone, never to return? Is it possible?

He sat on the ground, cross legged, staring at the little fire on which they had set a can of water to boil for coffee. With one hand, he worked at arranging the burning pieces of wood to his satisfaction. The sticks hissed and popped as the heat drove out water. The other hand held the open silver case of his watch. "Tell them you come from me, from Hannibal," he told Bill, "Tell them you come from me."

Bill studied his friend in the unsteady, yellow light. Nearby, Fred Kennedy and John Quick sat with their backs to trees. They knew this was not a conversation in which they would be welcomed.

"Now, why would they take the word of a strange black man and an Irish deserter?" Bill asked. "You know them, Claude. You know how bad this may be." White's eyes held no pleading, no expectation of a reprieve. In his heart he knew that Devereux would not relent, could not make a different choice.

"I must go home." Claude said as though the statement would explain everything. Patrick's body lay ten feet away, wrapped in a rubber army ground sheet. His boot soles protruded from one end of the covering. It was unacceptable that he was gone, unacceptable to them all.

Bill understood that. He had caught himself making a mental note to tell the dead man that one of his heels was broken.

"I cannot cross the lines," Devereux continued. "The risk to our mission is too great. I probably could not get back."

"And Lieutenant Kennedy?"

"I have something for him to do in New York, something that will not wait." He looked at Kennedy. "Johnston Mitchell. His time is come. You will not forget?" Kennedy shook his head. He was not really listening, but that did not matter. He knew what was wanted.

Fifteen minutes later White and Quick disappeared into the night, headed for the gentle rise of Cemetery Hill. Beyond the rise lay Gettysburg and the Army of Northern Virginia.

The next morning Devereux sat silently with Kennedy on the wagon's seat as they left the battlefield.

The provost guards let them pass without comment after looking at Devereux's credentials from the War Department.

They decided that they would go to Baltimore to seek preservation for the body and transportation to Alexandria.

Before they left Gettysburg, Claude asked George Sharpe to have the news of Patrick's death sent to the family with their probable route. Sharpe had not heard of Patrick's death and went to find George Meade after saying that he would see to the message.

Devereux managed to avoid shaking Meade's hand, turning his back to him slightly as if to hide his tears.

Sharpe thanked Claude profusely for the help that his brother had given the army's order of battle study in the previous days.

Finally, the hypocrisy of his acceptance of Yankee condolence ended.

Union cavalry was spread across the rear of the army.

Meade had said that he was not sure that Lee would move away. For that reason the army still sat on the "fish hook" of hills, waiting to be sure that the Confederates would not attack again.

Near Hanover a cavalry officer, sweating in the heat, looked at the boots sticking out from under the tarpaulin in the wagon bed and suggested that there was an ice house in the little town. The trip to Baltimore would take two more days. Claude paid the ice house a dollar for enough cracked ice to cover his brother's body a foot deep. Two men broke the ice with sledgehammers while another shoveled the ice on top of Patrick's body.

The long ride down to Baltimore and the railroad was endless in the steaming weather of July. The countryside was so pretty and green that it was hard to believe in the reality of what they had seen, heard and smelled. Birds sang. Insects buzzed and Mennonite farmers stood at the side of the road watching gravely as they passed. Most removed their round brimmed hats when they saw Pat's boots sticking out on the lowered tailgate.

They reached Baltimore around four in the afternoon on the sixth, and went to the telegraph station. There they found Joseph White and John Everly, the undertaker. They had come in the belief that the body would surely pass through Baltimore. They had divided their time among the railroad stations and the telegraph office.

Claude went in with Joe to talk to the telegraph people.

Everly looked in the wagon and asked how often they had filled it with ice.

"Three times altogether, we bought more every time we found an ice house," was Kennedy's reply.

"This was a good idea. We can cover up water discoloration ... I think we should find some more ice." He looked up the street at likely businesses. "I'll ask the telegrapher," he finally said and then, unaccountably, laughed.

Kennedy looked at him in surprise behind which something else grew. He seemed to get bigger standing there in the heat and horse dust of the unpaved street. His normally florid complexion darkened.

"No, no," Everly said, holding up his hands to ward off the growing menace. "I'm as torn up about this as you are. I was just wondering how my sister is going to take this." He glanced at Pat's body under the ice and canvas and shook his head. "There was a time when the two of them were pretty sweet on each other. Then he took to courting Robert Lee's girl. It damn near killed her. Then, he married someone else yet. I don't think Clara ever truly got over him ..."

