Monthly Archives: March 2020

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter One Hundred Five

Previously: Mercenary Leon meets MI6 spies David, the Prince of Wales, and socialite Wallis Spencer. David abdicates the throne to marry Wallis. He becomes Bahamas governor. Leon dies and his son Sidney turns mercenary. David hires him as his valet. The years pass and the organization wants all three of them and the Royal family dead.
After cleaning up the mess in Wallis’ private bathroom, Sidney looked in the mirror, straightened his tie and went downstairs just as the doors opened to the dining room where Wallis was prepared to host a high tea. The front door had been left open. Sidney trotted over to close it when a cab come to a screeching halt in front of the house. A man with a camera jumped from the backseat, paid the driver and ran up the front walk. Sidney narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. The cab didn’t drive away.
“Please, sir!” The man shouted. “I’m running late! Is there any way I can get a picture of Prince Charles before he sees the Duke?”
Sidney blocked him at the door. “I’m afraid not. The guests are being seated for high tea at this moment.”
“Could you call him out for me? A picture of him at the front door would be swell.”
Swell? The organization had lowered its standards if it hired an assassin who’d use a word like swell.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until after the visit and you can get all of the royals together?” Sidney tried to figure out the accent. It was certainly not French nor British. And Americans haven’t used swell in twenty years. He suspected a Russian trying to sounding like an American.
“No.” The photographer glanced around the grounds. “My editor specifically wanted a photo of Charles by himself. All the girls are dippy for him.”
Dippy? I must kill this man before he massacres any more of the English language.
Sidney looked at the way the photographer held his camera. Professional photojournalists held their cameras differently. He held his like it was a weapon. Sidney grabbed him by the elbow and bullied him back to the cab.
“Well, I can do this for you.”
Sidney snatched the camera, opened the cab door, shoved the camera into his chest and pushed the button which should have taken a picture. Instead it shot a bullet into the assassin’s heart. He fell back into the seat. Sidney shut the door.
Pulling out his wallet, he grabbed a large wad of bills and shoved them through the cabbie’s window.
“Use that money to drive as far as you can to a secluded setting where you can dump the body,” Sidney instructed. “Don’t even think about reporting this to the police. You don’t want to explain to Le Surete why you had an assassin in the back seat of your cab in the first place.” He paused to let the information sink in. “Do you understand?”
Oui, monsieur.”
“Good. Now go.”
As the cab sped away Sidney examined the front of his suit to make sure he didn’t see any blood splatter. He didn’t want to ruin Madam’s tea. He slipped into the dining room to find the guests having a pleasant time.
His mind was racing, however, over how this assassination plot was organized. The poisoned purse was intended to take out at least the Queen. Working independently, the others converged on the house with the purpose of murdering everyone else at approximately the same time—one to drown Wallis, another to kill Philip in the men’s room and another to shoot Charles with a deadly camera. Only the Duke was left. Sidney shuddered. An assassin might be by his bedside this very moment. After bowing and making his excuses to attend to the Duke, Sidney ran upstairs to the old man’s suite.
When he entered Sidney saw only the nurse, who had been attending the Duke for more than a year, moving him from a wheelchair to a comfortable tufted chair in his sitting room. The Duke had made it very clear he didn’t want the Royal family to see him in a hospital setting in his home bedroom.
Sidney asked, “What about your IV line, Your Highness?”
The old man smiled. “Oh, it will be hidden behind that curtain. It runs down my neck through my sleeve to my arm. Quite clever, don’t you think?”
“Yes, quite.” Sidney looked at the nurse. “Wasn’t the doctor here earlier?”
“Yes,” the Duke replied, “but I sent him away. Like I said, I don’t want the Royal family to see me with a doctor and nurse.” He glanced up at her. “It’s time for you to go too. Stop by the kitchen and get yourself a sandwich. I’m sure there are plenty left over from the high tea.”
Sidney looked behind the curtain to see the IV pole and the door to the Duke’s bedroom.
“Is there any other way into this room other than the door to the hall and your bedroom?”
“No,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” Sidney smiled at the nurse. “Come, my dear, let’s have some of those delicious sandwiches.”
As they left the sitting room, they saw the entourage come up the stairs from the main foyer. Sidney took her by the arm. “Let’s go down the back way.”
They turned a corner, and the nurse stopped. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“I distinctly heard a door close.”
“Are you sure?”
She arched an eyebrow. “I am a trained nurse. I know what I hear. I heard a door shut down this hall, and the only door down this hall is—“
“The Duke’s bedroom.”
Sidney rushed to the door and entered just in time to see a man slip into the sitting room. Making as little noise as possible, Sidney followed the intruder. In front of the curtain, the Royals were making polite conversation, unaware a man pulled a filled syringe out of his pocket and reached for the IV bag.
Before the assassin could insert the poison into the bag, Sidney rushed him, grabbing the syringe from him and throwing it on the floor. He took the IV line and wrapped it around the man’s throat. The struggle caused the line to ride up.
Sidney didn’t want the curtain to fall open revealing the life-and-death struggle. The Duke would be embarrassed, and after all these years of personal service the last thing Sidney desired was to cause discomfiture to his employer.
Just as the curtain began to teeter, the Duke of Windsor, with unsteady poise, tried to stand to kiss the Queen’s hand. Everyone on that other side of the curtain gasped for fear the old man would fall over. However, his standing provided a counter balance to the struggle on the back side of the curtain.
The assassin’s face turned a purplish red, saliva dribbled from his pursed lips and his eyes bulged as he took his last breath, releasing the tension on the IV line just as the Duke returned to his seat.
Sighing, Sidney caught the man as his body slid down. He heard guests making their good-byes. Returning the syringe to the assassin’s pocket, Sidney dragged the corpse through the bedroom door and rolled it under the Duke’s bed. He slipped out into the hall and down the back stairs so he could be with the other servants as they politely applauded the Queen’s departure.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Four

