A Note To The Reader: I have used the term 'negro' to describe and refer to persons of the African-American persuasion. Primarily I use it because it was the appropriate and polite term used in the period between the end of the American Civil War, almost to and including the civil rights movements a hundred years later. Other terms, the least offensive of which is 'colored', were considered uncouth and inappropriate especially in the north.

The term African-American did not come into use until well into the 20th century.

IIOYYCKMA


October 21st, 1874

The White House

Washington, D.C.

"And what was the response from Niagara?" President Grant asked over his shoulder, marking a swift and steady pace through the halls of the White House that Gordon and West were forced to match.

Jim answered without hesitation. "Frederick's train arrived at 0600 hours in Ontario, Canada. The agents who were aboard reported no foul play during the trip, then departed. Frederick himself responded to our telegraphs with one of his own declaring that all had gone well."

"Mr. Gordon?"

"Sir, while it is possible that this is some elaborate ruse, it seems unlikely. The man sending the threatening notes has made it clear all along what he intends to do and has given reasons, if vague ones, as to why. Any subterfuge that might convince you that your son was out of danger neither fits his modus operandi nor his mentality."

"So we may assume that Frederick and Ida are out of harm's way."

"We may." Jim answered, glancing across to his partner as they traded one hallway for another, curving through the expanse of marble and stone before they started up a stair case.

"And we still have no word from Columbia?"

"No sir." Jim answered again, both West and Gordon nearly overshooting the President as he paused on the stairs, one of Grant's hands going out to clutch at the railing for a moment.

"I want you men there, now. I want you at Columbia University, I want my boy found, and returned to the White House until this mess has been sorted out." President Grant's voice was low and stern, and barely controlled, if the violent tremble in the man's free hand was any indication.

"Sir," Arte said after a moment, compassion entering his voice. "One of us at the very least should remain here."

Gordon knew the moment he said it that it had been a foolish and futile suggestion and he straightened, closing his mouth and looking to his partner.

"We'll keep you informed, Mr. President." Jim said quietly before both men silently slipped back down the stairs and into a carriage waiting outside the East entrance.


The trip to Columbia University's Law School, located on New York's Manhattan Island, was short. From the train station the two Secret Service Agents took a hack to the gothic revival style campus on 49th Street and Madison Avenue. It had only been a day since the bright, fall wedding in Chicago, but Arte felt as though they were a world away.

The collection of gray, domineering buildings were dreary. The skies rainy and subdued, with damp leaves caking the sidewalks and the drains in the streets. Only a handful of negro ground's workers were on the campus, the damp Sunday afternoon a perfect time for sleeping in, or study, or finding a quiet corner with a young lady from the seminary uptown.

The fledgling fraternity to which Ulysses S. Grant's second son, Ulysses S. Grant Jr. belonged, knew him only as Buck Grist. The name change was an intentional opportunity that Buck had taken, seeking to mingle unobtrusively with his peers, even if those peers were as pedigreed as he. The well-appointed brown stone that the fraternity occupied smelled, looked and sounded very much like any home suddenly under the care of un-mothered and un-wed twenty-something men. The environment had brought a curious sort of smile to Jim's lips and a repulsed sneer to Arte's.

They traveled through the quiet halls of the first floor of the building finding it almost entirely deserted but for a young man sitting studiously in a high-backed chair in the reception room, his back to the doorway into which Arte and Jim leaned. At first they could only see a puff of incandescent white smoke rising from the chair every few minutes, then a slender and pale hand appeared from behind the chair hovering over the side table, an elongated, ornate pipe ending in a bowl shape, tipping from his fingers like a delicately balanced decanter.

The room stank from the smoke the boy, whoever he was, had been enjoying, and it didn't take long for both men to recognize it. "Opium." Arte said to his partner's nod. "Charming."

They continued through the house finding the other open rooms deserted, including the upstairs bedroom that had to have belonged to Buck. The door was ajar, the room looking no more ransacked than it might be at the hands of a college student desperately seeking out a lost text-book while late for a class. There was no way to know if anything was missing. Whether the boy had left on his own for a late afternoon lunch, or been kidnapped the night before.

Lighting one of the gas lamps on the wall Arte moved to the dark Maplewood desk near the window, rifling through the papers that littered its surface. West moved to the chest of drawers, then the bureau, finding enough clothing in each to dissuade him from presuming Buck had taken a planned trip.

