Dire Shenanigans (The Making of a Man Series, Book 2) Page 7

  “Got trouble, Jimmy?”

  “Man, here. Can’t come in. Tell ’im, mister.”

  “Who are you, mister?”

  Dick repeated his identification.

  “You better come inside, Major.”

  Jimmy shook his head, changed his grip on the shotgun; he did not know very much, but he knew his job was to keep men out.

  “He’s with my wagon, Jimmy. Wagons are allowed.”

  Jimmy opened the gate, defeated by the logic.

  “Not clever, our Jimmy, but ‘e holds that gate something fierce.”

  “He does his job, that is for sure.”

  “Who’re you lookin’ for, Major?”

  “Mr Eads, or Mr Pook, perhaps. They were not sure in Washington.”

  “Dunno much in Washington, Major. Office is over there, the big place looking out over the river.”

  The office was not expecting an official visitor from Washington, but accepted that was no surprise – they never knew what Washington would do next.

  “What precisely do you want to see, Major Burke?”

  Dick grinned, shook his head.

  “I don’t rightly know, sir. Thing is, there is reason to suppose that some of the suppliers to the War Department are profiteering. Not the big men normally, but the next level, the ones who sell component parts to factories and yards, or so we are told. Sometimes they up their prices, others they cut corners on quality. They sent me to talk around and to listen to people. You complain to me that you can’t get good nuts and bolts any more and then another man fifty miles away says the same thing – then maybe it makes sense to chase down the maker and see what’s going on.”

  It seemed arrant nonsense to Dick but the manager, Mr Oakes – in charge of Finance, he had said – nodded thoughtfully and said that it was a good idea.

  “Pick up a word here and a moan there, Major Burke, and you may well find yourself onto something. As for prices, well, they are never the same two weeks running. My daughter in the inside office will show you some figures, if you want, sir. So many men have gone to war that there is little choice other than to take on females for the more respectable positions.”

  Dick glanced through the door and swallowed his first refusal. Miss Oakes, looking up at mention of her name and smiling shyly, was a young lady of twenty or so years, auburn-haired and green-eyed, oval-faced and very pretty indeed. It would be a pleasure to discuss matters with her, be it never so much dry finance.

  “I would very much appreciate the offer to do so, Mr Oakes. Tomorrow, perhaps? I must find myself a hotel today and also do the courtesy of informing the commander at the local barracks of my presence. The military have a right to know who is in their territory, I believe.”

  Oakes agreed and scribbled a quick note.

  “Give that to the manager at the River Hotel, Major Burke, and he will look after you. The yard has influence in town, sir!”

  “Thank you, Mr Oakes. Could a message be sent to your gatekeeper, Jimmy, that I am permitted free access?”

  “I will walk you to the gate, Major Burke. Jimmy has little use for the written word, I am afraid. Do you make a long stay with us, sir?”

  “I had planned a week – but I am very much free to make my own schedule. I must attend at General Grant’s headquarters this month or next, but I am essentially able to direct myself.”

  “We have riverboats going south almost every day, Major Burke. It would be easy for you to board one at your convenience.”

  They chatted idly as they walked to the gate, Oakes pointing out the various buildings, identifying the one brick-built edifice as their arsenal.

  “Changing the guns on the river-boats again, Major Burke! More and more of the big Dahlgren smoothbores – eight, nine and ten inch now! The rifle guns are to be replaced as soon as we have a sufficiency of the larger cannon - and they are getting larger every month.”

  Dick raised an eyebrow – from the little he knew rifles outperformed smoothbores.

  “A compromise, Major Burke – forty-two pound smoothbores bored out and becoming forty-three pound rifles, with thinner walls!”

  “Ah! Have any exploded?”

  “Not yet, sir, but the gunners are using reduced charges, thus achieving lower muzzle velocity and negating the value of the rifling!”

  It seemed typical enough – an idea badly thought through in the first instance.

