The Unheard Silence

By Xlibris US

More than three decades ago, research began on a mysterious story. Parts of which were told me by a desert prospector, nicknamed Seldom Seen Slim, with whom I shared many a campfire evening. These parts worked their way into The Unheard Silence, a novel of fact-based fiction. The story, later semi-confirmed by Texas and Mexico research, seemed to overstate itself. At about that time, while rummaging through Pennsylvanias erudite extravaganza, The Book Barn, I found and purchased an encyclopedic dictionary left behind somewhere by the 1800s. What fun to use a few of those now-derelict words and to include their meanings and other useful information as footnotes. Hence evolved the format exploited in this book. I hope you enjoy these add-ons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503513648

Book preview

The Unheard Silence

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An historical novel by

Jonathan Guthrie

Copyright © 2014 by Jonathan Guthrie.

Cover photo: The Confederate Ironsides Stonewall Jackson.

Picture provided by the Waikiki Commons.

Proofing by: Sylvia Shaffer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/24/2014

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CONTENTS

PART I

A Reason for Being

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

PART II

Ribbons of Smoke

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

PART III

Ageless Mysteries

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

PART IV

In the Dust of Despair

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

PART V

Miracles Are Made in Heaven!

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

PART VI, 1865.

Sic Semper Tyrannis.

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

PART VII

The Sound of a Drum

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

After Word …

Selected photos

About the Writer…

The Unheard Silence

MORE THAN THREE DECADES AGO, RESEARCH BEGAN ON A MYSTERIOUS STORY, PARTS OF WHICH WERE TOLD ME BY A DESERT PROSPECTOR NICKNAMED SELDOM SEEN SLIM. WITH SLIM, I SHARED MANY A CAMPFIRE EVENING. PARTS OF SLIM’S TALES WORKED THEIR WAYS INTO "THE UNHEARD SILENCE", A NOVEL OF FACT-BASED FICTION. THE STORY, LATER SEMI-CONFIRMED BY TEXAS AND MEXICO RESEARCH, SEEMED TO OUTGROW ITSELF.

AT ABOUT THAT TIME, WHILE RUMMAGING THROUGH PENNSYLVANIA’S ERUDITE EXTRAVAGANZA, THE BOOK BARN, I FOUND AND PURCHASED AN ENCYCLOPEDIC DICTIONARY LEFT-BEHIND-SOMEWHERE BY THE 1800S. WHAT FUN TO USE A FEW OF THOSE NOW-DERELICT WORDS, AND TO INCLUDE THEIR MEANINGS AND OTHER USEFUL INFORMATION AS FOOTNOTES. HENCE EVOLVED THE FORMAT EXPLOITED IN THIS BOOK. I HOPE READERS ENJOY THESE ADD-ONS. BE AWARE THAT MOST PARTS OF THIS BOOK ARE TRUE. SOME FEW PARTS ARE EMBELLISHED.

ALL COULD BE TRUE!

PART I

A Reason for Being

Chapter 1

Perhaps it was because of my chosen profession — editor of the Shoshone Flat Trumpet — that my intellect served me with such astounding propensity that autumn night in 1860. Or perhaps it was due simply to the burning significance of those events and moments I wanted to write about.

Whichever it may be, I remember recalling every passing nuance, every clock tick, every gasp of air with the clarity of peering at heaven’s stars during the midpoint of a cloudless night. But — whatever the trigger for my acumen — I had determined to ink the story onto the vellum pages of my diary, to get it set down in case others would one day want to know exactly what happened … and why!

After the meeting that afternoon, ecstasy had held me in a tight grip. The only downside of the event had been the news that Marijean McLaughlin, my collaborator and cohort, had slipped while trying to boat across the Potomac to join me in Baltimore. Marijean had sewn a fortune in gold into the folds of her petticoat. The money was intended for use by the confederated intelligence, but that magnificent lady had drowned trying to get it to Richmond.

Back in my rented quarters that night, I could not sleep, immersed as I was in the raucous snoring and grunts of my hirsute roommates. I rose from my cot, stood in my sleeping gown, barefooted, and gazed through the miniscule window upon a night crowded with shadows and scudding clouds.

I recalled Edward Siminoux pounding on the table for order that afternoon. Siminoux had used the butt of a Colt. Now, Siminoux’s choice of gavel seems prophetic.

