1863
Artemus kept to a line of trees as he made his way to meet his contact. He'd already skirted the union army camped to the east, though getting by them wouldn't have been difficult anyway. He grinned at his Yankee blue uniform and almost started whistling before he remembered he was supposed to be acting like a sneak thief. He glanced back and forth. Not a soul in sight. He could chance a bit of a whistle.
Twittering out a bouncing tune he'd picked up in a Chicago saloon, Artemus allowed a spring in his step. After all, Elias Tucker would have whistled too. That man had little sense of self preservation.
Really, it was a wonder he hadn't been caught out in the two years he'd been working for Lieutenant Charles Weeks. By now the bigwigs in his underground Southern sympathizer movement, "The Crimson Stream" as they called themselves, should have noticed they'd been dealt too many bad hands when Elias Tucker was involved. Sometimes Artemus heard Great Aunt Maude speaking down from heaven into his ear with a warning—"You're pushing your luck, Artemus. The boy who cries wolf loud enough is the first to be gobbled up and chomped down."
Artemus paused mid-whistle to smile and ponder the clear, blue sky. "I got this, Aunt Maude. I'm making something of myself. It might be a small part, but it's my part."
Truth be told, he had felt more alive as an undercover spy than he had in the theater. His acting mattered, convincing people he really was who he said he was so the world could be a better place. He chuckled as he smoothed out a sleeve on his uniform and passed a concealed lump. He even had contingencies if anyone ever did get suspicious of his part.
Artemus slowed his step. The clump of trees near a creek was just ahead, the place he'd been ordered to meet up. He conjured up Elias Tucker once more, the deprived, angry, revenge-filled soul that only wanted the Confederacy to win so he could get back his meager planation from his brother. Artemus reached into his knapsack as he arrived, retrieving a long roll of paper.
"Well, you got here afore me," Artemus said as he entered the copse of trees.
"Shhhhh!" his contact in a Rebel uniform hissed, head darting every which way. "You want to be picked up by the Blue Boys?"
Artemus glanced about dismissively. "None of them's around here."
"They've commandeered the house down the way." The Confederate jerked his thumb to the west.
"Is that so? Well, this ain't gonna take too long. Here. Take a look at this." Artemus unrolled the paper.
The Confederate waved his hand. "We ought to make sure no one's around."
Artemus chuckled loudly. "Why, are you a yellow-belly?"
The Confederate scowled. "I'm not afraid, just careful."
"There ain't no reason to be so worked up."
"You know our numbers are dwindling."
"I know." Artemus frowned, looking unhappy.
"We don't even have a current union count. Any idea how many soldiers?"
"Darn near 75,000."
"You have their locations?"
"Right here. Drew this here map myself."
"We'll prepare ambushes."
"You gonna run like you did yesterday?" Artemus couldn't help but needle. Sometimes he had to, just to remind himself his heart wasn't knit to the organization that supposedly employed him.
"Elias Tucker, if you hadn't been loyal all this time, I'd think you liked those Billy Yanks. You've worn that uniform too long."
Artemus glared and puffed his chest out. "You tell old Alexander Baskin if he gets the hankerin' to test my loyalty he can come on down and get his own hands dirty. I'm Southern born and bred and I'll stay tha' way till the day I storm the gates of heaven."
"Get on your knees!"
Artemus' heart punched up into his throat as he spun round to face the loud, commanding voice. A union soldier. With a pistol. His stomach flipped. How had he not heard anyone? Told you, Artemus, Great Aunt Maude chastised, you're a boy too loud.
"Elias!" the Confederate shrieked, tearing off with the map in hand.
A gun's pop fired and the bark of a tree near the fleeing Reb splintered into the air. Artemus ducked and turned his own tail, but a body hard as iron tackled him from behind, sending him plummeting to the ground with a resounding, "Oomph!" The soldier's knee dug into his back before he was abruptly flipped over to meet the face of a young man who blinked and creased his brow. There was recognition there. Then the face transformed and a pit yawned open in Artemus' gut at the sheer, unmitigated hate.
"You," the young man hissed, jabbing the pistol under Artemus' chin.
"Dag nabbit," Artemus muttered in the voice of Elias even now. He knew this kid. Why in all of earth and heaven did he have to collide with this one again?
