1861
Artemus pressed a hand to his smarting backside once he reached the concealed path to his current residence—a rundown shack loaned out as a place to hole up. "Residence" was too proper a term. The entire structure consisted of one room in which to cook and sleep. Artemus patted his firm false stomach. And assume his disguises.
Artemus paused before the door. He squinted and crouched down despite his sore behind. The square of paper he'd pinned between the door's edge and the door's frame had been dislodged. Someone had trespassed, might be inside even still. Artemus stood, pasting on a disgruntled expression, then rattled the door knob before smacking the door open with one hand.
"Danged Northerners! Ain't got no manners, no good thoughts in their empty-headed brains, no two ways to think about—" He hushed when a short man sitting in a chair by the window rose to his feet, jutting too ramrod straight to look anything like the civilian he was pretending to be in that worn suit. He ran a finger and thumb over the short mustache dashed across his upper lip.
Artemus shut the door, dropping his playacting. "Lieutenant."
"Saw the run in," the shorter man by at least a foot said, the corners of his mouth curling upwards.
Artemus grunted and strode over to his dresser and its mirror. His stringy wig had stayed in place during the encounter at the church, so that was good. He touched a hand to the ache in his chest. "I expected the preacher to throw me out."
Lieutenant Charles Weeks chuckled. "I thought maybe you planted the kid to make the walloping look real."
Artemus began to unbutton his shirt. "You told me not to bring anyone else in."
The lieutenant shrugged. "You wouldn't have to tell someone why you want their help. You could just pay him to give you a hiding."
Artemus momentarily frowned at himself in the mirror. He hadn't expected to be pummeled as a result of heckling the abolitionist meeting but the damnable kid with too ready fists had probably made the incident more noteworthy. Word certainly had to get around now.
Artemus eased out of his shirt and cocked his head, assessing the body enhancer hung over his shoulders.
"Do you ever get tired wearing that?"
"Hardly notice it," Artemus replied. "When the stage is alive, the play's the thing!" He twisted his wrist in a flourish, then grimaced and slapped the solid round gut of his wearable creation. "Of course, the players don't usually punch you intentionally."
The lieutenant chuckled. "I'm glad I found you, Artie. You're one of the best we've recruited."
Artemus raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you here, Charlie? I was supposed to get in touch with you when I made contact."
Charles smiled weakly, shifting on his feet. "Well, you haven't actually made contact and it's been almost a month."
"Your betters are doubting the plan."
Charles nodded.
Artemus pulled the body enhancer, essentially a sewn cloth bag filled with rice seed, over his head and unceremoniously dumped it on the floor. "I'm bound to be noticed now."
"Maybe."
"It'll work."
"Well, if it doesn't, they want you to try it my way."
Artemus clenched his jaw. The lieutenant's way. When he'd first signed onto spying for the army, Charles had promised they'd give him freedom to do things the best way he knew, but that didn't stop them arguing with him when he informed them of the best approach. "They've got to be watching me."
"I'm not saying you aren't good at what you do. You are, and your plan did make sense in some ways, but you haven't played this game as long as them or even me. Sometimes you have to implement a different strategy when the first doesn't snag the enemy."
Artemus grunted. Military strategists. Maybe they had been at this longer, but he'd studied people. He knew people. He'd filled dozens of sketchbooks with characters created out of his head, many drawing on real people he'd known in his lifetime, just as he had when preparing a role for the stage, and the character he currently incarnated, Elias Tucker, was their best bet. He knew it.
The lieutenant had argued for a more refined character, a Northern gentleman with a Southern background who spent his time in clubs and high society breweries, very much like the one Artemus had conjured on the fly when they'd first met. But the Southern sympathizers they meant to infiltrate were already ruled by Northern gentlemen and if Artemus knew anything about playing those kinds of characters, someone just like them was a threat—he could aid you, but he might also usurp you. The long game was to get him into the group, but not too deeply he wouldn't retain some mobility, maintain an ability to sneak in and out without too much scrutiny. So Artemus had recommended starting at the bottom, offering someone the group could bring in, but wouldn't feel they had to keep an eye on. A tool they could put away when they didn't need it and didn't give two thoughts about.
"Well, I just thought I should tell you in person. I don't want there to be hard feelings if you get the command to start over."
The lieutenant held out his hand. Artemus stifled a sigh and shook his hand.
"Whatever to get in, Artie," the lieutenant encouraged softly, then strode out of the shack, closing the door behind him.
Artemus turned back to his dresser, studying his smudged, sweat stained face. "Whatever to get in," he muttered.
Artemus Gordon, pride goes before a fall, but it gets you to the cliff, too. Artemus smiled at Great Aunt Maude's voice echoing in his brain. He removed his hat and wig, dropping them on top of the body enhancer. He left the hairnet on as he poured water into a basin and scrubbed at his face.
