The Bureau of Extraordinaires

Prologue

1864 – Somewhere in the

Confederate States of America

The unvarnished truth was that Camp Ford was an abysmal locality chockablock with poison ivy and the appalling aroma of latrines dug too close to the camp. There were mosquitos that would eat a man whole if he remained still for more than a few moments. Most of the structures were hewn from logs roughly shorn of bark, and comforts were limited or nonexistent. The enclosed four acres narrowly confined thousands of Union prisoners.

Silas Deveraux adjusted his tattered blue shirt and impatiently shifted in his meager spot of shade. Since the military stockade had been erected after the entrance of 800 prisoners all at once earlier in the year, the camp was lacking in places in which to shelter from a seemingly endless Texas sun. Still, more and more soldiers had been imprisoned there; tempers on both sides of the enclosure were frayed in the best of times.

Silas himself had been captured shortly after the Union ship he’d been traveling on had engaged in a fierce river battle. The sidewheel steamer, The Queen of the West, had been captured by Confederate soldiers after Fort DeRussy had pounded the ship for what had seemed like days. The ship’s captain, Colonel Charles Rivers Ellet, had ordered the ship abandoned, but the ship hadn’t been set alight because the colonel was wounded and incapacitated.

Singularly Silas had attempted to sink the steamer on fire but had been stopped by Ellet’s men because the colonel was still on board. Hours later during his own escape attempt, he had witnessed the Queen’s occupation by Confederate troops. He later heard that the ship caught fire while under a Confederate flag on the Atchafalaya River and sank thereafter.

Only hours after abandoning the steamer, Silas was cornered by Confederate troops and beaten into unconsciousness. He woke at a later time on the back of a wagon and found that many of Ellet’s men had also been nabbed. They were consequently ensconced in Camp Ford with Silas.

Prior to being captured, Silas’s status as an army lieutenant and theirs as naval men set them apart. He had merely been surveying the river for potential military targets with the U.S. Army’s new dirigible program and was treated as a guest. However, their newly minted status as prisoners of war brought them together.

As time passed, groups of men from Camp Ford were traded to the Union, but Silas had stayed behind because he knew the leadership in the camp was lacking. He’d organized more prisoner-built shebangs constructed from logs and whatever canvas or wool for which they could trade, cajole, or steal. He’d appealed to the local ministries for aid. That had worked until there had been a hue and cry of Yankee conspiracies leading to the execution of dozens of local free and enslaved blacks as well as some of the Union troops imprisoned in the camp.

Silas could still smell the rank odor of burnt flesh if he made himself think about it. It never seemed to go away even though it had been weeks since the sorry events had occurred around the camp in Tyler County. It was said over a hundred wretched souls had been burned, hanged, or put to death in despicable ways. Many of the executed had been blacks, but there had also been local merchants, poor white farmers, and in addition, a not insignificant number of imprisoned Union soldiers.

Once the peace within the county had been regained at great cost to those who couldn’t defend themselves, the undertaking of civil war had recommenced. The camp had peaked at about 5,000 prisoners with a trade in July, but it was a grim business. Food and clean water were scarce, and the Confederacy was starting to lag in the war. Silas didn’t need to hear the rumors or the news repeated from the few letters that were received. Periodic trades for soldiers had been made because desperation was beginning to set into the Confederacy. He could see it on the faces of their guards, and even worse, he could see it reflected in the eyes of the camp’s commandant.

Lieutenant Deveraux, a nearby voice called. Silas turned to see a Union sergeant by the name of Wilkes hurrying up. They’ve called for us to form up. There wasn’t any need to ask who they were because it was the Confederate guards.

Silas gave the sun a meaningful glance. It was just at the hottest part of the day, and the guards weren’t inclined to feed them until the sun had set and the heat dissipated. This was something else, and it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck in anticipation.

* * *

Stripped logs made up the perimeter, and the boundary was guarded by a dozen Confederate guards. Union prisoners meandered about the large open space that had been created to maintain the illusion of military deportment. Silas could see that some of the men were freshly captured, and their postures were erect, even arrogant. Many of the older prisoners were quickly traveling down a river of starvation and despondency, and the comparison between the old and the new was jarring. Even Silas was despairing that he would ever see his native Maryland again nor experience a time when he could take a bath or taste his mother’s biscuits.

