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  Precipice

  Clockwerk Thriller Book Two

  Thomas Webb

  PRECIPICE TEXT COPYRIGHT © 2018 THOMAS WEBB

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  ISBN: 9781947683105

  Cobble Publishing LLC

  Sugar Land, TX

  Contents

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  1. New Orleans, Louisiana - Jackson Square, July 1866

  2. The Atlantic - 1/2 Day’s Flight from Union Shores, September 1866

  3. Wilds of Alabama - An Abandoned Tavern, September 1866

  4. Union Capital of Washington, D.C - K Street, September 1866

  5. Washington, D.C. - DSI Headquarters, September 1866

  6. Nebraska Territory - Triple J Ranch, September 1866

  7. Richmond, Virginia - Confederate White House, September 1866

  8. A Deciduous Forest - Location Unknown, September 1866

  9. The Vindication - Skies Above Maryland, September 1866

  10. Maryland Countryside - Hills Above a Pasture, September 1866

  11. Maryland Countryside - Hills Above a Pasture, September 1866

  12. The Mississippi River - Onboard the Lady Luck, October 1866

  13. Skies Over Illinois - Near Fort Defiant, October 1866

  14. New Orleans, Louisiana – The Old French Quarter, October 1866

  15. Louisville, Kentucky - Holly Springs Inn & Tavern, October 1865

  16. New Orleans, Louisiana - Warehouse Row, October 1866

  17. Banks of the Mississippi in Illinois - Fort Defiance, October 1866

  18. New Orleans, Louisiana - The Garden District, October 1866

  19. Outside New Orleans, Louisiana - Montclair Estate, October 1866

  20. The Mississippi River - Submerged, October 1866

  21. Near Louisville, Kentucky - The Worthington Estate, October 1866

  22. Outside New Orleans, Louisiana - Montclair Estate, October 1866

  23. Mississippi River - Onboard the Lady Luck, October 1866

  24. Near Louisville, Kentucky - The Worthington Manse, October 1866

  25. Outside New Orleans, Louisiana - Montclair Estate, October 1866

  26. Washington, D.C. - DSI Headquarters, November 1866

  27. U.S.S. Intrepid - 45.2538° N, 69.4455° W, November 1866

  28. U.S.S. Intrepid - 45.2538° N, 69.4455° W, November 1866

  29. Richmond, Virginia - Office of the President, December, 1866

  30. A Cabin, Dakota Territory

  31. Behind the Writer’s Desk, Richmond Virginia, September 2018

  Connect with Thomas Webb

  For a FREE copy of the Clockwerk Thriller prequel, Command, go to Thomas Webb’s website here: https://www.thomaswebbbooks.com

  On the site, you can find out more about the author, when his next book is due, or sign up for his newsletter.

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  1 New Orleans, Louisiana - Jackson Square, July 1866

  “Damnable heat in this city,” President Smythe said, mopping his brow.

  Trevor Primm, Smythe's adjutant and personal aide, pushed his tiny, rimmed spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. “We need Truveaux if you are to consolidate your power, Mr. President… along with all of her considerable resources. We must have the Louisiana Territories, and all things Louisiana must go through New Orleans.”

  Smythe dismissed his aide’s counsel with a wave of the hand, despite the fact that Primm was, as usual, absolutely right. “I know all this, Trevor.” Smythe pressed the sopping-wet handkerchief back to his forehead. “That fact doesn’t make this stifling heat any more bearable.”

  The fans inside the presidential steam carriage whirred with a low hum, doing little more than circulating hot, sluggish air. Primm, who’d been studying a ream of documents, stuffed them into a fat satchel. He turned to his left, where Marsh Wagstaff, President Smythe’s personal bodyguard, took up a considerable amount of space.

  Primm snapped his fingers at the mountainous, Georgia-born former soldier as if he were calling to the family pet. “Wagstaff,” he said.

  The big bodyguard did not reply.

  “Wagstaff,” Primm repeated, his voice rising to a nasal whine.

