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Loblolly Writer's House
Loblolly Log
Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: Loblolly Writer's House
Type: Fiction
Pages: 600
Copyright: Jan 1, 2016
ISBN-13: 9780989430234
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
An man embroiled in a web of murder and deceipt fights to protect his honor and the woman he loves in the face of Union tyranny in Reconstruction Mississippi
As of January 1866, marine corps major Seth Parker has been in war-ravaged Mississippi two months, investigating the October murder of Treasury operative Alan Guthrie. Guthrie had been in Mississippi only a short time when he was killed, and his reason for being in the area remains a mystery, both to authorities here and, if they’re to be believed, to his seniors in Washington. Discouraged by civilian usurpation of army’s intelligence assets, despite looming Southern intransigence, Parker’s seniors have doubts about Guthrie’s activities and sent Parker into the wilds of Mississippi for answers.
This is not Parker’s first foray into Mississippi’s hinterland. He was here in the spring of ’63, before Vicksburg fell, but his covert operations at that time had led to only fleeting success and a precipitous departure with a bullet in his chest and a battle for his life. Southern by blood and breeding, Seth Parker kept faith with his people, who believed Kentucky best served by remaining in the Union when most of the South opted out, but despite the duty binding him, the South has his empathy, and the beautiful woman who saved his life one fateful spring day back in ’63, his heart.
Widowed Rebecca Mackey lost not only her young husband and unborn son to the war, but her father, a brother, and a sister. Now her sole surviving sibling is fighting for his life, the victim of a lunatic’s bullet. But the attack on Eli Calhoon and his wealthy Northern bride soon proves only one clue to a mystery evolving from home-grown violence in Mississippi to a web of intrigue in the halls of the U. S. Treasury.
At a time when treason is synonymous with the South and her people convenient scapegoats to disguise the misdeeds of unprincipled men, Becky learns her brother is a suspect in Guthrie’s death. Worse, the man who set his sights on Eli Calhoon two months earlier is Major Seth Parker, the wounded enemy whose life she saved in 1863. Having already been a victim of ruthless agents serving a tyrannical government, Becky has no delusions as to the odds stacking up against her critically-wounded brother, who is at risk of being hanged for murder, and is loath to trust a self-proclaimed ally garbed in despicable blue.
As evidence mounts, Parker realizes it was Guthrie’s unexplained actions that first led him to suspect Calhoon. Now, the on-going investigation is leading unscrupulous men to accuse Rebecca Mackey of complicity in conspiring against the government. Anxious over her role in Guthrie’s mysterious death, Parker is willing to risk anything to prove her innocent. He needs answers, and the Widow Mackey is harboring some.
Honor’s Banner is a sequel to Charlsie Russell’s Camellia Creek published in 2013 and advances the mystery of murdered Treasury agent Alan Guthrie, the catalyst that brought Seth Parker into the lives of unreconstructed rebel Eli Calhoon and his reluctant bride. Rich in the history of the period, it explores the multi-faceted narrative of unwarranted war, state rights, federal violations of the Constitution, and the institutionalization of tyranny by a United States in the hands of fanatics and traitors, a focus largely ignored when discussing Reconstruction today. The author, herself a Southerner, is unapologetic for her pro-Southern treatment of issues that, with the South’s defeat, proved the demise of the Founder’s Republic.
Excerpt
Washington, District of Columbia, 1 September 1865
Alan Guthrie left Fifteenth Avenue and made his way along the rear of the building that housed the State Department, before identifying himself to a sentry and slipping into the northern end of the Treasury Building’s newly completed west wing. The hour approached midnight, and when he entered the well-lit hall, his measured pace became easier. Halfway down the corridor, he took the stairs to the second floor, then another flight to the third. He hadn’t seen a soul, but he had heard the thumps and clanks of cleaning crews shaping up the hallowed halls of this gargantuan testimony to fiscal hegemony over a nation.
Alan opened Jacob Harding’s office door to find his brother-in-law hunkered over his desk. Alan thought he might be sleeping, but when he stepped in, Jacob sat up. Alan closed the door, and Jacob swiveled away, averting his face.
“You hit her again,” Alan said. He stopped in front of the desk. “She said you were drunk, but I already figured that when I saw her face. Where were the kids when you did that?”
Jacob pulled himself closer to the kneehole. “Asleep. I was late.”
“Adelaide said you told her to pack.”
“I want her to take the kids and go to your parents. I have to get away.”