  “The Dahlgren guns are in any case bigger, are they not?”

  “The ten inch fires a ball of more than one hundred pounds, sir. Still inadequate to penetrate the armour of an ironclad, it is feared, and barely sufficient to damage a modern fort. The need is for more powerful weapons still – made of steel probably rather than cast iron, loading by the breech and rifled – and they will come, eventually.”

  “And then every wooden warship on earth will be dead, sir.”

  “That will certainly be so, Major Burke. The day of the iron ship of war is upon us. The ironclads on the river here make that a certainty.”

  A shipyard in England, set up for the production of iron warships - better yet, steel it seemed – must be a source of great profits. Prestige, as well… the navy carried England’s Glory on its shoulders.

  Dick came out of his reverie, of his fantasy of millions, as Oakes brought him to Billy’s attention.

  “Major Burke may come in and out when he wants, Billy. He is allowed to!”

  “What about ‘is ‘orse?”

  “That can come in too, Billy.”

  “An’ ‘at big rifle what ‘e got?”

  “And his Sharps rifle, yes, Billy.”

  Billy stared piercingly for a few seconds at Dick and then at his riding horse, memorising both it seemed.

  “Right.”

  “The hotel, Mr Burke, lies some five hundred yards from here, along the road and then taking the turn left. The nearest barracks is close to hand there – the desk clerk will point it out to you.”

  The manager at the River Hotel had been quite sure they were full, not a room to be had, until he read the note from Mr Oakes. All had changed at that point.

  “We keep rooms permanently vacant for the yard, Major Burke. Account to the yard, of course, sir. Largest room in the house, sir, one flight of stairs up, sir. Your horses to our stables, of course, sir. Our boy will unpack your bags, sir, never you mind about them.”

  Dick intimated that he would prefer to wear his uniform from the next morning; the boy would have all ready for him.

  “The barracks, sir? Camp Carondelet is two minutes’ walk from here. Will you dine here tonight, sir?”

  Dick expected to eat with them and ordered his meal for eight o’clock; he expected no more than overdone steak, but there was a slight chance of a potato, he hoped.

  He walked to the camp, found it to be mostly under canvas and very obviously full of raw recruits. There was a picket at the gate, but the young soldiers seemed more interested in drawing the attention of the ladies freely walking in and out than in stopping him. He wandered a few yards inside and then spoke to a sergeant walking busily past with a file of papers under his arm.

  “The commandant, sir? His office is the brick building to your left, sir. Have you an appointment, sir?”

  “No, sergeant. My name is Major Burke and I am here in Carondelet for a few days and considered it a courtesy to inform the gentleman of my presence.”

  The sergeant stood more closely to attention and volunteered to inform Major Schafer of his presence.

  “Major Schafer? Of the First Kansas?”

  “He was, sir, now has the Fifth Missouri to bring up to scratch, sir.”

  “Lead me to him, Sergeant – I stood next to him at Bull Run!”

  The sergeant suddenly realised where he had heard his name before, managed to click his heels.

  “I’ll be damned! Major Burke! I heard you had been sent to England, sir!”

  “I was, and am now sent here to inspect the suppliers of goods to the military i
n the western parts of the Union.”

  “Are you here long? Where are you billeted?”

  An hour of such exchanges and Dick agreed to dine in Schafer’s mess two nights hence before retiring to the hotel. The picket at the gate presented arms as he walked out, well warned by the sergeant, Dick presumed.

  He laughed as he walked into his room – who would have thought that little Dicky, the would-be divine, would have changed so much in so short a time. From timid schoolboy to ferocious soldier! What a world it was.

  There was a note at the desk; a Mr Fisk begged the opportunity to meet him at his office in St Louis next day, if that might suit his convenience. He gave a direction and suggested ten in the morning.

  ‘Never heard of the fellow – but he knows of me. Better meet with him.’