When he moved to the closet the door was tightly closed, the hinges straining against something weighty. Prepared for anything, or anyone, to jump out at him when he opened the door Jim turned the handle then hopped back, and was surprised to find a second bed tipped up on its head fitted precisely to the dimensions of the small space. As the door opened the bed swung down, its momentum hindered by a gear and pulley system also hidden inside the closet.

The creak of the mechanism distracted Arte from his search and he blinked at the second bed.

"Does he have a roommate?" Arte asked, glancing around the room for further evidence of the same.

Jim shook his head, noting that the bed had been put away into its hiding place in the closet complete with linens and blankets. "He isn't supposed to."

"Perhaps that's meant for unannounced visitors."

Jim seemed lost in thought for a moment before he said, "The opium smoker?"

Arte considered the idea. All of the unlocked rooms in the house had been common rooms geared for study or dining, bathing or gathering. None of the bedrooms had been unlocked but this one. "Makes sense." He agreed, turning back to the desk and pulling out the bottom most drawer where he found a stack of letters. Tipping the string bound bundle to his nose Arte smirked, then perched on the edge of the desk and read the return address on the first envelope. "From a Miss Fannie Josephine Chaffee, to Mr. Buck Grant..." He said amused, before catching his partner's glance.

"I had forgotten about that..." Jim said, a slight growl in his tone. Both men had, not that long ago, run into the father of Miss Fannie Chaffee with mildly disastrous results.

"That shall be one wedding I have no desire to attend..." Arte muttered before he jerked open the only drawer he hadn't yet checked. More papers lay inside, loosely stacked. He had just dipped his hand into the mess when a deep rumble sounded at the door. Arte was surprised to look up and find that the sound had come from human vocal chords.

A towering, powerfully built negro man, who had to be in his sixties at least, stood in the door looking over the two Secret Service Agents, openly suspicious.

"Can I help you gentlemens?" The man asked, his voice a natural basso, grumbling like a low steady roll of thunder. Giant fists closed around the warped wooden handle of a broom. Arte was hard pressed to think of another man that he had met, other than perhaps Voltaire, that was more intimidating while standing casually in a doorway.

"We're friends of Buck's." Jim said after a moment, popping a friendly smile on his face. Arte could sense his partner sizing up the man in the doorway.

Muscular, and likely at some point in his youth well accustomed to extreme labor, the man appeared to have grown until he fit the task to which he was assigned then stopped there. His shoulders were broad, his forearms hardened like steel, his chest deep. He stood straight with no sign of a stoop or lean, and were it not for the salt and pepper spritz of hair on the man's head, West might have considered him equal in age. "Do you...work for the university?" Jim asked after a moment.

The man in the doorway considered the question and the one asking it before he shook his head. "No..I works for the boys here." He said, his speech pattern lending further to his age, his slow drawl indicating that he had probably been a slave over a dozen years ago, somewhere in the south.

"You wouldn't happen to know where Buck is?" Arte asked, watching as the hands of the giant man creaked shut around the suffering broom handle then released again.

"Boys is gone from the house by ten most mornin's." The man said. "What you say your names was?"

"I'm James West and this is my p-"

"Professor...I'm a professor here at the university. Buck told me that he left a book that he had borrowed from me somewhere here in the room and I need it...for a class tomorrow. Thought I would help myself to it." Arte said, smiling before he snatched up the first book he saw.

Arte couldn't read the face of the man in the doorway, the dreary dark of the day lending little natural light to the hallway in which the man stood, masking his reaction further.

"Don't make a mess, s'all." The man said finally, before dropping back out of the door. Seconds later Jim and Arte could hear the creak of hinges down the hall, and then the walls themselves seemed to groan as the man climbed a hidden set of stairs, probably leading to servant's quarters in the attic.

Jim moved to the door of the room, double checking that the hall was clear before he turned to watch Arte leaf through the papers he had just pulled from the desk.

"What have you got there, Professor Gordon?" Jim asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Hmm? Oh." Arte flipped through the parchments full of chicken scratches, realizing that most of what he was looking at was a mirror image of something else. "Blotting papers and...nothing."

West and Gordon stood for a moment listening to the hiss of the gas lamp and scanning the confusing mess strewn over the floor.

"You don't suppose our opium addict will have anything to say, do you?" Arte asked.

"That would depend on how persuasive I decide to be..." Jim said with a slow and deadly smile.

