The Continental: Castile’s Gamble

“Drury Lane, which way is that?” I asked without turning around.

“At the end of this barrel if you don’t come easy,” the voice said from behind me. It was a vaguely familiar Spainiard accent and I was trying to place where its owner belonged in my life ledger.

“You’re the one with the wheel lock- I’ll come however you please.” I answered in a tone as close to submission as I could manage. I was sure by this time that the speaker belonged into the ‘wronged’ column of my ledger.

“Who is asking for The Muffin Man?” The voice asked, the speaker was closer to my back.

“Name’s Castile.” I answered, bracing myself for violence.

“¡Las tonterías! You’re Grant!” I felt the barrel of the Colt press into my back, directly on my spine between my kidneys. “You’ve got some huevos coming here.” He jabbed the end of the barrel in deeper, the muzzle was still warm from some recent use.

“Haven’t I?” I said boastfully. The man didn’t need to know I was here against my will. As far as he knew, this was all a clever plan on my part and not at all jack-assed as I went.

“I couldn’t believe my luck when I seen you and the stranger riding down from the ridge this afternoon. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you and leave you here for the dogs to fight over.”

“The man I’m traveling with a cousin of The Hanoverian King.”

The Continental: On The Trail, part II

The steam powered pipe organ started in on camp town races for at least the dozenth time since I had taken a seat and ordered a bottle of mezcal. It was the only song the machine seemed to know. The organ’s attendant was a young man. Probably white from the way he spoke, but it was hard to say with all the coal dust on his face and hands. As he stoked the fires of the mechanical musician he insisted to all who would listen that the Maestro was a genius.

FitzClarence, alias Hobbes, was not supposed to leave me alone. But after I had led him here to the seedier side of town and introduced him at a ballroom court where New World courtesans sought his favour… well, let’s just say he was distracted.

I had spent the past few weeks measuring the mans character and stamina. So when he escorted two young ladies, one brown and the other black, upstairs I knew that I had less than an hour to make contact.

I drained the last bit of mezcal from my glass. Then I excused myself from the small group of young men and women who were vying for my favour; leaving what was left of the bottle for them to share or argue over. I made my way to the rear of the establishment where the stables were. Not because I needed my horse, but because stable hands were known to take coins and answer questions.

Living in the shadows and the alleys, but serving the gentry gave stablehands a foot in two worlds. More often than not, they were a first point of contact or a go-between for those two worlds. A young man, large and fit enough to dissuade a thief, met me in the stable yard- barring my way to the doors.

“¿Bueños tardes, que necesitas?” I pretended not to understand him. It was clear from his dialect and usage that Spanish wasn’t his native tongue anyway.

“Inglés.” I said with a smile as I held up a quarter of a silver round.

The young man smiled without thought of hiding his greed. “Yesir, I’se know English,” he said reaching for the silver. It wasn’t the vernacular of a schooled gentlemen, but it would suffice.

I pulled the silver away, “I’m looking for a man.”

“I’se don’t do that to men, plenty of them type inside.” He said, clearly offended and clearly missing the point. “Not that I blame you, who’d wanna’ little sissy boy when they could’ve a strong man. But I ain’ts no sodomite. Not even for coin.” He seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as he was me. But likely this was his con. People don’t survive out here without a side hustle.

“I’m not looking for a man for that.” I stopped, letting the words settle between us. “The silver is for information.”

“Im’ma listenin’.”

“Do you know the muffin man?” I asked.

“Is that a joke?”

“Knock knock.”

“Look, ya fuckin’ nutter- I ain’t got time to play games. Go back inside if you wanna play games.” He said turning away from me and went back into the stables.

Well, that was a bust– I thought as I looked around me. In front of me was a locked stable with an unamused attendant. To my left, a dark alley no doubt full of cut throats. To my right, a place where a man could find cunny and chlamydia sold together- the establishment made no pretense at being a clean, reputable business. And behind me was the ballroom where FitzClarence could just as easily be, or not be, finished with his rogering and looking for me. With a sigh, I turned to return to the ballroom.

Behind me I heard the distinct click of Augustus Colt’s patent being prepared for use.

“He lives on Drury Lane.”

The Continental: On The Trail

Grant scritched his nose. “We’ll start down there.” He made a vague gesture with his head and the brim of his hat to the town of Barranca Grande in the valley below them. The reigns hung slack in his hand after weeks on horseback and the promise the town offered of a bed, bath and brothel made Grant a happy man. The sun was setting over the next ridge and the town, an overgrown mining camp that had sprouted out of the ground, already laid in a dusky twilight.