  He took out the Navy Colt and carefully cleaned it before loading very precisely and holstering it under his civilian coat. In uniform he would wear it visibly on his belt – and that was a thought too. He made his way to the desk and asked of the nearest gunsmiths, discovered a workshop and store to be very close – it was a small town still.

  “A pocket pistol, sir? We have several, of forty-five calibre mostly. I would recommend the Derringer, sir, over-and-under barrel, brass cartridge, very reliable and fits most conveniently into a pocket.”

  Dick inspected the little pistol, decided it would do very well.

  “Two, sir, and a dozen rounds? Payment in gold coin, sir? At a discount, sir? Yes indeed!”

  The price in gold was less than two thirds of that for paper dollars.

  Dinner came as a pleasant surprise – there was fish as well as beef, and local farms grew vegetables – almost unknown in most eateries in the States. They had a pastry-cook in the kitchen as well – the German influence strong in the Old North-West and producing tasty sugar tarts and sweet pies. It was sad, Dick reflected, that Washington was incapable of producing a meal worthy of the name and that one had to travel far out into the hinterland to come across a cook – but it was much the same in London, thinking on it. Perhaps the most lasting legacy of the English would be overdone beef and soft boiled cabbage – the world would have much to be grateful for!

  Mr Fisk was young, very little older than Dick, and fat, carried a flamboyant moustache and was dressed richly – a very heavy gold watch-chain prominent and a large diamond solitaire on his finger, a red stone gleaming in his neck-tie probably a ruby. He smiled much, but his eyes were shrewd, watchful and not unintelligent. He advanced with outstretched hand.

  “Mr James Fisk, sir – call me Jim! Everyone does!”

  He made a valiant effort to crush Dick’s fingers – a ‘manly’ handshake.

  “Richard Burke, Mr Fisk, major in the Union army and currently assigned to the Inspector-General. I was once referred to as the Sharps Kid – but please do not call me Kid!”

  It was as thorough a set down as Dick could devise and he watched carefully for Fisk’s reaction. There was not a flicker on his face, he had not noticed anything untoward, it seemed. Dick revised his first opinion; this man was no self-indulgent fat fool – he was highly intelligent and well under control; he was dangerous.

  “I was a little surprised to discover your presence in St Louis, Major Burke – I generally hear of the posting of field officers in advance of their arrival.”

  A statement that he was well in with the senior officials in Washington, and a warning to Dick that he was not to be trifled with. Dick responded with a veiled threat.

  “I am here to investigate certain allegations made against suppliers of goods to the yard at Carondelet, Mr Fisk. I have no knowledge that you have been in any way involved with their business.”

  Unsaid was that Mr Fisk had chosen to bring himself to his attention.

  Fisk visibly relaxed – that was one form of malfeasance that he was not involved in; he had feared that Dick had come to investigate the contraband trade with the Confederacy, which was making Fisk his first millions.

  It was always as well to keep in with the investigators – one never knew what their next assignment might be.

  “I might be able to provide some information, Major Burke – I and my associates here know most of the businessmen in this neck of the woods.”

  “I must not name names, Mr Fisk – I have only the vaguest of suspicions to guide me and must not blacken the characters of possibly honest men. The investigation is little more than speculation, I fear, and I suspect, in fact, that I am sent here only because I was not wanted at the headquarters of the Army of the Potomac.”

  Fisk brightened even more – the Major was not a dedicated thief-taker it would seem.

  “Was I to introduce you to some of the suppliers to the yard, Major Burke, they might be able to persuade you of their integrity.”

  They might indeed, quite probably offering golden arguments, Dick thought. He intimated that he would be delighted to meet the gentlemen.

  They parted on the friendliest of terms, Dick refusing whiskey at ten o’clock of the morning but thanking Fisk kindly for the offer. Fisk, an Easterner, retired to his inner office, demanding that one of the underlings there should tell him just who the hell this Major Burke or ‘Sharps Kid’ was. He grew very thoughtful on being told the history of both, not being himself a man of violence.