Arte raised his brow then followed his partner back down the stairs.


December 31st, 1862

New Year's Eve Morning

General Grant's Headquarters

Mississippi

"Captain Gordon!" The 22-year-old aide-de-camp splashed his way through the hardening mud between tents, turning a corner too sharply and nearly careening into a crowd of Sergeants trying to enjoy a last cup of coffee before the morning's duties had to be tended to. They sneered at the obnoxiously well-kempt Lieutenant barely dragging their fingers to their caps in mocked salutes. The aide-de-camp seemed oblivious to the disrespect, more concerned at the splash of coffee on his uniform tunic. He threw a gloved hand up in his own hasty response before taking off again. "Captain Gordon!?"

Ahead of him the Lieutenant could see his target, moving back and forth between a gap in tents wearing an oversized brown wool greatcoat and a threadbare and patched butternut uniform. His head still bandaged, recently clean-shaven but for the mustache, dark eyes flashing, irked, under the brim of a light tan forage cap. He had been standing beside a hastily saddled horse for the past hour, waiting.

The Lieutenant had been ordered to make his delivery in person and with haste, before returning to General Grant for further instructions. The young man knew that the camped armies would be given the order soon to move out, and that long weary days of marching would follow. The weather was not likely to cooperate for long and sending Captain Gordon on his way as quickly as possible was vital to their success.

The Lieutenant once more broke into a run, this time awkwardly avoiding falling headfirst into a table he hadn't expected to find between two wall tents. He managed to twist around the obstacle, high-stepping over the crossed lines keeping the tents taught and upright, before he came to poised attention in front of the Captain.

"Sir, the items you requested." The Lieutenant stated, only recently promoted to his position, his outstretched hand holding a burlap sack that swung heavily with the weight of over a hundred dollars in gold and silver, amongst other things.

Arte looked over the young man carefully. He might have first accused the fresh-faced, blue-eyed kid of being green, nothing more than the child of a rich man in the north, given a commission straight out of West Point. But the kid had talent, if his acrobatics in getting there had been any indication. And Arte could sense the young soldier had seen action.

"At ease, Lieutenant, what's your name?" Arte asked, taking the bag from the man's hand and looking through its contents.

"West, sir." The young man responded, slipping his gauntlet style gloves behind his back and opening his stance to shoulder width. The position dropped the man's height about an inch, making Arte realize just how compact the kid was. Very physically capable, at ease in his own body, and Arte imagined a powerful fighting force when put to the test.

"Did General Grant send any further instructions?" He asked, closing the bag.

"None sir, but that you should take all caution in returning to your duties. And he wished to remind you of your extreme value to this campaign."

Arte didn't know how many times Grant had tried to apologize for the injuries the captain had sustained at the hands of the pickets. Each time, Gordon, uncomfortable with the memories, had changed the subject. He wasn't there to be friendly with Grant, he had finally decided, he was there to do his duty, be paid the exorbitant sum promised, and get the heck out of the army all together.

That was the con man's way, and he had decided, was probably the best way for a spy too.

Frankly, Grant hovering by his bedside for two days had confused the captain. He wasn't accustomed to that sort of relationship. He'd spent too much time at the periphery of this war to have been included in the brotherly camaraderie that some of the other non-commissioned officers in his old regiment had enjoyed. In the artillery the friendships began when the bottle was uncorked in the evening and ended when the next morning dawned. Then it was back to the front where any one of them could be dead before the next bottle could be opened. Why put effort into lasting friendships that would only end prematurely?

He was as anxious to leave camp to avoid any more of Grant's apologies, as he was to get back to Vicksburg and establish himself with the enemy. This wasn't to be an overnight trip anymore, nor a simple reconnaissance. He was now being sent to Vicksburg to stay.

Until Grant could get word to him that they had reached the position from which the Union army would attack, Arte was to remain, infiltrate, report when he could, and if possible, sabotage.

"He didn't say who my contact would be?" Arte asked, watching the blank expression on the Lieutenant's face.

It was dangerous. More dangerous than a jaunt on the stage, or a con against a humorless and vengeful mark. In someone's history book he might be labeled as a hero in the future. In another he would be a vile traitor.

"Very well. Send the General my regards." Arte said finally, waiting until the Lieutenant had saluted and turned away before he stuffed the bag into the worn saddle bags on his horse.