"Who are you? Who was he? Which unit are you from? How'd you get in it?" The young man jammed the pistol deeper into Artemus' neck with each question. Artemus released a quivery breath. He was Elias Tucker, Southern spy, a wolf in Union clothing. Leastways that's what he had to appear to be.
Artemus grunted. "Can't dang tell you nothin' with that barrel in my throat!"
The young man glared, but the end of the pistol dislodged from Artemus' chin. "Talk."
Artemus rubbed at his neck and clenched his jaw. "Look, sonny," he said, slowly sitting up.
"Don't go any farther," the young man warned, pistol aiming dead at Artemus' head which he reminded himself contained his brain.
Artemus raised his hands palms outwards. "As I was attempin' to explain, I'm one of you."
"You aren't."
"I am."
"I heard you giving away the locations of our army."
Dang. Dang and damn. Artemus had been hoping he hadn't heard that much. How in the world could he explain anything without giving his cover away? No one was supposed to know he was a Union man pretending to be a Confederate pretending to be Union! Give it away now and the ruse could be shot to hell, this whippersnapper flapping away his gums about what he knew. Artemus steeled himself. Play the role. Least until there's a way of escape.
"You ain't heard what you think you heard," Artemus declared, crossing his arms over his chest. The contraption under his sleeve made itself known. Artemus suppressed a smile. He wouldn't be long in this young man's clutches.
"I know what I saw. You were at a church, an abolition meeting, screaming and hollering. I'm the one made you leave. Remember?"
Artemus narrowed his eyes even as his posterior flared with a phantom ache. Oh, he remembered all right. He could feel Great Aunt Maude peering down from the heavens, chuckling at the cosmic joke the God Lord had seen fit to toss him into. "I don' know what you're talkin' about," Artemus grumbled.
"Well I do." The young man snatched Atremus by his upper arm, yanking him to his feet. Goodness, he was strong and wiry. He had to be pure muscle under that uniform.
The pistol rammed Artemus' neck again as the young man dragged him through the trees. They emerged at the edge where a horse had been tied. Artemus was shoved against it as the young man stuck his hand in a saddlebag all the while keeping the pistol well aimed. Artemus tried to tamp down the wild thumping in his chest. He'd weathered one or two close calls in the past two years, but nothing that made him so painfully aware how short his life on God's green earth could be.
The young man withdrew a rope then shoved Artemus to his knees and knocked him backwards into the dust. The young man's knee dug into his side.
"I swear!" Artemus cried out. "I ain't what you think I am!"
"You're just what I think you are!"
Loops of rope cinched around Artemus' wrists as the young man tied his hands together, biting hard and deep. Artemus stifled a moan. I'm a traitor to him. What do I expect? Niceties and an offer of tea?
When he was secured, the young man took several steps back, clutching a length of rope extending from Artemus' bound wrists. The young man pulled hard on the other end, prompting Artemus to his feet. Then he moved to his horse and tied off the end on his saddle's pommel. Artemus rolled his eyes. You have to be kidding. A rope walk? Utter humiliation.
The young man finally sheathed his pistol.
Artemus exploded. After all, Elias would. "Who do you think you are, trussin' me up like this? You'll get yours, sonny! They'll tell you I'm exactly who I say I am, and then they'll string you up on the highest oak with the longest blasted branch in the whole state of Mississippi for messin' with the likes of Elias Tucker!"
The young man thrust his face into Artemus', leaning so close his breath brushed Artemus' nose. "You want to know who I am? I'm Captain James West, the one who's going to bear witness under the tree they hang you from."
Artemus had to give it to the young man. The way his stomach flipped half a dozen times in response to the acidic tone, James West was definitely, definitely someone to respect…and probably be terrified of.
Artemus cocked his head as he trudged along, studying West's stiff-backed stance on the horse. That posture. Severe. Rigid. Decidedly uncomfortable. How'd one get a posture like that? A soldier's training alone? Or was there something more, something that jammed James West's back up straight enough he wouldn't ever risk falling down?
Enter Captain James West stage right, a gallant union Solider who sits so ramrod straight you're afraid if you popped him with a pin he might be forced to loosen a muscle and become nothing but an empty skin, but you won't get the chance because James West never allows himself to bend or break. Why you ask? Good question.