Previously: Booth shoots Lincoln and breaks leg in escape. Stanton’s henchman Lafayette Baker takes Christy’s body to an embalmer. Booth and Herold escape across the river into Maryland where they hide in the Zekiah Swamp. Baker saves Booth’s life at Garrett’s farm.Booth sneaks away to Richmond.
Walking toward the wooden houses, Booth observed residents as they left their front doors open to catch cool air. Some piddled around their yards. Older men with thinning gray hair sat on their steps sipping from liquor bottles. He had better avoid them, Booth decided. He also ruled out the homes where running, screaming children filled the yards. They would be too much of a distraction for the housewives if he were to draw their sympathies. Then he saw young women hanging clothes on the line. No, they could prove too much temptation for romance, and where would he find himself if the man of the house returned to discover Booth in his wife’s embrace?
Finally, he smiled when he saw an older woman, approximately the age of his mother, sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, one hand to her cheek as she stared into nothingness. Booth had found his prey. He limped a few more feet until he was directly in her line of vision before swooning and falling to the ground. His eyes closed, Booth could hear the old woman gasp, walk down the wooden steps and rustling her crinolines as she approached him.
“My dear boy, what have those damn Yankees done to you?” She sat on the dirt road and gently lifted his head to her lap.
Booth’s eyes fluttered open. “Mother?” he asked weakly in an accent associated with the Tidewater region of Virginia. A small moan slipped from his lips before he closed his eyes again.
“Dear Lord, this is just terrible!” Carefully moving his head back to the ground, she whispered, “I’ll be right back with a nice cup of well water.”
A few minutes later Booth was feigning resuscitation as he sipped from the cup. “Please forgive me for passing out like I did. It’s been a long walk from Appomattox Courthouse. Forgive me for calling you Mother.” He took another sip. “I should have known better. Mother died of small pox right before the battle of Gettysburg.”
“You poor, poor boy,” she said, holding his head close to her small bosom. “Don’t you have nobody waitin’ for you back home?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I ain’t got no letters since Mother died. Of course, Father wasn’t much for words on paper. But he was mighty puny looking when I marched off to war in ’61.” He paused to cough. “If you wouldn’t mind helpin’ me to my feet, I think I feel strong enough to fetch my horse. I left it tied up at that old bombed out theater down the road.”
“You will do no such thing!” She lifted him with a grunt, put his arm around her thin shoulder and began shuffling toward her porch. “You’re in no condition to be ridin’! You need a good meal, a bath, a clean bed and a good doctor to tend to that broken leg of yours.”
“I can’t take advantage of your hospitality, Miz—what is your name?”
“Jenkins, Mary Beth Jenkins. And you are not takin’ advantage of me. What kind of Confederate widda would I be to turn away one of our brave young men?”
“Mighty obliged, Miz Jenkins. My name is Adam Christy, from Port Royal.”
Shaking her head she replied, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from Port Royal. Never you mind. Now take it easy with the steps.”
“But my horse, I can’t leave it tied up like that.”
“Don’t fret about the horse. I’ll go get it.”
Mrs. Jenkins was good to her word. She took his horse to a livery stable where she paid for it to be fed and cared for. Booth ate heartily during the coming days as his leg continued to heal. He told her how he broke it in a final, desperate defense against the marauding Union soldiers. She related to him how both her husband and son died at the Battle of Shiloh in Tennessee. Mrs. Jenkins allowed him to soak in her copper tub as long as he wished while she fetched Dr. Lawrence who examined him as he sat swathed in soft fuzzy towels.
“Whoever set your leg did a mighty fine job,” Dr. Lawrence mumbled. “You need to stay off it for a good piece of time, and, Mary Beth, keep the bandages clean. I’ll be back in a couple of days to check in on the boy.”
After the doctor left, Mrs. Jenkins helped him into bed. “Now don’t you worry a bit, Adam,” she said. “Adam, a good Bible name. Is there anything you got a cravin’ for?”
“Whatever you have in the house will be all right with me. I know the damn Yankees must have cleaned out your larder.”
She smiled. “We all pull together, and somehow find enough.”
“I would like to see a newspaper, to keep up with what is going on,” Booth added hesitantly. “What am I talkin’ about. I suspect all the papers in Richmond were burned out.”
“Oh no. The damned Yankees didn’t destroy all of them, praise the Lord.”
“Well, if it ain’t too much of an inconvenience….”
“Not another word,” she interrupted him with a smile. “The newsstand is just down the street, and I can be back in an instant.” Mrs. Jenkins paused and leaned in to whisper, “I suppose you heard about what happened to that devil Lincoln.”
Booth’s eyes widened in innocence. “There was talk on the road, but I didn’t know whether to believe it or not.”
“Oh, it’s true all right. They killed the old heathen.” She put her finger to her lips. “It’s not safe to say too much. The damn Yankees have spies everywhere.”
Over the next couple of weeks Booth laid back to relax and heal his battered body. He hungrily read each newspaper Mrs. Jenkins brought to him.
Mrs. Surratt had been arrested. Booth fumed over the injustice of a woman languishing in prison. He felt no compassion for Herold, Atzerodt and Paine. They were all stupid and deserved what they got. On the other hand, he did feel a minor dissipating remorse for Dr. Mudd. His former childhood friends Michael O’Laughlin and Samuel Arnold also had been caught in the dragnet looking for conspirators.
He followed with interest stories about Lincoln’s funeral train which was to retrace his route when he came to Washington City four years ago for his inauguration—Baltimore, Harrisburg, Philadelphia, New York, Albany, and many to come. The trial of the conspirators would be held and executions carried out before the traitor was buried in Illinois. One day Booth sat up in his bed as he read a story about Louis Weichmann being called to testify. To testify! That was another travesty! Booth fumed. Why was he not charged along with all the others?
More questions crowded into his mind. Exactly how did Adam Christy and the short stocky man figure into all this? And why was Edwin Stanton still alive, still making decisions about who will live and die?
The trial would begin the middle of May in the Old Capitol Prison. He reached down and felt his leg. No more pain. He tried walking around the room on it and found he could maneuver quite well, at least for short periods of time. When he decided to move on, to make his way to Washington City to observe the trial first hand, he would need a wagon.
“Miz Jenkins, I appreciate all that you have done for me, but I must be on my way to Port Royal,” Booth lied using his full skills as an actor, relaying his feigned humility and desperation. “I have to find out if Father is still alive.”
“You are in no condition to ride,” she insisted.
“Maybe if I had a wagon….” His voice trailed off.
“I have a wagon in the back. My husband used it in his work. He delivered goods from the mercantile store he ran. He ain’t got no use for it now, bless his soul.”
Early the next morning, Booth hitched his horse to the wagon and gave Mrs. Jenkins a hug, thanking her for all the kindness. Before leaving Richmond, however, he went by the bombed out theater and loaded the actor’s trunk which held his purse of three hundred dollars and threw in the many costumes and props he would need for the coming months. Booth had blood to avenge.