I've never been a good failure, he replied to the voice in his mind.
Aunt Maude harrumphed. You never failed enough to get used to it.
Artemus snorted. Except where women are concerned.
Women! Always on about the women! Artemus, women come in their own good time. Men try to pretend they've got a lot more to do with it than they do. You don't want any woman, you want the right woman.
One like you?
Of course one like me! He conjured up her smile in his mind.
Swallow my pride. Got it.
But not yet. See what comes of today. You're my prodigy, after all, and I'd rather you inform that lieutenant he can stuff his opinions down his throat with a cold dose of castor oil!
Artemus grinned as he stiffly staggered to his bed and lay down, staring at the gray slats that made up the ceiling. Good Aunt Maude. She'd had more pride in him than he'd even had for himself. He was glad she'd made good on her promise to haunt him, taking up permanent residence in his heart and head. It might not have really been her voice, but he knew her like a character he'd played opposite a thousand times, and whenever he really needed it, she was there, speaking her pithy wisdom and kicking him in the backside.
"I miss you," Artemus whispered to the ceiling. No answer came from his overactive mind.
Artemus shifted, seeking a position that didn't engender pain in his chest or behind. Confound the young man who'd sent him plummeting down the church steps and smacked him one good in the chest! At least he hadn't really felt the punch to his gut, cushioned as it was by the body enhancer. Probably caused the kid's knuckles to smart something fierce. Artemus smirked. He probably should feel bad about that. The kid only did what was right in response to his callous words, but still…
Artemus closed his eyes and grinned even wider, imagining the kid who had bruised his chest and sent his bum smarting massaging throbbing knuckles. Just a little payback for his interference as noble as it had been.
The bruise lodged deep in Artemus' gluteus maximus made itself known as he readjusted in his chair set in the corner of the gin mill, not the lowest of the bunch, about mid-level, clean, bright, with the proper amount of hired girls wandering about. He gritted his teeth, pasting on a wicked grin, and continued scribbling on the sheets of paper strewn about the circular table he'd been scratching on all afternoon and into the evening. Certainly they were watching him tonight, weren't they? They must be after the incident at the church, after he'd said all those foul things...
He began to scratch harder at the paper, then froze when his hand began to shake. Dang it. Losing character? He never did that. He'd been the toast of all Chicago! He had women in tears with one line! He didn't step out of character. Ever. Only as he read over the diatribe he'd just been writing, he couldn't help an inward grimace.
You aren't Elias Tucker, Aunt Maude's voice rang in his ears. You're my Artemus.
He knew who he was. But that was the problem, wasn't it?
Artemus leaned back in his chair, tapping the pen to his lips, glancing across at the other patrons. Maybe he was playing himself just as much as everyone else. Maybe he was his own illusion. He'd always been able to adopt a "devil may care" attitude, but that had covered up the real him a lot of the time. Maybe it all started when he was fifteen, when he lost his mother and his father and had to pretend he wasn't constantly weeping inside. Maybe he wasn't as good at reading people as he thought. Oh he could play pretend and charm false feelings in his audience, but real people? Maybe they saw through him as much as Aunt Maude.
Artemus clutched the pen, slamming it down on the table. Some patrons glanced his way. Artemus glared back at them and they looked away. He hid the smile that begged to creep across his face. There! They believed his act! They did! And they had to. Because this act mattered more than any he'd ever staged before. This wasn't just the stage. This was life and death and dangerous gangs of men who could do dangerous things.
The pen moved furiously over the paper.
Two years ago, Artemus had found himself down south working out some of the holdings Aunt Maude had left behind after she passed, some land of her husband's that had never been properly sold. That was the first time he'd actually seen the stories of slavery come to life. He'd passed an auction block and paused aghast at men selling men. He'd tracked down Charles Weeks the moment he'd set foot back up North and vowed to Aunt Maude he'd make good on all the blessings of his genius.
Artemus blinked blearily. The light in the gin mill glowed brightly, the windows long past dark. Time had passed without him being aware. He sighed, then grumbled, picking up the stack of papers, crushing them to his chest, and moved towards the entrance, surreptitiously scanning with his peripheral vision. No one budged to follow. Dang that Lieutenant Charles Weeks! If he ended up right after all this time, if all the wicked nastiness of playing Elias Tucker had come to nothing…
Artemus strode along the street, continuing to mutter to himself and clutch at his papers. Wasn't so hard to pretend at the moment. He barely caught the shadow that assaulted him from a dark alley before he was thoroughly blinded.
He shouted out, instinctively scrabbling, losing all his papers in a moment, but he was swung round and shoved face first into what he guessed was the side of a wooden building. A hand wrung round his neck and another crushed into his mouth.
"Shut it! You got it? Just shut it or I swear—" Something hard and round pressed into his side—felt distinctly like a pistol's barrel.