Deveraux, a voice called, and he raised his head to see the self-important commandant of the camp beckoning him. Entering from the main gate, Colonel John Tarrington appeared every inch the old army man, from the cut of his military jacket to the shine on the tips of his leather boots. He had taken the South’s side at the first outbreak of hostilities and made his allegiances plain to all and sundry. The colonel was a Texas native who felt that all others were subservient to him, and worse, he had been a prominent and enthusiastic fixture at the bonfires that had taken the lives of helpless civilians and soldiers alike.

As Silas was the ranking soldier in the encampment, the pair had developed a strained relationship.

Silas took his time as he approached the colonel. He saluted the other man only as the basest recognition of his rank. He didn’t think much of him and suspected that the older man didn’t think much of him in return.

Silas didn’t pretend that the colonel would have good news. Tarrington wasn’t that type of soldier. Instead he stole from the few packets that Union soldiers received from their loved ones and wasn’t averse to bribery from the fewer Union soldiers who had specie to spare. When Tarrington entered the camp on rare occasions, he brought with him a cadre of troops with rifles loaded and ready to be fired at the first offending action. Silas had a running count of the men who’d lost their lives to the whim of the Confederate commander. There was an impromptu cemetery behind the camp with graves that would go unmarked into eternity, but Silas kept a list of names in his head. He wouldn’t forget even if others would.

The man standing at Tarrington’s right side was not one Silas had seen before. He was a tall man with bushy white sideburns on his face that belied his middle-age features. His attire included a black morning coat that was far too warm for the Texas summer heat. Under the coat Silas could see a short, buff-colored waistcoat. It was worn over a white shirt with a striped cravat. His pants were a similar pattern of stripes to the cravat, and his shoes were leather and shone like a freshly cleaned windowpane. Finally, a top hat made from beaver felt and a jaunty cane carved from a dark wood completed his ensemble. Whatever this man had spent on his habiliment was enough to purchase a meal for every prisoner in the camp and probably would leave change to spare.

This is Lieutenant Deveraux, U.S. Army, Tarrington said to the man, gesturing disdainfully in Silas’s direction. He’s the Yank in charge of the prisoners. He took the time to spit on the ground, an obvious gesture of his contempt.

A pleasure, the man said to Silas. There was a slight accent that Silas immediately attributed to being French.

Silas planted his legs shoulder width apart and waited.

The man finally smiled and said, "My name is Jean-Paul Morrow. Dr. Morrow."

Silas was less than impressed. Morrow’s accent placed him from somewhere above the Mediterranean Sea, and tourists weren’t above touring the United States even while a horrid war was being waged. Tarrington had introduced civilians to Deveraux before; in fact, Deveraux had dined with the commandant as a token of civility. Visitors were anxious to view the northern monsters who had been captured, and Silas was eager to gain concessions from a man who cared little for the men he’d been tasked to keep imprisoned. The ploy hadn’t worked well for either of them because Silas would never be a trained monkey.

He’s too old, I believe, Dr. Morrow said to Tarrington, never looking away from Silas. Perhaps all of twenty-six? Perhaps twenty-eight and looking a decade more. With a look in his eyes that says he’s seen the mother of anguish and experienced the skirmishes of hopelessness and doom. His brown eyes very nearly begged Silas to disagree with him.

What is it that you want, Doctor? Silas asked. The hairs on the back of his neck hadn’t subsided; in fact, they were telling him something was terribly wrong and that the situation was likely to get worse.

Young men, Dr. Morrow said. He pointed with his cane at a group of prisoners, none of which were above their second decade in years. Those who haven’t lost their will to live. They need to be strong. They will have much to endure, you see.

What treachery is this? Silas snarled at Tarrington. We’re not slave labor, Colonel. There are agreements in place for the treatment of prisoners of war.

Silence, Tarrington said to Silas. Then to Dr. Morrow he said, We must be careful. Some of these men have families who know of their presence in this camp.

The expression on the two men’s faces revealed much to Silas. He’d known it before, but the words had never formed on his lips. The Union prisoners were no longer human to their captors; they were a burden, at best a commodity that Tarrington was about to trade upon.

Pah, Dr. Morrow said. The Confederacy will endure. Soon this will be merely a footnote in the annals of history. Technology and science will persevere, and with all of the advances that are occurring even as we speak, no one will bother to ask how we came from this point to that. No one will know where poor soldiers went to and what became of them. Who would tell? Furthermore, who would believe some addled soldier who spent far too much time in a prisoner-of-war camp? He dismissed Silas with a dismissive slash of his hand.