They were confederate issue, old, battle-scarred, and probably removed from a dead animal on some distant battlefield. The greatcoat and uniform he wore had also come from a soldier no longer capable of fighting for his banner. The little blood that had been on the uniform had been washed out, and what remained was plausible, Arte reasoned, given his head injury.

Mounting, the captain directed his animal past the last few tents before he rode through the pickets and was once more in Confederate territory. He kicked his animal to a trot, then a full-out gallop putting as much distance between himself and the camp as possible, running his horse at top speed for twenty minutes before he slacked.

He left the main road then, constantly checking over his shoulder and along the periphery of his vision. Logic dictated that he had to be alone with most of the farms in the area asleep for the winter, the houses set well back away from the road he had been traveling on.

The tension in his shoulders and neck had awakened the headache that had finally dulled after three days of pounding and he forced himself to relax a little.

He was unarmed, per his charade, and far enough away from the Union camp now that his cover story would be believable if he was discovered prematurely.

An escaped prisoner from the north, narrowly skirting Grant's army after following the path of destruction for several days. It was in the midst of this destruction that he would claim to have swapped out his prison tattered uniform for the greatcoat and butternut, stolen off the body of a dead comrade. Now, wounded after an unfortunate encounter, he was on his way home to Louisiana via Vicksburg.

Claiming that he had been a Louisiana Tiger would save him from having to prove his identity to any Mississippi war official. His county of registry and birth had been picked out of a hat, literally, taken from a piece of wax covered paper tucked into the hat band of a Tiger that had been captured days before Arte had been dragged into Grant's camp. The name of the young man it had belonged to, along with his home address and unit had been written on the paper in case of his untimely demise.

A part of Arte despised overtaking the man's life in that way, the rest of him understood the necessity, and appreciated that the authenticity of the information would probably help keep him alive.

The head injury, the concussion it had caused, and the scar that it would leave behind would be his greatest ally, however.

Grant had been hesitant to explain what he had meant when he had said that it was his orders that had caused Arte to come to harm. When he finally shared with Gordon the order that he had sent out to all sentries, accusing all Jewish merchants in the area of being war profiteers, smuggling cotton, and declaring them banned from any town under his control, the captain began to understand.

"It was an order made in error, in the midst of my anger." Grant admitted quietly. "The south profits every time a smuggler transports cotton to the north. Northern markets are desperate for it and will pay top dollar. The merchants will only accept hard coins in return, and all that money goes right back into the coffers of the rebellion, fueling it. Dragging on this war. Blood money." The General's bitter words had tumbled out over the dinner table they had shared the evening Gordon and Grant had spent planning his next mission.

Arte could hear them now just as clearly, could see the fiery passion in Grant's eyes, the fist clenched tight on the table top. Clearly the issue had been even more personal than the general would ever willingly admit, but Arte hadn't pressed.

"I never intended for my men to attack anyone, or to mistreat them. They took martial law into their own hands and corrupted it, and those men will be reprimanded harshly." Grant had promised before falling silent, glaring morosely into a cup of cold coffee.

The next day the General had a new aide-de-camp, the young West, and Arte was too engrossed in collecting his supplies to notice what became of the pickets.

It mattered even less, now, he thought, his eyes scanning the horizon. The heavy clouds that had been threatening most of the morning were now darker and more menacing. He despised the idea of yet another long trip, drenched by rain. He dismounted long enough to pull his slicker from the saddle bags, slipping the sheet of tar soaked canvas over his head before he continued down the road.

An hour later the storm broke overhead.

Ice cold wind and rain thrashed at him, turning the road into a torrent of mud and scattered hail. Lightning barked overhead reaching with crone-ish fingers toward anything standing tall against the horizon. The horse skittered at every crash of thunder, forcing Gordon to focus entirely on keeping the animal firmly between his knees until he could find shelter.

A silo with a lean-to attached to it presented itself in a timely fashion. Arte was able to get himself and the horse under the slate roof before the storm grew even worse, the lightning coming so frequently that the light show chased the shadows away entirely. The road was lit like a bright stage for almost an hour, prompting Arte to remember a story about the Greeks that he had learned as a child. He wondered who had angered Zeus this time, and what the man had done to deserve so violent a retribution.

Three days later Arte realized that the offending party had to have been himself. The first storm had left behind minor damage, lightning-struck trees and a cold snap that left frost on the ground for two days.

The second storm came up unannounced and from behind.