I recalled the mumbled jousting brought on by the falling price of cotton and the humble value of tobacco. I recalled the shock brought on by the election of Abraham Lincoln as President. I recalled Siminoux speaking like a stentor reciting Hamlet as he proclaimed me préfect of the Confederate Territory of Arizona. I recalled the many well-wishers rushing up to shake my hand and pound my back.

You will need to travel to Europe, Siminoux had told me when we were alone. "King Leopold of Belgium is planning a masked ball for Phaedra. The ball will be followed within a day or two by a confab to discuss European support of your Confederate Territory of Arizona. You must travel alone to Europe, I fear. Sorry to hear about your intended lady companion. I wonder … did she bring bad luck on herself by doing something ignorant like voting for Abraham Lincoln?"

I settled in to begin inking my ledger with my raison d’etre, my reason for being … and to begin inking into words the complicated issues. I wanted to emphasize the question why … like why did so many substitute a discussion of state’s rights for a discussion of the freedom of people and the ending of slavery? Why had Abraham Lincoln even run for office? At that time, it seemed likely that either Breckinridge or Bell would have been a better selection, compared to Abe Lincoln and his egotistical vice president Hannibal Hamlin.¹ Before that, however, I wanted to know how a prairie lawyer had managed to gain the White House. Would this unpleasant incident make the talk of war between North and South into reality?

I remember frowning that evening when I was forced by the dictates of necessity to plod outside through a pounding rain to answer nature’s call. Then, back inside again, I procrastinated by razoring several goose quills into writing instruments. I nicked my finger, swore, and tried to suck the blood away while I remembered what the chairman had said so very firmly.

Editor, Emperor Napoleon the Third is your best hope for intervention. The others are too spineless. Prepare yourself for a journey to Belgium where king Leopold is hosting a masked ball followed by an international confab. We’ll arrange transportation so you will have stopovers in England and in France.

My mind refused to expel those words or to drive away the smiling countenance of the man who spoke them. I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering. Then I fumbled another goose quill into writing-instrument sharpness.

That done, I began again to relate the exciting story to paper, chagrinned when night oozed into light. Too soon, I had to grab my ditty bag, shove the diary and writing tools inside, pull on a pea coat, and step outside, bending against the chilled forces of wind and rain.

Not anticipating the events to follow, I hailed a hack for transport to the half-lighted wharf where the SSHM Adaire lazed about, waiting to begin our windblown adventure, sails furled.

Chapter 2

Soon, the rain lifted and the clouds broke apart allowing glimpses of scurveyed sky.

Leaning against the railing, listening to the laments of the schooner, HMSS Adaire, I began hearing the crackle of drying sails in the breeze. Soaring blackbacked gulls meeued as the gulls darted after food. I licked the coating of sea salt from my lips.

Minutes later, the ship was pulled from the wharf by a harbor tow. A dozen black backs leaned against the oars, shiny with sweat. Loosed finally, the Adaire groaned away from Baltimore — newly-set sails flapping, snapping — and pointed her head toward Europe.

The entire route proved to be one of smooth sailing. Daylight hours, I wrote, seated upon a coil of rope with a lap secretary, a bottle of ink, and a handful of quills. A small bucket served for body wastes. Nights, I tried to master the foibles of a hammock slung in the stuffiness below deck.

When we reached England and laid up for reprovisioning, I stepped onto the Queen’s soil nearly a full day before it had been called for by our schedule. But no we would not get under way early. Passengers held tickets earmarked for certain dates. We would not leave without them. So, I went ashore, took quarters in a modest hostelry and, after a restless nap, purchased transport for Colechester, a quaint village with braggartly claims to being the most ancient settlement in Great Britain.

It was my intention to visit my long-time acquaintance and quasi-supporter, Lord Hans Frederick Joseph. Bowered by an over-hang of flowers, I rapped upon Joseph’s door and dropped off my calling card with a proposed time (0100) and date (the next day) scrawled across the back.

Chapter 3

His Lordship and I met at precisely the prescribed hour the following afternoon, enjoying a congenial sip of cognac in Joseph’s parlor before strolling lackadaisically toward the town’s center. Chatting, we passed rotisseries, bakeries, hardware’s, potters, armorials, wardrobes. Flower boxes rioted with color. Water troughs waited for animal customers to quench their thirsts.