  Wagstaff gave the waifish man to his right a look that boded no goodwill, one to which Primm seemed oblivious. “I’m right next to you, Primm,” the Georgian’s deep baritone reverberated from the walls of the steam carriage. “Rest assured, I can hear you.”

  Smythe observed as the sarcasm in Wagstaff’s reply was lost on Primm. Smythe wondered how his aide could be so brilliant yet at the same time so clueless.

  “Wagstaff,” Primm said again, pointing at the wall separating the rear of the steam carriage from the driver’s area in the front. “Be a good man, will you, and see to the President’s comforts?”

  Wagstaff gritted his teeth and gave the partition a knock. A panel of the barrier slid aside, and the back of the driver’s head appeared. Wagstaff whispered something to the man, who nodded just before the section slid shut. The interior compartment’s fan increased its oscillating speed, and the damp air began to move more freely.

  “Ah,” Smythe said, “thank you. That’s much better.”

  “Certainly, Mr. President,” Primm said.

  Smythe made note that Primm could have easily reached the partition and knocked for the driver himself, but Smythe’s new attaché preferred to make Wagstaff do it. It was a power play, pure and simple. Smythe grinned. Some might have considered the action petty, but it was just the type of gamesmanship for which Smythe had acquired Primm. He held in a chuckle, glad to see the pale young man was keeping his skills sharp.

  The steam carriage rolled to a stop. Smythe heard the creak of hinges on iron gates before the steam carriage resumed its rumbling trip forward. He felt the vehicle round the sharp bend of a curve and begin to slow.

  Wagstaff moved a curtain aside just far enough to peek out. “We’re here, Mr. President,” he said.

  The carriage and its accompanying security escort pulled to a final stop. Wagstaff released the cabin door’s locking mechanism and opened it. Smythe guessed his bodyguard’s suit to be at least three times the size of an average man’s. His bulk blocked much of the light from the outside as he stepped out into the New Orleans morning, hand on his custom pistol and his eyes scanning the square. He nodded to himself, satisfied, before letting down the carriage steps and holding the door for Smythe to exit.

  Smythe stepped onto the stone roundabout. A wave of dampness and heat smacked into him like a gigantic fist. Smythe recoiled as the stench of the river assaulted his nostrils. He resisted the urge to cover his mouth and nose, only because of the group of presspersons he spotted thronging the square. He knew from past experience that at least one of them had to be lurking about with a daguerreotype, all set and ready to go. Smythe could see the headline now: “Confederate President Too Delicate for Aroma of the Mighty Mississippi.”

  Smythe swallowed hard to quell the bile rising in his throat while his security detail held the press at bay. He ignored the reporters’ shouted questions and craned his neck upward. Three storm-gray spires perched atop a castle-like structure. Stone, washed white as snow, sheathed the magnificent cathedral basilica of Saint Louis.

  The sight of the cathedral made him briefly forget the humidity, the stench, and the press corps. The majestic church sat flanked by two smaller, white-bricked buildings. The one to the left was known as the Cabildo, and to the cathedral’s right sat the Presbytère. Arches ran the length of the first floor of each of the two structures. Both of them were architectural marvels in their own right, but they seemed almost ugly in comparison to the cathedral between them. The ancient church was a true work of art, resem
bling nothing less than a fairy story castle.

  The cathedral overlooked what had, until recent years, been known as the Place d’Armes, or Weapons Square. It had since been renamed as Jackson Square after Andrew Jackson, hero of the Battle of Orleans, where in 1815, British airships had rained aether-fueled fire down on the city.

  Smythe took a moment to soak in the square. A circular outer driveway ringed the area, with inner paving stone circles for walking paths. The stone paths bisected the square, forming four perfect quadrants of verdant green grass. Benches and aether-lamps, installed by a baroness named de Pontalba in 1851, were placed throughout. Cannons with aether shells bordered the square, running the lengths of both Chartres Street to the north and Decatur to the south. Spike-tipped wrought-iron fencing surrounded the entire parade ground, those same spikes having borne the severed heads of those executed following the great uprising of the enslaved in 1811.