Kennedy nodded, remembering this small town drama, remembering that Everly's rather pretty sister had never married. He remembered her growing up around town, part of the background of daily life. "Tell her I will come to see her when I can," he said. "I.. I.." He suddenly realized that this expression of his interest was inappropriate to the moment and said no more.

Everly did not know what to say. It had not occurred to him that Fred Kennedy might be attracted to his sister Clara. "Aren't you coming with us," he asked to change the subject?

"No. You and Joe can take everyone home. Joe will get the team back to my stable. They're my horses. I rented them out to Claude for this trip north. The family doesn't have horses heavy enough for this. Theirs are too fine bred. These are some lucky animals. Neither has a scratch on him. I'll ask Joe to load them and the rig into a car together for the trip."

"We'll put the body in there too when I find a box. Joe can ride with it."

"Claude won't let you do that," murmured Kennedy. "He'll want to sit with Pat."

Devereux came out of the telegraph office with White.

They told him what they wanted to do. "Please put my brother in the baggage car," Claude said, confirming the depth of Kennedy's understanding. "Joe and I will ride with him. The rest is fine."

Everly looked surprised at that, surprised to be told that his company was not wanted. He thought about it, then remembered how close the Whites were to the Devereuxs and just accepted it, and nodded.

"Thank you, John," the haggard, dirty man in black said and then held out a hand. "Thanks for coming up here. There was a telegram waiting here from General Halleck. There will be a military escort waiting at the station in Washington City ..."

For Devereux and Kennedy, two officers of Confederate intelligence, this should have been a moment of triumph, but it was not. Three of the four men present understood the irony of the situation. The guard of honor would receive the body of a man who had wanted nothing more than to destroy the Union. This meant nothing when weighed against their grief.

Devereux looked down at his feet. "You are going to New York City?" The question was for Kennedy.

"You told me to go ..."

Devereux was confused, torn between his need to hold his family close and his resolve to kill his most dangerous enemy,

This was Major Johnston Mitchell of the National Detective Bureau. He could still "see" Mitchell in Colonel Lafayette Baker's Pennsylvania Avenue office. Mitchell had done a wonderful job of hunting Claude and his brother, Patrick. It had been a very close thing. Fortune had played a major role in evading Mitchell's traps. Claude thought of his parents, of his wife, of the Whites. Only luck and quick thought had prevented disaster, arrest as spies and disgrace. Mitchell lost that "round" in the game and was exiled to New York, but, given the man's competence and dedication it was only a matter of time ... "Yes. Go to New York. Stop by in Newark and talk to this man." He wrote a name and address in his notebook, tore out the sheet and handed it to his lieutenant. "He will help you ..."

Devereux's face worried Kennedy. It did not seem focused. He looked down and saw that water dripping from the bottom of the wagon was running together in little streams that wet his dusty boots. Turning, he could see that there were wet patches in the dirt street back along the way they had come. He turned to face the dead man's brother. "Do you still want him gone?" he asked.

They both knew who was meant.

"Yes, gone." Then after a second he said, "Do what you think best."

"I will," Kennedy said. "I'll leave tomorrow. Now I am going to find a hotel and a bath."

Chapter Two

The Irish

- August, 1863 - (Washington)

"That was not like you," she said. The words seemed unusually clear in the space left vacant by the waiter's retreating form.

Devereux ignored a sudden urge to peer about the room in search of those who might have overheard his angry outburst.

The Willard Hotel habitually filled its dining room for lunch. Today was no exception. Army and Navy officers sat crowded at tables intended by their makers for fewer diners. The noise was appalling. Only his name and long acquaintance with the matre d' htel had secured a table without a reservation.

He glanced across the table at his wife. Her features were set in the expression of slightly embarrassed disappointment which usually greeted his occasional lapses in self control. "I am sorry, my dear. Forgive me ... I am impatient today. I don't want to sit at table endlessly waiting for the man to take our order. It is bad enough that these ... people will question our lunching out so soon after ..."

She considered that. A small frown spread around the corners of her mouth. As he watched her, he discovered an impulse rising in him to lean forward to kiss her pretty lips.