  Miss Elizabeth Parsons was rapidly, she feared, becoming a woman given to violence – she much wanted to strangle that bloody fool Clausen.

  Mr Clausen still, it seemed, resented having been forced out of control of his company; he had evidently decided that the simplest way to regaining his rights was to wed the little woman who had so unaccountably managed to acquire a majority of his shares.

  He was a tall, rugged, handsome, self-reliant, strong man; she was a woman. It was obvious that she must fall victim to his charms, and in any event she must soon wilt under the strain of attempting to run a business, so very much man’s work. He took pains to spend time in her company every day and to eat with her when possible, bringing her into domesticated circumstances; he stood with his best profile towards her whenever they met.

  On the first day they ate together at luncheon, he having carefully entered her office as she sat down with a tray; he had complimented her on the food, naturally assuming she would have spent much of her morning preparing it. He had been displeased when she had sent for her black cook to accept his praise. He persevered with his campaign, seeking entertainments that a sophisticated Washington lady must enjoy.

  “There is a production of Weber’s Freischutz at the new Opera House, Miss Parsons. I have a pair of tickets for tomorrow evening.”

  “Then you must find a partner to accompany you, Mr Clausen. I have little love for German opera and certainly cannot afford to spend an evening away from the books. I have finally managed to disentangle the figures relating to the construction costs for the converter and the works as a whole, Mr Clausen, and am thus able to commence the process of assigning payments to their proper entries. I may be able to produce something other than a fairy tale for the first annual report, sir, provided I am given time to achieve that desirable end! You had promised to inform me of the progress of the contract for the Navy, sir, the sheets of mild steel plate, you will remember.”

  “Almost complete, ma’am, well in hand.”

  “In writing, if you please, sir, with precise figures! Does ‘almost complete’ mean ninety per cent or eighty? Or merely more than one half? I must have proper information, sir. Perhaps you should hire a clerk to perform these duties that you seem to find too difficult!”

  He sulked for days after that – the woman had no respect. He was in a particularly receptive mood when he was spoken to by a gentleman in the bar where he was taking a quiet glass of an evening.

  “Mr Clausen? My name is Carnegie, sir. Like you, I am in the steel business…”

  Miss Parsons ventured into the blackness of the pouring room, seeking the junior to Mr Clausen, a young gentleman recently employed to offer
a more educated and scientific approach to their engineering. Mr Bleaker had passed out of West Point with very high grades in all of his classes – the military college providing far better education than military training; its officers were often little more than glory boys but its engineers were among the best in America.

  “Mr Bleaker, I have been reading of something referred to as ‘sandwich armour’ – what do you know of it? Could we produce it?”

  “Layers alternately of steel plate and timber, ma’am, serving to dissipate the energy of the shot and thus lessen its impact at any particular point. Highly effective with current cannon balls, ma’am. An attempt has been made to use layers of rubber instead of timber, but the rubber oxidises rapidly and loses its elasticity. As for production, ma’am, we can make the steel plate to specification, but the armour is better built up layer by layer in situ – in the shipyard or at the battery. To produce this armour would really demand that we bought our own yard on one of the rivers or at the coast.”

  “The coast, not inland, Mr Bleaker. When the war is won then there will be no call for armoured ships on our rivers. The Navy, however, will find the demand – or so one might expect.”

  “The war will be won, ma’am? By the Union?”

  “Eventually, one trusts, Mr Bleaker. Despite all the efforts of our generals to lose it!”

  He raised an eyebrow – was she attributing treason, presumably to General McClellan? Better to change that topic.

  “There is some thought being given to the production of steel cannon, ma’am – rifled and breech-loading and firing shell rather than ball.”

  “Have you drawings?”

  She presumed that ‘some thought’ meant that he had been attempting their design himself.

  “Some, ma’am.”

  “Bring them to me in the office tomorrow morning, if you please. For the while, what is the status of our current contracts?”