Artemus' heart thundered like a rampaging stallion as his hands were yanked behind his back and tied. The rough fabric over his head indicated a gunny sack if the stale smell of potatoes was anything to go by. His arms were grabbed on both sides and he was hauled along. This had to be them, didn't it? The Southern sympathizers? But why'd they take him this way? His heart pounded in his throat. What if they knew? Oh Lord Above, if they had guessed his fraud…
A door opened and he tripped over a threshold. Boots pounded across a wooden floor and then he stumbled, forced down a flight of stairs. He was dragged forwards a bit more at the bottom then plunked hard in a creaky chair. Artemus cut off a yelp when his bruised behind protested. He squinted against a lantern dangling right in front of his face when the sack covering his head was removed. The lantern moved upwards, revealing two figures—a large, muscular man with deep sunken eyes and a thin, wiry man his complete opposite, bulging eyes included. The thinner man brandished the pistol.
Artemus swallowed against his dry mouth. The curtain had begun to rise before the stage. "Who do you think you are?" he spat out, calling upon every ounce of his courage. "Don't you know who I am?"
"Boys," a deep, male voice boomed. The two men in front of Artemus parted, revealing a small desk with a gentleman behind it. He wore a fashionable suit, black with a green vest, a watch chain dangling across the right side. His dark hair was slicked back, and his side whiskers neatly trimmed aside his pointed nose. He tilted his head. "Elias Tucker, isn't it?"
"Who wants to know?" Artemus growled.
"He had these," the thin man reported, handing over a sheaf of papers to the gentleman. The gentleman lay them on the desk, shuffling through them, eyes flicking sharply back and forth.
"Those are mine!" Artemus protested.
The thin man turned his pistol back on him. "Shut it!"
The gentleman read for a time, then deliberately organized the paper sheets in an ordered pile in from of him. "You intend to publish this?"
Artemus' ticker thrummed like a hammer, not unlike when the curtain had finally risen and allowed that first glimpse of the audience. "Things gotta be said. I'm gonna say 'em."
The gentleman chuckled. "The time for talking is over. Words don't matter anymore. It is action that will speak for us."
"You mean the war they're always goin' on about? Sign me up when it starts!"
"Or you could work with me. With us."
Artemus ran a critical eye over the two men he assumed had hauled him in here, then peered back at the gentleman. "And who are you?"
"Men whose loyalty remains with the true citizens of this great country Lincoln intends to destroy."
Artemus' heart soared.
The gentleman stood, picking up another sheet of paper from the desk, not one he'd scribbled on. He rounded the desk as he read. "Elias Tucker. Thirty-one years of age. Heir of Jonas Tucker, plantation owner. At least, once heir. You were ousted it seems. Disinherited."
Artemus ground his teeth. "The will was forged!"
"Hm. Yes. Perhaps. Your older brother ruined the plantation under his control. Lost all your family money. Was forced to give up the land holdings. And you want it back."
"It's my land!"
"And your profits. And your cotton. And your slaves. What if I promised you join us and you'll get it all back and kick Lincoln and his lackeys in the teeth at the same time?"
A wide grin split Artemus' face. "I'd say tell me how and I'll do it."
"In good time," the gentleman said. He turned to the other men. "Boys, escort our friend to a better room for the night."
The two men stood in front of Artemus' chair as he rose. The thin man holstered his weapon and proceeded to untie Artemus' wrists. The muscular man gestured for Artemus to follow. They climbed back up the stairs they'd earlier descended, entering a store that seemed to be a men's fashion shop. They passed up a second flight of stairs to another level and walked down a hall cushioned with carpet. The muscular man stopped to open a door and motioned for Artemus to step through into a lavishly furnished room.
"I have to stay here?" Artemus muttered, tamping down his excitement. Keep to the part, Artemus Gordon.
The thin man snorted. "Until they all decide what role they'll give you."
Artemus scowled at the man.
"You didn't think he's the only one in charge?" the thin man said, jamming a thumb towards the hall. "Boy, you don't know what door you've opened, do you? You ought to be grateful they're making you a part of this, especially after today."
"Today?"
The man stamped into the room, snapping up a newspaper and displaying it in front of Artemus' gaze. "You're all fired up and you haven't even heard?"
Artemus read the title emblazoned across the front page—Hostilities Commenced! Fort Sumter Bombarded! The Rebels Strike the First Blow!
"It's already war," the thin man said, his eyes alight with fire as he shoved the newspaper into Artemus' hands. "And you just joined up on the right side."
The two men left, shutting the door behind them. Artemus lowered himself onto the overstuffed mattress draped in red silk covering the bed. He laid the newspaper in his lap and placed a hand against his galloping heart. It had worked. Elias Tucker had worked.
He was in.