“Is that the last place you saw it?” His companion asked.

“That the last place ya seen it,” Grant corrected. “Words matter here, what you say, how you say it can be the difference of life and death, Hobbes.”

His companion looked at him with a dangerous glare. He hated the name Hobbes.

“See, that look.” Grants dialect and cadence of speaking shifted dramatically. “That’s what Im’ma tryin’ to tell ya. Ya can’ look at people like that on the frontier an’ not get your head turned to a canoe.”

“You should be worried about your head, Grant.”

“For the love of God! Call me Castille. Ulysses Grant is not a person you want to be associated with out here, Hobbes.”

With that Grant nudged the flanks of his horse with his spurless heels. He did not wait to see if his companion did the same. He was indifferent to whether the man would choose follow him into the valley.

Despite himself, Grant smiled when he heard Hobbes click his tongue at the roan gelding he rode followed by the rhythm of hooves. Grant realized then that he wasn’t indifferent after all and that fate would soon deliver them to one end or another. He knew that like as not, they would both be dead by sunrise.

The Continental

“Would you begrudge a crippled man his cane?” The man, who in fact was not crippled, wore a blue Continental officers jacket. The jacket was complete with the silver epaulets, piping and buttons- and far too little wear to be a relic from that failed rebellion. No- this man, this punk, who stood before me had commissioned the jacket to be made as a political statement. The statement was made more evident with the kilt in Stewart tartan and the silver Fleur-de-lis buckle that festooned his belt. This man hated The Hanover Empire and wanted everyone who looked upon him to know his sentiments.

His sentiments were already known by me. One of the sheaves on my desk between us contained his record and would tell my superiors in London the same thing. The man was a traitor and would be hung. If that was the path he chose.

“Leave him the cane, sergeant,” I said to the grizzled man-at-arms who was waiting for my command to knock the dissident to the ground and wrestle the cane from him. The guard gave me a questioning glance. No, not me, he was looking beside me. Insolent prick.

“Sir,” it was the voice of the man the sergeant had looked at, a dramatic whisper near my ear but audible to all in the railcar, “we believe the cane is a sword.”

“I know the cane is a sword, colonel!” I said in an agitated voice, stinging my subordinate with his rank. “This…” here I waived a hand as if grasping for the right word. I continued with a sarcastic emphasis, “this gentleman has surrendered a rapier, two stilettos, a hunting knife, I am pointing the man’s own revolver at him. The Lord Above only knows what other weapons he has secreted about his person. There is little harm in letting him keep the damnable cane. Let the gentleman keep some pride.”

Colonel FitzClarence bowed his head and stepped back and away from my ear and desk. I care little that the man is the grandson of a king. He is, after all, a bastard grandson of a dead king. Speaking directly to the Continental ruffian before me, “I suppose you are wondering why I have caused you to be brought before me. Mr. Grant.”

“I assume you are going to clap me in irons and shove me onto a steamer so that your superiors back in Britain can order my execution.” The man said with indifference.

“If that is the path you choose,” I replied trying to sound equally indifferent.

“Your father would have ordered my death on his own authority,” Grant said with an acid tone. It was meant as an insult, and I am quite certain FitzClarence had to suppress a smile.

Grant wore a wide brimmed hat of black felt. The crown was pinched and slouched in the front, as was popular in the northwest. The left side of his brim was pinned up by a pewter brooch in shape of a lion, though whether it was Scottish or Hapsburg was hard to say. Not that such a distinction would be much of a distinction at all. “Your hat is in style of The Spanish Frontier. Have you spent time there?” I asked Grant though I already knew the answer.

“My dealings with or against the Hapsburgs are of no concern to Hanoverians.” Grant answered.

The stiff-necked fool! “Damn it, man!” I said reaching the end of my patience. “I have two stacks of papers here, one will be sent to London and the other I will personally pitch into the furnace of the locomotive at the head of this train.” I paused awaiting a reaction from Grant, receiving none I continued. Tapping the stack on the right, “This one details your actions against The Empire over the past decade, charges you with treason and recommends that you swing for it. If I send it to London you will arrive with it and I expect you will not survive a week.”

Still no reaction. “But fortunately for you, you are a man in possession of a certain knowledge and skill set. This stack of papers,” I said tapping the one on the left, “names you as an asset of The Empire who is familiar with the rebels and The Spanish Frontiers.”

The man before me still did not stir. “Which shall I send to London?”

“I will not betray my beliefs,” Grant said finally.

“Damn it, Ulysses! You are smarter than this! Do you think you will get this offer a second time?”