The Halifax Connection Hardback - 2007

Excerpt

Prologue

Halifax, July 7, 1864



We shall do such deeds within the next three months
as shall make European civilization ­shudder.
–Unidentified Confederate agent,
quoted by John Cordner, Montreal, 1864


“Another toast, my friend,” the Carolinian suggested, pouring generously. His ­name–­or at least the name he chose to use ­here–­was Maury Janes. “To the Vessel of Retribution!”

Erryn Shaw smiled, clinked glass to glass, and drank. The vessel in question, the English Dover, was sitting down at Taylor’s Wharf at the moment, grubby and ­tired-­looking in the late evening sun. She was, as far as he could judge, the most ordinary ship imaginable, laden as usual with ordinary goods. All day she had rested at anchor, yielding up blankets and cast iron cookstoves and ­second-­rate rum, while ­blockade-­runners were slipping into Southern ports with desperately needed weapons and supplies, and Confederate commerce raiders prowled the seas, burning Yankee ships from New­­found­land to India. It was remarkable, to say the least, that anyone would call such a scruffy English freighter the Vessel of ­Retribution.

Erryn knew his companion was given to strong statements, even to exaggeration sometimes, but he had no reason to believe the man was mad. And Janes was happy tonight, triumphant, a fact all the more remarkable because he rarely showed feelings of any sort; indeed, there were times when Erryn wondered if he had any. Janes had never mentioned his age, but Erryn guessed him as close to forty, a man of average height and build, with indifferent features and straight, dull brown ­hair–­the sort of man who looked like everyone’s fourth cousin. The fine waistcoat and trousers he had bought for tonight’s celebration were appropriately expensive, but they did not give him any kind of style. They seemed, instead, an elaborate costume on an actor unsuited for his role. Janes was never going to be gentry, however hard he ­tried.

Erryn regarded him thoughtfully, remembering the first time they met, back in October, the first time Janes had spoken of his unlikely mission: If this comes off like it should, it’s going to end the war. At the time Erryn considered it a reckless promise, and nothing had passed since to make him change his mind. Even as they sat together, superbly wined and dined in the ­mahogany-­panelled confines of the Halifax Club, the war in the States went on relentlessly. The armies of Grant and Lee were dug in at Petersburg, in a brutal standoff that was likely to last for months. More Union and Confederate forces were going at it in the west. Abroad, the leaders of Europe watched and sniffed the wind, less willing than ever to intervene. Try as he might, Erryn could imagine nothing that would end the war any time soon, save a massive victory by one side or the other, or the defeat of Lincoln’s government in the fall elections. What could a nondescript North Carolina adventurer possibly ship in that might accomplish either of those ­things?

Unfortunately, it was not the sort of question one agent could ask another. Nor did it help that he disliked Maury Janes, and longed to dismiss him as a ­self-­important ass. Oh, certainly you’ll end the war, Mr. Janes . . . right around the time I turn into an orange ­salamander.

“Mr. Shaw!”

Erryn rose smoothly, smiling at the man who approached his table with two ­companions–­a mountain of a man, well over six feet, and ­red-­haired as a highland chieftain: James Dougal Orton, lawyer, businessman, philanthropist; and also, as it happened, one of the most eminent and respected Confederate supporters in ­Halifax.

“I have some guests who want to meet you, Shaw,” he said. “I mentioned you were here, and nothing would do but they must come over and shake your hand.”

There were introductions and greetings all round. One of Orton’s guests clasped Erryn’s hand warmly in both of his.

“Honoured, Mr. Shaw. I’ve been hearing so much about you.”

“I worry when people say that sort of thing,” Erryn replied, smiling. “I fear they may have heard the truth.”

“Oh, I expect it’s all true. For instance, I’ve heard you smuggled a certain countryman of mine to safety, with the whole Yankee nation howling for his head on a plate. They say the law was closing from three sides, and the man just up and disappeared.”

The law was closing from three sides? Bloody hell; it gets better every time I hear ­it.

Erryn gave a small, ­self-­dismissive shrug. “He must have found himself a conjuror. Do you know, I saw that sort of thing at a circus once, when I was a boy. A big skinny sod in a silk robe, lighting candles everywhere and chanting the most horrid pile of gibberish. And then, presto, he simply folded his hands and went up in ­smoke–­and came round from the other side of the tent after, asking for money.”

“God love you, Erryn Shaw,” Orton said, “but you do tell stories.”

“Will you join us for a drink or two?”

“Why, that’s good of you, lad, but no. We’re on our way out.”

Orton clapped his shoulder lightly and wished him luck, and the trio moved on its way. Janes settled back in his ­chair.

“Is it true what they’re saying?” he asked. “You were the one who got Captain Braine out?”

Erryn’s gaze drifted briefly over the dining room. It was bright with linen and candles, quietly ­a-­murmur with the talk and laughter of ­men–­lawyers, doctors, businessmen, members of the government, here and there a distinguished visitor from the West or from abroad. He turned his wineglass between his fingers, wondering if he was the only man present who thought a gentlemen’s club, by definition, was altogether too much of the same ­thing.

“Aiding and abetting a fugitive is against the law, Janes,” he murmured. “You wouldn’t suggest that there were felons in a place like this, would you?”

Janes stared at him a moment, and then he laughed. “No, I suppose not. The captain found himself a . . . what the devil did you call it?”

“Conjuror. You know, a magician. Abracadabra and all that.” Erryn reached for the wine bottle and calmly changed the subject. “So. You’re sure there isn’t something I can do for you, now that your shipment is here? I’d be happy to help if I can.

Media reviews

"What a delight it is to read a new and magnificent book by a consummate writer. Marie Jakober took me into a period of Canadian/American history that I had never explored or thought much about, then kept me awake for hours, night after night, enthralled by a tale of adventure and international intrigue to rival anything ever imagined by Ian Fleming, save that it unfolds mainly in Halifax, Nova Scotia, in the era of Sir John A. MacDonald, Lord Palmerston, Abraham Lincoln, Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee. High adventure with high stakes and a wonderful love story. This is great stuff!"
–Jack Whyte, author of the bestselling Dream of Eagles series and the Knights Templar Trilogy

“The spy vs. spy intrigues in Canada during the War between the States was a subject crying out for a novel, and The Halifax Connection does it ample justice. Author Marie Jakober makes a drawing-room battle of wits no less suspenseful than a vicious knife fight or a chase at sea. At the same time as she brings the past to life, Jakober thoughtfully raises the still-current question: Can or should Canada stay out of American wars? The third strand to Jakober’s remarkable achievement is a love story involving secret agent Erryn Shaw and chamber maid Sylvie Bowen–one of the most vivid, plucky and articulate heroines I’ve met.”
–Mel Bradshaw, author of Death in the Age of Steam