In Chicago, Artemus had spent hours loitering in saloons, in walking parks, at exhibitions and museums, toting along his most precious possession—a drawing book he referred to as his "Catalogue of Souls, Good and Bad, Ugly and Sweet." Most of his success on the stage he owed to his catalogue. He observed and sketched and made real world characters his own, albeit sometimes with a bit more flair. He had to have at least a hundred characters stashed away, but he hadn't met anyone like James West. West bastioned himself in a hard outer shell, but that wasn't all there was to him, not if Artemus knew anything about human nature. There was something deeper under that exterior, something that drove the inner man Atremus couldn't quite put his finger on…
Artemus blinked and shook his head. This was a highly inappropriate time to be transfixed by the wondrous variety of human nature. He was still on stage with the spotlight honed in on his next monologue. Well, it was time to deliver it. He took a deep breath before Elias launched into a tirade.
"You lily-livered, ignoramus, foolish, false do-gooder! Let me go!"
James West didn't even turn round. Well, too bad, Mr. Stiff-Back. Elias doesn't take to being ignored.
"I was born down here but I'm as loyal as you to the Union! From the time I was an infant in my ma's arms I've been Union. She was Northern, you see, and I would never dishonor her memory."
West had stiffened even more if that were possible. The man wasn't just a muscle. He was a nerve. And Artemus had poked it with a very sharp pin.
"You got a ma, don't you? Ain't you know what it means to honor her? Good Book says you ought to, and I obey the Good Book. I'm as pure as the driven snow way up there in—"
"Shut up!" West swung round, whipping out that blasted pistol again.
Artemus gulped. Unfortunately for him, Elias wasn't a man to keep his peace. "Will you a stop pointin' that peashooter at me?"
"Will you keep quiet?"
"You gonna drag me along like a stuffed-up chicken then I've got a right to run my mouth as much as I want."
"We'll see about that," West growled. He stuffed the pistol back in his coat and yanked the reins so hard to halt his horse Artemus almost ran smack dab into the horse's rear end. West practically leaped from the saddle. Of course. Such a stiff young man would have the audacity to be as limber as an acrobat when he wanted to.
West snatched a red rag out of the saddlebag and came stomping his way. Now you've done it, Artemus. He knew what was coming. And it was probably a very good thing. Could save his life in the end.
West grabbed his neck. Artemus glared at him and clenched his teeth. His heart hammered his chest, warning him to just let West do what he intended. But dang it. Elias would fight.
West smashed the rag into his teeth. Artemus swallowed spit but kept the attitude of a stubborn mule. West shoved him into the back of the horse, one hand ringed under his jaw with his fingers pressing hard into the line of Artemus' teeth. Artemus' jaw gave way, falling open enough for West to jam the rag into his mouth. West pushed it farther in and Artemus half-gagged when it hit the back of his throat.
West backed up. Artemus, breathing hard and fast, scowled at him.
"Now," West said. "You try to take that out and I won't wait until we get to the army. I'll shoot you dead on the spot. You hear me?"
Artemus just continued to glare as West made his way back to the horse and into the saddle and they were off again. Artemus poked his tongue along the wretched gag.
Word to the wise. Avoid poking James West with a pin.
Artemus stumbled along. His arms ached and his mouth felt like it was full of the nastiest mash he'd ever eaten and couldn't swallow. He shot daggers at the back of Captain West with his eyes. Dang stupid stinking honor-loving clod! He wasn't sure if the voice that rang in his head was Elias' or his.
Artemus took several deep breaths, steadying his mind and his nerves. He squeezed his right arm close to his side, feeling the lump under the sleeve. He'd only have one shot at this, but he wasn't staying all gussied up like this anymore. He wasn't going to poke James West with a pin again; he was going to spear him straight through.
Artemus firmed his jaw, pinched his lips together, and pulled back hard on the rope. As predicted, the taut rope caused the horse to misstep then abruptly halt. As West twisted round, Artemus bent over double, hacking and coughing like his lung was about to expel right through his mouth. When he heard West slide out of the saddle, he slapped his right arm hard against his side and heard a resulting click. He shook his arm sharply and a small white bag escaped his sleeve to hit the ground. West's steps were coming towards him. He kept on hacking and crushed the bag with his boot heel. A sour smell wafted up from the glass vial that had been broken inside. West's boots were at his side.