The Dog Photo

I looked at a picture of my father from World War II. He was kneeling by a German shepherd in front of a row of dog houses somewhere in Alaska. That’s what he did for a while during the war: train dogs for battle in a cold climate so they’d be ready to go Germany. Dad looked very happy; the dog, not so much. So I let my imagination go wild and wrote what I guessed the dog was thinking:
My bladder is about blast open. The dog tugged gently against the harness held by Dad. I can see from here the perfect tree to lift my leg on but this idiot just won’t me go.
Dad stroked the German shepherd’s thick coat. “That’s my big boy. Sit still a little bit longer so the nice man can take our picture.”
Your big boy my ass. I’d turn around and take a nip at you, but Mama always said never to bite the hand that feeds you.
“Do you want another picture, maybe over there by the dog houses?” the photographer asked.
Oh, hell no.
“Sure, that sounds like a great idea,” Dad said.
Where did I go wrong? I was a good puppy. I never strayed from Mama’s side like my brothers and sisters did. All she had to do what give out a little woof and I was right there. Then this man in uniform one day and picked me up and looked into my eyes. He seemed like a nice enough fellow. He fed me well, taught me all sorts of new games and gave me my own little house to sleep in at night. It gets cold up here in—whatever the name of this place is. But he seems to think I can hold my poop and piss all day. Doesn’t he know this stuff has to come out eventually?
“How about that one over there?” the photographer said. “Make it look like he’s just coming out for the day.”
This isn’t even my house. My house is down the hill. The stupid husky lives here. He doesn’t know any better than to shit in his house. It smells like hell.
“Come on, boy,” Dad said, “let’s jog on over there for another picture.”
No jogging. Do you know what jogging does to my bladder?
“Hey, big boy, cooperate,” Dad said, tugging at the harness. “Just a few more shots and then we’ll play games again.”
Play games? I like playing games. But I have to lift my leg on that tree first.
“You’re going to make my family very, very happy. They’re going to get to see me, you and the great scenery here in Alaska. For years to come, my family can pull out this picture and talk about how I served in the Army during World War II in Alaska.”
Don’t you know I didn’t understand half of what you just said? I know your basic human talk—food, play games, time for sleep, sic ‘em—you know, all the important stuff.
“Okay, that’s all the film on this roll,” the photographer said. “Do you want one print of each shot?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
Dammit, I can’t hold it any longer. Oh hell, I’ll just lift my leg and piss on his shoe. I hope I still get fed.