Alan narrowed his eyes, then looked around the office. The gas lamp overhead cast a soft glow over the room, which was a good fourteen foot square. A nice office, and Jacob’s alone. Certainly nicer than the slightly larger space one floor below that Alan shared with three other men. Jacob’s salary was nicer, too. During Fessenden’s brief tenure as Secretary, Jacob had been promoted to “clerk of clerks,” as Alan called him. As far as Alan knew, nothing had happened to change that.
“Apparently you forgot to tell her you planned on leaving, too, just left her with the impression she was to get out.”
“I never left her with that impression. She said that to win your sympathy.”
“And she has it.”
Jacob’s face bore the resentment of a dog mistreated by its master. “Shit,” Alan said, “you’re not leaving. You’re running.” When Jacob didn’t respond, Alan asked, “What have you done?”
“You don’t know?” But he asked the question as if sure Alan did know.
“No.”
Jacob straightened in his chair and reached for the top drawer on the right pedestal of his desk.
Alan said, “Don’t,” and Jacob hesitated.
“I’ll be over the top of this desk and beating the hell out of you before you can pull it out, and I’ll enjoy every minute of it. Now tell me what you’re doing here this time of night, drunk, and why you hit my baby sister after I warned you I’d beat you within an inch of your life if you ever did it again.”
“Why did you happen to come to the house tonight?” Jacob asked.
“Adelaide sent Edith for me after you left.”
Jacob watched Alan warily, then said, “I hit your sister because she argued with me, and I don’t have time to argue.”
“Explain, perhaps?”
“Dammit, Alan, she’s my wife. I don’t have to explain to her or—”
“Explain it to me, then. Right now! What are you involved in?”
“Ah, so we’re to pretend you don’t know? All right, I’m trying to figure out how to cover up my misdeeds long enough to reach the Indian nations and, I hope, anonymity.” He sat back. “I’m not as drunk as I thought if I could come up with ‘anonymity.’”
“Why do you need to hide?”
Jacob’s visage darkened. “Quit playing the innocent. I know you’re behind this. You’ve been rank with jealousy ever since my promotion, so you brought your little team together to put me in my place.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Again, Jacob reached for the desk drawer, but before touching it, he found Alan’s eye. “May I?”
“Be careful.”
Jacob opened the drawer. The revolver was there, as was a pint of whiskey, which is what he reached for. He pulled the cork and raised the half-empty bottle. “To a job well done, Alan.” He took a swig. “You’ve destroyed me along with your sister’s livelihood.” Jacob eyed the gun.
“Close the drawer,” Alan said. When he did, Alan found a chair and sat. “What is this about?”
Jacob sat forward and brought the bottle down on the desk with a thud. He picked up a piece of paper lying in front of him, and taking a corner between his thumb and index finger, he flipped it and slid it toward Alan. “That, my dear brother, is the file copy of the letter of credit I took down to the bank this morning.”
Alan picked it up, sat back in his chair, and started to read. “Damn,” he said after a moment, “is this legitimate?”
“As per my instructions, the letter of credit is good. So is the bill of exchange that accompanied it to disbursing.” Jacob repeated “disbursing” under his breath, and Alan’s spine pricked.
“Chase signed the authorization over a year ago,” Jacob continued. He slid a second piece of paper across the desk. “The thirtieth of June 1864, his last day at Treasury.”
Alan looked at that document too. “And this hasn’t been paid before now?”
Jacob glowered at him. “I know Chase’s signature is a forgery, Alan. I’m not as big a fool as you think.”
“You think that I’m behind an authorization bearing Chase’s forged signature?”
“I think you and your friends are behind the entire mess.”
“Why the devil would we forge Chase’s signature? Why not McCulloch’s?”
Jacob widened his eyes. “To implicate the man, one would suspect, and deflect attention from the real culprits. I’m sure that forgery didn’t make it into the files anytime recently. It’s been there, I would guess, since the summer of 1864.”
Alan leaned back and regarded him coolly. “Why would you think that?”
“An educated guess. Your henchman brought me that authorization to justify my issuing the letter of credit.”
“He knew this was in the file?”
“He knew it was there, because you and him put it there.”
“I don’t understand why you’re trying to implicate me in this.”
“Because you’re jealous of me and you hate my guts. You two were in Arkansas together”—Jacob leaned forward and nodded at the authorization letter in Alan’s hand—“and Mississippi. You were involved with those people out there. Even though Chase’s signature is a forgery, the payout was approved. I checked the congressional record.”
Alan drew in a calming breath. “How do you know Chase’s signature is fraudulent?”