Artemus snapped up the bag, whirled round, and swiped West's legs out from under him behind the knees. He fell on West, straddling him and covering his nose and mouth with the cloth. West tried to punch out, but Artemus pressed even harder. The captain bucked a couple times and then went still. Artemus stood up and backed away, glancing down at the wet bag in his hand, drenched in what he'd christened hypochloroform. He hadn't wasted these last years in honor of Great Aunt Maude. He'd used his degrees in mechanics, physics, and chemistry, albeit publishing in scientific journals under a pseudonym.
Artemus pulled the gag from his mouth and drew in several free breaths, all while gazing down on the unconscious soldier. Hypochloroform could be dangerous. That had been the criticism of his discovery and the reason no one had taken it up in the medical community as of yet. They wanted to slow the heart, not stop it. Artemus leaned down, putting his hand to West's neck. The pulse drummed strong and firm against his fingertips. Too firm. This one had the blood of an ox running through his veins!
"You're unreal," Artemus muttered, then shook his head. "But I guess you do break." He should have grinned in triumph but his victory felt like felling an exceptional specimen on a hunt. After all, the kid had a good heart. He loved his country as much as Artemus, and whatever life circumstances has brought him here, they were actually on the same side. Still, as Artemus reached down to slide his hidden knife from the inside sheathe of his boot, he didn't envy West the roaring headache he'd have when he awoke.
Artemus grasped the knife handle with his teeth and skimmed it over the rope binding his wrists. It was sharp and the rope was sliced clean through in no time. He rubbed at his wrists where the skin had started to go raw, then he patted the horse, whispering quietly. "Time to go. Don't worry bout your rider. He's gonna be all right." Artemus smiled at the sound of Elias' soft tone, one he didn't use often. He took a deep breath. Now, to get back to his mission.
He looked round for one last glance at Captain James West.
A fist met his face.
Artemus awoke to a splitting headache. His stomach roiled. He was bouncing up and down. He was going to be sick. His arms ached something fierce. They were stuck behind his back somehow. He tried to crane his neck to look at them but caught the side of a horse instead. What in the— No. He couldn't be.
He wasn't being led behind a horse anymore. He was slung face down over it. And he was tied. Hand and foot. He shook his head to clear it. That damned pistol reappeared, digging into his neck.
"Don't move. We're almost there," West hissed. Artemus froze at the threat, just as if he'd stumbled upon a short-tempered pit viper.
A few more yards and the horse stopped. His arm was grabbed and he was yanked backwards to hit the ground hard. The familiar din of an army camp filtered into his ears, only a few more yards distant. His collar was grabbed and West was in his face. He looked tired and angry as hell.
"How did you…" Artemus stared, amazed. West gave him a hard shake.
"Held my breath."
"But how could you know… How?"
"I had a good teacher."
"Teacher? Of what?"
"Everything that mattered."
Artemus groaned softly, wishing he could rub the side of his pounding head. "He the one made you all fists? Turned you into fire inside?"
West shook him again. "I won't sully his name by telling it to you." West dropped him and Artemus repressed a groan. West held up a metal ring in front of his eyes. Ah. The one that had been under his sleeve, designed with a clever release catch. It had held the hypocloroform bag. West reached into the saddle bag and plopped what appeared at first glanced to be a hairy rat in front of Artemus. Artemus blinked, realizing for the first time his head felt too cold and airy. He'd been divested of his wig.
West knelt down, staring him in the face. "Who. Are. You?"
Artemus swallowed hard. "Mrs. Gordon's son."
West frowned. "Who?"
Artemus looked beyond West to the camp. Which unit was that? "Take me to your commander."
West scowled a couple more seconds, then began to untie his feet. "They're going to shoot you on sight." He grabbed Artemus' arm and hauled him to his feet. Artemus could hardly walk with his head aching and his arms still trussed up behind his back. So this was how his exploits ended, was it? Exposed by a fiery upstart. Maybe. Most likely. He didn't see how this situation could be salvaged anymore.
Soldiers wandering about and chatting round fires looked up curiously as they passed. Artemus tried not to curse in defeat, though a couple choice words shot out under his breath. When they reached a tent, West dragged him through and unceremoniously tossed him to the floor. Artemus gathered himself to sit back on his heels.
"James!" a gruff voice called out.
"A Confederate spy," West reported all businesslike.
"Spy?"
"He's given our locations away. There's an ambush planned."
Blood rushed through Artemus' ears as he slowly looked up…then warm relief washed over him like an ocean wave on the coast of Sicily. He met the eyes of Major General Ulysses S. Grant, the big man himself. Surely he had the codes. He must know the codes.