Hope Devereux wore her mourning well. A high necked, navy blue dress of watered silk set off her ivory skin, blue eyes and golden hair perfectly. Half the men in the room seemed in danger of injuring their necks in attempting to get a better look. Devereux had doubts about the rest.

"You are normally so kind to waiters and other ..." she began, trailing off doubtfully.

"Inferiors?"

She stared stonily at him. "You know very well what I mean!" Exasperation filled her voice. "A gentleman's obligations toward servants and those, in service, are clear." Irritation with him merely accented her beauty.

Devereux rubbed his nose, using the gesture to conceal a small smile. "Don't you recognize him?" he asked softly.

Her eyebrows knit in concentration. "That's the same man who served us twice before in this room," she announced after a moment. "I particularly remember him at lunch with the Nevilles.

He nodded. "You've got him. I'm sure he must be one of Baker's hounds.

"I see. Then, you should be particularly nice to him."

Devereux grinned, delighted with her.

Any of the numerous observers in the room would have said that they made a somewhat odd looking couple. Claude Devereux had never been thought a handsome man. Strong, distinguished, well dressed; these were terms more likely to be used in speaking of him. The last few years had not been kind to him. A double life leaves its mark. His hair was greyer than it might have been had life and history taken a different course.

"This means that he is still having you watched."

"Of course, did you think otherwise?"

She tilted her head slightly to one side in the mannerism he associated with real introspection. Hope seemed to inspect the decor of the far wall somewhere above his head.

The Willard's dining room fit the popular taste for opulent clutter. Ferns littered the floor, giant stag horn ferns, wispy Boston ferns, exotic, vaguely threatening ferns that looked appropriate to one of the odd paintings so common in books concerning Darwin's theories. Dark wallpaper with a chocolate hue, and walnut wainscot dominated the scene. Heavy velvet draperies nearly completed the task of keeping out the light. The soggy misery of a summer day pervaded the room. There was a small, but ominous water stain in one corner of the plaster ceiling.

The guests steamed. The more newly arrived brought with them the heat of the street.

Devereux could feel a tiny rivulet of sweat forming slowly in the small of his back.

He wondered how it could be that his wife never seemed to sweat in public. His mother never really appeared discomfited by hot weather either. How did they manage it in these high necked, heavy dresses? He began to run through a series of images of women he knew in a rapid survey of their perspiration potential.

Victoria Devereux, his sister in law took shape first.

An image of his dead brother came to him. How long before the sharp edges of Patrick's features would no longer live in his mind? Hatred for the blue figures around him welled up.

Elizabeth Braithwaite. No, she made other people sweat.

Amy Biddle. Amy Biddle. Stereoscopic pictures of the woman circulated in his imagination. He found one in which a faint sheen of moisture glistened on her temple. He recognized the setting. It was the funeral. His mother and Hope had stood at the graveside with Victoria, holding her elbows in fear that she might not manage. The rain had stopped. The umbrellas had disappeared, leaving all those present to suffer from the humidity. There hadn't been enough rain to cool the air, just enough to create an accurate imitation of a Turkish bath. The Biddle woman had been in black. The dress stuck in his memory as too severe, exactly the kind of monstrosity which he expected of her wardrobe. He could see her profile, just beyond Hope's.

She looked at him.

He saw that nothing had changed for her. She did not fl inch from him. Her features were rigid, but he knew that she was his, knew the depths of her gratitude that he too, had not been taken at Gettysburg. She turned away, bending her head to listen to the priest's words. Her bosom rose and fell a little faster. Devereux thought of her breasts. They were white and large, larger than Hope's. They had never seen the light of day. Milk white they were with pink nipples and areolae. He knew there must be tiny beads of sweat forming in the deep, warm pocket between her breasts.

Hope brought her eyes down to his. "Surely his only remaining concern with you is as a rival for Stanton's favor."

He remembered the subject of their conversation. "Yes. Except that I fear the other interest in me will never quite disappear."

She looked skeptical.

The waiter in question made his way to them, carefully threading a path between the tables, watchful for sudden movement, a small tray carried aloft on one brown hand. In one, smooth, rotating motion of the wrist, he brought the tray down to the level of the white linen surface of their table. Steam rose from the dishes. "Turtle soup, ma'am! Turtle soup! Our famous turtle soup!"

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Death Piled Hardby W. Patrick Lang Copyright © 2009 by W. Patrick Lang. Excerpted by permission.
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