  No foot traffic marred the square today. It had been closed for Smythe’s visit by order of the governor.

  At the top of the roundabout driveway rose an elegant fountain. Farther back and centered in the square, a bronze statue of Jackson himself, savior of the city and seventh president of the now-defunct United States, sat proud on rearing horseback.

  Smythe’s security detail allowed only a moment to take in the scenery before rushing him inside the left-most building. The Cabildo had housed the seat of governmental power since the Spanish ruled New Orleans. After the city traded hands to the French, Napoleon sold 828,000 square miles of land, including the city of New Orleans, to America’s third president at a little over 82 francs per mile. New Orleans’ power had then extended naturally to the rest of the Louisiana Territories, and it had remained so ever since.

  But now, the time was ripe for someone to grasp ahold of and wield that power. With New Orleans in their grip, a strong enough force could marshal the rest of the territories and split west, away from the Confederacy, or stay and make it that much stronger. According to the Gambler, Senate candidate Therese Truveaux was just such a force, which meant that both she and her senate race were critical to Smythe’s success.

  All he had to do was make certain she won.

  The comely Cabildo, made of massive blocks of cut Spanish stone, consisted of two high stories and a third floor with a French mansard-style roof. All the state’s business, as well as that of the greater territories, happened here. In times of war, the building also served as the home of the governor and his family. A more magnificent fortress of a home Smythe couldn’t imagine. A breeze brushed across Smythe’s bald head and neck, the air noticeably cooler inside the building thanks to the stone. In the background, Smythe detected the hum of massive aether-powered fans.

  Smythe, Primm, Wagstaff, and the Confederate president’s security detail had hardly entered the building before being set upon by Governor Blanchard and his retinue. The governor himself made long-legged strides toward them, his large teeth gleaming in contrast to the olive skin of the native Cajun, his grin a bit too ready for Smythe’s taste. Smythe plastered on a false smile of his own and extended his hand.

  “Governor,” he said, beaming.

  “Mr. President!” Blanchard pumped Smythe’s hand with enthusiastic force, which Smythe understood when he heard the pop of daguerreotype powder behind him. “An honor to meet you, sir! On behalf of all my constituents, we welcome you to the great city of New Orleans, capital of the Louisiana Territories.”

  Smythe clasped the governor’s shoulder as he turned and looked toward the press corps. “The honor is mine, Governor.” Smythe smiled wide for the flash.

  One of Blanchard’s staff leaned in and whispered something into the Cajun politician’s ear. The governor nodded. He looked at Smythe. “A little crowded here in the entrance hall,” he said, grinning by way of apology. He placed a hand at Smythe’s back. “If you’ll allow me to show you and your people up to my offices?”

  Surrounded by a circle of press, aides, and security, the governor ushered Smythe to a set of state-of-the-art elevator lifts. An attendant waited there to let them in. Smythe looked with wonder at the elevator car, the space large enough to easily accommodate all of his and the governor’s staff and security. The lift attendant pulled a lever, and the doors shut to the clamor of reporters and the pop of flash powder. Smythe’s stomach lurched as they rose. Then the car opened on the building’s third floor. Surrounded by security and with Wagstaff and Primm by his side, Smythe followed the governor of Louisiana down an elongated hallway of arched floor-to-ceiling windows and polished wooden floors. When they reached his private office, Blanchard held the door for Smythe. The governor’s staff entered first.

  “Sergeant,” Smythe heard Wagstaff say, addressing a soldier from the presidential security detail, “you and your troops will remain outside these doors.”

  The sergeant, a sturdily built woman with close-cropped brown hair, acknowledged Wagstaff with a nod. Wagstaff entered first, looked around, and then signaled for Smythe and his aide to follow.

  Smythe examined the governor’s office. Wood, whitewashed stone, gleaming brass lamps, and a black cypress desk dominated the space. The office enjoyed a commanding view of Jackson Square. Beyond it, a picturesque Mississippi River wound its way off into the horizon.