"I'm Mrs. Gordon's Son."
Grant raised a surprised eyebrow. West frowned. Artemus lifted his chin, spearing the upstart who'd pummeled him a second time with a smug gaze. "I'm Mrs. Gordon's Son." The deepening confusion in West's expression was wonderfully satisfying. He had dropped his Elias accent just a hair but he was sure West had noticed. Good.
Grant turned to the soldier he'd been conversing with when they entered. "Get Lieutenant Weeks."
Artemus' heartbeat slowed. Charlie was here. Thank Providence! Luck, Artemus, Aunt Maude said, pure luck. Don't count on it one too many times.
Artemus nodded to himself. He'd been stupid this time. Hadn't paid enough attention to his surroundings. He wouldn't ever let it happen again.
"Sir," West said, handing Grant the wig and metal circle. "I found these. This man isn't who he says he is."
Grant studied the items a moment before briefly flicking his gaze to Artemus.
"His name is Elias Tucker. He's a Confederate. I've seen him before."
Grant moved over to a table, setting the wig and metal circle down on it. "Did you find me a headquarters?"
The lines on West's brow furrowed even more. Artemus sucked in his lips to hide a grin.
"Yes, sir, but—"
The tent flap slapped open and Grant interrupted West. "Ah! Lieutenant Weeks. You're needed to take care of something."
Boots that fit a shorter man paced up next to Artemus. "Yes, sir."
"You know what to do."
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Take care of it."
"I will, sir."
Artemus was pulled to his feet, far more gently this time. He stared at West as he was directed out of the tent enjoying the utter shock etched there as long as he could.
"I swear, Charlie!" Artemus exploded when they were far enough from camp, "if I ever take another beating from that firebrand Captain West for you—"
"You know Jim?"
"You don't recognize him? He's the one pushed me down the stairs at the church!"
Charlie huffed a laugh and pushed back his hat. "Well, I'll be. Small world, huh?"
"Oh, stop that and untie me!"
"Have to keep to the play, isn't that right, Mrs. Gordon's Son?"
Artemus glared at Charlie who laughed all the more. "You said you'd take care of me so take care of me!"
Charlie chuckled some more, but stepped behind Artemus to work the knots on his wrists. "Captain West did a good job on you, then, did he?"
Artemus grunted.
"He's Grant's aide de camp, you know."
"His… You're kidding me."
"I guess when you foul up you do it right."
When Artemus' wrists were freed, he turned round scowling, rubbing at them. "Well my foul up and West's good job could cost us."
"You gave them the map?"
Artemus nodded.
"Then we're good."
"You mean you don't intend to sack me?"
The shorter man shook his head. "Artemus, no one's perfect. I don't see anything's happened that ruins this mission. At the worst, the Crimson Stream thinks you got captured. You tell them some made up story of escape and I bet they buy it. You're good at that."
Artemus took a deep breath. "All right. What do I do now? No way I can go back to my unit now." That Captain James West was more likely than not to sniff him out.
Charlie rubbed at his chin, then eyed Artemus. "You think you can get inside Vicksburg?"
"Maybe."
"Need someone to watch the ports."
"All right then. I need a different costume. You got my trunk somewhere?"
"I do."
"Then let's get to it."
Charlie slapped Artemus on the arm. "I still say you're a key asset to this war, Mrs. Gordon's Son, even if no one sees the sacrifices you make."
Artemus harrumphed at his coded moniker. He glanced back over his shoulder as he and Charlie strode on side by side. "I have a feeling Captain James West is more of an asset."
"Do you?"
"Yeah, I do."
"High praise. Maybe you should tell him someday."
"Charlie," Artemus said, hitting the man on the back, "if I don't ever see James West's face again as long as I live I'll survive a happy man."
Charlie laughed; Artemus contemplated. He might not ever wish to meet Mr. Stiff-Back again, but he wasn't going to forget him either. As he walked, he drew that young, hard, chiseled face over and over in his mind. Fact was, as soon as he got his trunk and his hands on a drawing pencil, Captain James West was going straight into "The Catalogue of Souls, Good and Bad, Ugly and Sweet."
Author's Note: You might have noticed my take on Artie's code name provides background for the address mentioned in "The Night of the Murderous Spring." Had a unique take planned for that one from the beginning of the fic :-D Also, a bit of a tribute to Ross Martin who actually sketched the characters he played in show.