Lord Joseph had failed to age well. He required a cane to move his opulently attired poundage from one place to another. His breathing reverberated from below his powdered wig with the rasping of a musical saw. About an hour into our stroll, after taking in the Balkern Gate and walking around Colechester Castle, we rang the bell at the front entrance of the Augustinian priory of Saint Botolph, which doubled as a victualler. We sought a bite of dinner.

A brown-robed monastic responded.

We followed the religious inside where he showed us to a table and served us an appetizer consisting of a jug of warmed wine alongside biscuits, jam, and vinegary slices of truffles — all in silence — before bowing and leaving us.

Outside, the air — perfumed with the earthy smell of horse droppings — was still muggy from recent rains. The afternoon streamed with murk.

Inside, it was cooler, though still dank. His Lordship drank thirstily and poured himself another flute of wine, offering me the same. I affirmed with a nod.

Joseph poured and cleared his throat.

Well, Editor (like most folks, Lord Joseph persisted in calling me Editor). Let’s get down to cases. How do you propose to deal with slavery in your New France?

His Lordship glared at me as he got right down to business, curling his lip as though he had bitten into a green persimmon.

"New France will become the name of your Independent Territory of Arizona … I presume."

I felt myself forced into a funk. A positive response might cause his Lordship — very Anglophile — to withdraw already feeble support. New Britain or even New Colechester would be a name sure to appeal more to his Lordship, but my Confederate allies would be disappointed. Indeed, I had invested hours aboard the Adaire trying out different names, speaking monikers into the wind, finding none that I was keen on.

Still — I had been told — Emperor Napoleon the Third stood out as my strongest supporter. That single verity offered me strong fillip for a French-flavored name and, thus far, served as my only motivator. It was interesting how the question of appellation could become more important than the question of slavery to some of these dunderhead benefactors.

I slathered jam onto a biscuit while deciding to step around the dilemma of the name.

"Sir, let me put it this way. Speaking for myself, slavery serves as my bête noir, my eternal leak in the bucket. I loath the institution. It sickens me."

I took a nibble of truffle before continuing.

For many other people, however, slavery appears to be virtually a necessity. Cotton growers, for instance, are wed to the practice of slavery.

Joseph grunted.

So what do you propose doing, Editor?

Attrition, your Lordship. Those folks relocating into the new nation will be allowed to keep all slaves currently owned, but add not one additional slave. Those who own no slaves will remain slaveless. Within a short while, slavery will die off and cease to exist.

My gaze lifted to his Lordship’s porcine face, so very pallid and plump behind his colorless eyes. I was trying to discern the true nature and depth of his feelings, but could see no motion.

Do you not believe that to be a workable plan, your Lordship?

Joseph loosed a humongous belch. He blotted his mustache with a napkin, then said, most affably as I recall. Perhaps. Perhaps not.

He rang our table bell, before continuing.

The one thing I know for certain is that Napoleon the Third pipe dreams a buffer between Mexico and the United States … for whatever reason.

Then came the sudden change of subject, brought about by crooking a finger to signal the brown-robed monastic

Editor, we should tend to supping. Time strikes the scale as precious stones. Urgent affairs elsewhere await.

Will I see you at King Leopold’s costume ball, your Lordship?

I was really inquiring about his Lordship’s vote. How would it be cast at the confab scheduled to follow the fest? But the response afforded me no clue.

"But of course, my fine friend. I plan to go as Boudicca. Boudicca was a remarkable woman. I pray that I might be as remarkable, even though, as you can see, I am merely a man

I nodded. I knew the history left behind by Queen Boudicca. She had led a modest army of ragtags² in a sneak attack against the Roman legion then occupying Camuloudun, later renamed Colechester. Thousands of Romans lay dead or dying after the tiff. Queen Boudicca’s ignoble force celebrated for a good long while. After all, the ragtags had overcome the Roman’s 9th Legion and sent it into disconcerting defeat.

Boudicca had lived a fabulous life … at least until her fortunes downturned and she elected to do herself in by taking poison.

Would my fate be the same? I chewed a grape, thinking.

Would my destiny be the same as Boudicca’s?

§

The Adaire got underway, day after next, dropped anchor at the mouth of the Rive Droite, and waited while I was rowed ashore.

By way of special favors arranged for me by Lord Joseph, I stood on the broad deck of the river barge Hugh Capet as the craft was rowed upstream where we pulled dockside and made fast near Paris in France. While boatmen struggled to off-load the products stacked about the river barge, I scanned a shoreline swarming with vagrants, workers, and passersby. Joseph had promised that I would be met.