  Smythe’s gaze followed the river and came to rest on a woman. She stood by the window, looking out. Her back was to Smythe, her silver-gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. She seemed to be watching the river. Smythe thought it odd that she did not turn to greet him, the duly-elected leader of the Confederate States and her president. Her demeanor offered Smythe a clue as to her identity. A man in a Confederate dress uniform stood next to her, a general by his rank. Unlike the mystery woman, the general showed the proper respect, coming to attention at the sight of his president.

  Now that’s more like it, Smythe thought.

  “Mr. President,” the governor said, “may I present to you my esteemed colleague? This is Senate Candidate Therese Truveaux.”

  Of course, Smythe thought. He’d been briefed on the senator, but his prepared information had not done her justice.

  Finally, the woman at the window turned. “President Smythe,” she said.

  A ready smile rose at the corners of her mouth, crinkling her golden brown skin. She was almost of an age with Smythe but still breathtaking. Smythe guessed she was a Creole by virtue of her features. He sucked in his breath. The famed beauty of that group of people, combining the best of the French, the African, and the Native, was no exaggeration.

  Therese Truveaux floated across the room in a velvet dress the color of wine. She extended a smooth hand. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. President.”

  Smythe bent at the waist and kissed the offered appendage. “The pleasure is mine, Ms. Truveaux.”

  The brilliance of Truveaux’s smile increased twofold. “Please, Mr. President, do call me Therese.”

  Smythe grinned. He wasn’t fooled by Truveaux’s effortless charms and dazzling looks. His resources told him the true ruler of the Louisiana Territories wasn’t the milquetoast governor who’d greeted them upon entering the Cabildo. That distinction belonged to none other than the petite, brown-skinned beauty standing before him.

  Primm hadn’t managed to dig up anything on Senator Truveaux prior to the age of fourteen, but before her fifteenth birthday, she’d turned up among the lists of girls working in some of the city’s finest brothels. Through the power of blackmail and several rumored murders, she’d worked her way up to madam. Then a rich and successful businesswoman, she’d leveraged a multitude of pillow-talk secrets into powerful connections, eventually transforming those connections into formidable political power. It was a path Smythe himself understood all too well.

  Truveaux held Smythe’s hand a heartbeat longer than necessary before turning to her companion. “And might I introduce you to my associate, Mr. President? This is General Randall Montclair, commanding officer of the armies of the Louisian
a Territory and an old family friend.”

  General Montclair saluted. “An honor, Mr. President.”

  Smythe eyed the general up and down. Tall, powerfully built, a commanding presence. Something about him seemed familiar. “Please general, stand at your ease. Montclair, is it? Now where have I heard that name before?”

  The general took on a sour expression. “That could have been in any number of places, Mr. President. My family name is…known…in certain circles that is. Or perhaps you may have met my father? The late General Phineas Montclair? He made quite a name for himself in his time.”

  Something about the man’s discomfort gave Smythe pause. He made a mental note to check into it later. “Perhaps,” Smythe said, addressing the general’s comment. “Your career must be quite distinguished indeed to have achieved a general’s rank at so young an age.”

  General Montclair shifted uncomfortably. For a second, his gaze fell to the floor. “I’ve only just received my general’s star, Mr. President. I was of late a colonel, until General Horton’s heart condition took him so unexpectedly. His passing opened a space among the generals’ ranks.”

  “I see,” Smythe said, disturbed by the mention of Horton. “Heart condition” was the lie they’d concocted to cover Horton’s death during the failed mission to destroy Washington. It would not hold water if examined closely.

  The formal introductions over, Blanchard’s aides got Smythe and his staff seated. Smythe and Primm sat in comfortable chairs facing the governor, who’d surrendered his desk to Senate Candidate Truveaux. If there was ever any doubt as to who really ran the territories, Truveaux behind the governor’s cypress wood desk laid it to rest. General Montclair took a seat next to her. The remainder of the governor’s staff stood against the walls, while Wagstaff positioned himself behind Smythe, next to the door.