Jacob glared at him, and Alan laughed. “You don’t know for sure, do you?”
“Why would he sign such a thing for those people?”
“Blackmail, murder, treason? Or something else. There are all sorts of reasons one could come up with.”
“It would have been easier for you to find a good forger among all your victims than to put pressure on Chase.”
“How deeply involved in this are you, Jacob?”
“I’ve signed the paperwork and sent it out.”
“Why would you draft a letter of credit based on an authorization you suspect is a forgery?”
“I had little choice, and you know it.”
Alan contemplated that, then he grinned. “So someone found out about your embezzling. I warned you.”
“I borrowed the money. I always repaid it.”
“I’d hazard a guess the kitty would turn up short right now, or you wouldn’t have a problem. Who’s blackmailing you, Jake? I really do want to know.”
Jacob’s face smoothed, and he sat back. “I’m not telling you, just in case you really don’t know.”
Alan flexed his jaw. “Someone who befriended you, maybe? An associate of mine who’s approached you within the past six months?” Alan’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm, let’s see, six months ago... That was about the same time you fractured Adelaide’s cheek, wasn’t it?”
“You son of a bitch, I knew you were involved. There was no other way he could have known so much.”
“Other than he’s smart, and you’re stupid? He bluffed you is what he did, based on information I”—Alan smiled—“innocently provided him.”
“You told him about my borrowing money.”
“Misappropriation is what it is, Jake. Euphemistic for theft, and I didn’t tell him, I didn’t have to. It’s obvious to anyone looking close enough that you’ve been living beyond your means.”
Jacob covered his face with his hands. “Corinne’s medicine—”
“You make enough. You were spending that money on liquor and whores.”
The man looked up. “Yes, good whores, too. Adelaide was tired of being pregnant.”
“Did he find those whores for you?”
Jacob blinked stupidly at him, and Alan sighed. “Of course he did. One of ’em got you drunk or drugged and seduced the information out of you. You were easy prey for him. Do you have any idea the kinds of things the man did during the war?”
“And you! How you operated during the war.” Jacob leaned closer. “You compromised me.”
“If you’re still thinking I was part of this, think again. I care too much for my nieces and nephews, which brings up another question. If you’re not getting part of this, did he offer you any money to draft that letter of credit?”
“He paid me a nominal sum.”
“How much?”
“A thousand dollars.”
“And you took it?”
Jacob nodded.
“Who else is involved?” Sensing Jacob’s unease, Alan pressed. “Someone in disbursing, right?”
“Hurd,” Jacob said.
For a long moment, Alan Guthrie just stared at his sister’s husband. Then he said, “Poor ole Jim Hurd. I understand now why you find the territories so appealing. Was he part of this conspiracy?”
“No.”
“But he signed the bill of exchange?”
“I took it down to him myself, watched him sign it. Then he started having second thoughts. He was uncomfortable with the sum and wanted to know why it had been held so long. I told him it was because of the war, but he said he wanted to discuss it with Spinner.”
“And you told—”
“Yes,” Jacob hissed. “I told the bastard we had a problem. I wanted out. I hoped with Hurd’s questions, we would just pull the request before Hurd talked to Spinner.”
“Jacob, Jacob, Jacob. There was no ‘out’ at that point. What were you going to do, tell Hurd it was all a mistake? What do you think he’d have done then?”
“You sound like your partner, and you wonder why I think you’re part of this?”
“What happened with the bill of exchange?” Alan demanded.
“I went back to Hurd’s office during lunch. I knew he walked home every day to eat with his wife. I found the bill in his top drawer. I retrieved it, drafted the forwarding letter, and sent it to the mail room.” He shrugged. “Wells Fargo has it now. It’s on its way to New Orleans. Every aspect of the transaction is legitimate including the identity of the executor.” Jacob pushed a third letter across the desk.
Without looking up, Alan reached for it. This letter, as it turned out, provided the recipient authority to act as agent for the newly established account in New Orleans.
Alan looked at the name, then at Jacob, who wore a triumphant grin. Alan frowned. “You find some victory in this, Jake?”
“You’re damn right I do. The addressee of that letter is not who you and your partner wanted me to send it to. You see, I did some research on this thing.” He nodded at the letter Alan was still holding. “The person whose name you see there is the person whose name appeared on all the documentation for years and years. That’s who it was supposed to go to, and that’s where I sent it.” He sneered and leaned back in his chair. “How are your plans looking now, you son of a bitch?”
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