I had at last despaired and was about to step ashore to summon a cabby, when I spotted my transports arrival.

Napoleon Third’s lovely wife, Eugénia de Montijo herself, strove to catch my attention by extending a jeweled arm and waving a hankie from the side-window of an approaching brougham.³ I could see her mouth moving, but scarcely made out the voice, as swept away as were her words by the brisk breeze.

Yoo hoo, Editor! Over here!

The empress’s conveyance, all crimson paint and gold leaf, was pulled by two elegant horses. Both the horses and the coach had been polished into autumn apples. Uniformed guards, members of the défenseur, the French special service, trotted alongside. A pooper scooper, costumed as might be a mime, followed behind. The scoop spotted a horse relieving itself and skipped over for duty, pan and brush extended. The scooper began clean-up work.

I was surprised at being met by the empress, but there was no possible reason for mistaking the conveyance’s occupancy. The sporty, hard-roofed coach bore the logo of the House of Bonaparte, which was a golden eagle, wings spread, depicted upon a blue shield. The logo had been embossed above a few words in French — Haus du Napoléon III — set upon the carriage’s front glass.

Her majesty, Empress Eugénia, continued waving.

Who was I to question the empress’ intention? Whatever those intentions might be. I waved back, grabbed my valise, hustled down the gangwalk to the coach, and bowed deeply.

Your highness!

Editor!

Eugénia extended a gloved hand, smelling faintly of lilac, to be kissed.

Do step inside and make yourself comfortable, Editor. These seat cushions are a bit stiff, but they’ll do.

An elderly footman, evidently a participant in Eugénia’s Work for the Aging project, slithered up beside me — all smiles, ruffles, and doffed hat — to take my valise and toss it on the roof. I climbed aboard, happy to be free of the encumbering bag, happy to be inside out of the foul weather. The wind was picking up. Spittles of rain and castaway debris swirled about.

"Editor, Emperor Louis begs your forgiveness. He is stricken with re-occurring stones of the bladder⁴ and is under the doctor at the Hópital Les Invalides5 at this moment."

Forgiveness came easily. I knew of Napoleon Third’s on-going health problems and knew that Eugénia served her husband stolidly, becoming his envoi and regent when matters of significance arose. My problem came with the difficulty in considering myself to be significant.

Eugénia smirked at me naughtily.

This is fast turning into a nasty day, Editor, but bearable. Would you care to travel to Bonbon Vicenne for tea and a bite to eat?

I rubbed my stomach, and said in Italian.

"Buon giono."

Eugénia spoke to the driver through the voice tube.

"Bonbon Vicenne, s’il vous plait."

"Oie, Highness," the driver said back. His baritone was thin and shrill, re-made into the sound of a violin string by the voice tube.

I heard the pop of a whip, but only a faint pop. Eugénia was a tigress supporting advocacies for animals. A little later, we rounded a curve and I saw the Château de Vincennes, a fortress-residence that was home to occupants famed for wine making. The donjon⁶ thrust toward a clouded sky. We stopped at a low building nearby, constructed of mossy river stone. After being helped to alight, we took seats at an outdoor table that was sheltered by a ramada and warmed by coals in a floor brazier. Eugénia lowered her head demurely and rummaged through a handbag. She brought out a silver case, snapped the case open, and produced tobacco to spool in brown paper, thus making a rollup. The Empress leaned forward so that one of the défenseur could give her a light.

She exhaled daintily and turned to me.

Would you care for one, Editor?

No thank you, Madam, I said without hesitation. Then I offered a disclaimer. I favor a good cigar.

I pulled a smoke from my cigar case as evidence and, although I preferred my indulgence after a meal, I leaned forward to light up in the brazier. After all, an empress is an empress. Smoking now or smoking later seemed totally unimportant.

Oblivious to my thoughts, the empress said, speaking through a cloud of smoke: In addition to being ill, my husband has involved himself with his préfet, Baron Haussmann, and his chief engineer, Jean-Charles Alphand, in taking on more expansion.

I was taken aback.

Expansion?

"I dare say that it is so, Editor. You know Louis. He is a man eager to conquer the world. He demands that every dress and cockade⁷ speak only French. But, what with the emperor’s medical condition and his attention to military matters, time has been short changed."

The empress inhaled an abundance of smoke, exhaled.

That is why I desired a few very private words with you, Editor.

I nodded wisely although I felt I was playing the role of a dupe. Was it possible that Napoléon would lighten his work load by designating his wife to become aide in charge of North American affairs? If so, would Eugénia speak freely of such matters?

It was certainly possible.

This would give her the oversight of Mexico and place her in charge of creating a buffer zone between the United States and Mexico. It also gave the lady motive for playing hack to me, a simple newspaper editor from the Confederate Territory of Arizona. I leaned forward, eager to know.

Yes. You were saying? Please … continue your thought, Empress.

Eugénia tossed the remains of her rollup into the brazier, shot me a sharp look.

"I trust that you sense that his majesty favors some sort of military exploit in Mexico. He thinks that it would be sweet cream in his churn, having you and your territory guarding Mexico’s north side, hang the cost. I fear that Louis is a great proponent of deficit spending. My husband has already installed public parks, boulevards as wide as parade grounds, cast-iron bridges, viaducts to bring water to Paris,⁸ the Quai des Orfevres, which is a marketplace lined with craft shops. My husband and his chief engineer, Jean-Charles Alphand, keep a coup d’oeil, a sharp eye out, looking for things to build. Louis has convinced himself that tomorrow’s increased taxes, resulting from these investments, will pay today’s indebtedness. I pray that my husband is correct."

So do I, Excellency.

I wondered how many Napoleon-like changes I would be able to incorporate into Shoshone Flats. The first conversion would be to alter its name to Cíbola, like the City of Gold, which Shoshone Flat truly now was not. Its dirt streets ran amok with ruffians. The town bragged of more taverns-in-a-tent than churches. Of course, money would be one impressive difficulty confronting Cíbola’s grand expansion. Compared to France, Shoshone Flat wore rags and tatters.

Her majesty frowned, choosing to ignore my concerns.

Lord Hans Frederick Joseph of Colechester and I have reached an accord, Editor. We have decided that this is a complicated matter that seems really quite simple.

Oh?

We intend to join forces to attempt shunting aside the emperor’s international plans.

I stared, my cigar drooping. Lord Joseph had said nothing about such a scheme.

"But, highness, the Confederate Committee of Fifteen⁹ has secretly approved the accord, and my becoming préfet … a very short while ago."

"Be serious, Editor. What the committee approved was selling us more goods, especially Georgia cotton and Virginia tobacco … but both crops are cultivated and harvested by people held as slaves. It is difficult to alter such foibles with pen and ink, even if one is an editor."

The word editor was spoken as though laced with poison."

I studied an omnibus¹⁰ passing by that was so crowded with passengers many stood and clung to leather straps. I knew — at least had feared — her majesty’s stand on involuntary and unpaid labor. What was I to do now? Whistle a merry tune? Dance a slaphappy jig? Try to remove my own foot from the trap?

Of course not.

I decided, however, that a subject change might be helpful.

Are you going to attend the masked ball? I asked, mostly to introduce a new topic.

Of course, Editor. But afterward, right after the ball, his lordship and I are going to conspire to somehow scuttle the confab or, at the very least, vote against you.

The vinegar in her voice softened into nectar.

"But be patient, mon cher. There is nothing personal about our decision. We must take every matter at its own speed and in its own space."

Her highness tried to stifle a yawn, and then said: We shall soon have supper brought before us and that gives the two of us more time for less hurtful chatter. But for right now, before dinner, I need to discern exactly what it is about you that makes you such a special friend. I would really hate losing you.

I leaned back against the carriage’s cushion.

Ah yes … but not nearly as much as I would hate that, your majesty. So I shall strive to see that you don’t.

What else could I say?

Chapter 4

As it happened, I was still occupying my quarters in the Hôtel de Ville the next morning when I heard a rapping upon my door.

I was wearing robe and slippers, sipping coffee, munching buns, and writing in my diary, but I set aside my pen, rose, crossed the room, slipped back the latch, and was greeted by a wizened, but uniformed courier who asked.

Monsieur the Meester Editor?

Yes?

I have for you the message.

The courier handed me an envelope, doffed his rounded trilobite, and departed. I tore open the sachet, after noticing that the wax stamp bore the impress of the House of Bonaparte. I read an imperious message:

Editor. Two p.m. Will pick you up in front of your hotel, s’il vous plait. Louis III."

§

Promptly at two, The Emperor and Empress arrived with all the haughtier of a coronation.

The royal coach, a hansom, rolled to the curb. The coach was a light two wheeler with the driver and coachman standing behind the box. Member of