Silas eyed the doctor with increasing anger. He looked him up and down trying to get a grip on his rage. A gold pin adorned one of the doctor’s lapels. Two snakes twirled about a staff, and Silas recognized it as a caduceus, a symbol that the medical field had taken up as its emblem. What would a medical doctor need of Union soldiers? he barked at the Confederate colonel.

Tarrington grinned knowingly. Don’t know. Don’t care. The doctor’s gold is as good as any man’s. It will be less fools to feed, that’s for certain. He called to several of his soldiers and gave instructions for the youngest and strongest prisoners to be assembled for the doctor’s inspection. Let’s make certain none of them are from fancy Northern families, too. Not that Kennedy boy nor the one who’s related to that Union general.

Silas turned back to see the doctor looking at him, judging him with those astute brown eyes. Clever that you’ve deduced my general specialty, Dr. Morrow said. You know the caduceus I gather. He briefly touched the pin in recognition. Perhaps the benefit of a classical education?

History at the College of William and Mary, Silas said reluctantly. Helplessness wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed, and it was becoming more commonplace in this vile place.

A pity, Dr. Morrow said. The finest education is to be found in Europe. It seems a waste to allow men such as yourself to be educated in this illiterate wilderness.

What will you do with these soldiers? Silas asked, trying to keep his voice level. The more information he received the better he could negotiate for whatever he needed to do to ensure the soldiers’ safety. He’d heard before of prisoners being used as labor as well as for cannon fodder, but a doctor looking for strong young men smacked of something more malignant. There had been other darker rumors to which Silas had not given credence until the present. The doctor had mentioned scientific advances, which beckoned at the knowledge that sometimes humans were used as test subjects like rats specifically bred for such purposes. The advent of aether-powered machinery had exploded like a bomb onto the world, and all were attempting to garner every use of the new technology. There were the aether engine-driven dirigibles he’d worked on and endeavored to utilize in new manners. There were also new weapons that would blow men to pieces and uses for them so shadowy that muttering about them sounded like the stuff of fireside stories intended on scaring those from trespassing into blackness. Silas didn’t want to think of the significances of those rumors being true.

Nothing of consequence to you, Lieutenant, Colonel Tarrington stated with a sneer. They’re merely privates, poor white trash who didn’t need to be tramping down south and stealing our land and our possessions.

Suddenly there was that stench in Silas’s nose again. If he had thought about it, he would have realized that the colonel didn’t wash his uniform, and it still smelled of the innocent men he had helped burn to death. That horrible odor burned into Silas’s soul and ripped at the last remnants of his humanity.

Silas’s chest hitched twice. He looked over his shoulder and saw Confederate troops rounding up the youngest and healthiest of the Union soldiers. One boy was named Cobb and was no more than fifteen years old. He’d been orphaned at the age of twelve, and the army had been a way for him to survive.

Cobb’s luminous blue eyes looked left and right, seeking help as he was shoved to the side, separating him from the older soldiers who would protect him. One corporal was slammed in the side of the head with a wooden bludgeon. There was a hue and cry of men as they reacted.

Silas heard Tarrington laugh, and the sound cut through his soul like a heated knife through a pat of chilled butter.

The corners of Silas’s eyes darkened with a colossal rush of rage that drenched his entire being. Everything blurred, and it was an eternity later that he realized that four Confederate soldiers pulled him away from Tarrington’s inert body. Silas also knew that his knuckles were shredded and bleeding. From what seemed miles away, Union soldiers were cheering him on.

Just after one giant Confederate private clocked him with the butt of his Springfield rifle from what seemed like a hundred miles away, Silas heard Dr. Morrow say, Oh my, that was remarkably deceptive. The lieutenant is much stronger than I would have estimated, and that sort of fortitude is a force with which to reckon. I shall take him, too.

1865 – Somewhere in the

Confederate States of America

Silas knew that he had languished under Dr. Morrow’s extreme tutelage for nigh on a year. He’d watched the seasons pass through the bars on a small window, and it was now summer again. Perhaps it wasn’t the hottest part, but it was summer all the same, and the heat was increasing. He knew that his mind couldn’t take much more of the torture, and it was likely he wouldn’t see another change of seasons. The doctor was a monster to be certain. He was not malformed nor did he sprout horrific incisors when the sun dipped below the horizon, but he was a fiend all the same.

There had been a dozen men to begin with, although in later days a greater number had passed through the facility in a lockstep that would make a general proud. There had been men who’d obviously not been from the military, and their cries were no less intent as they echoed down grim hallways. There had been injections into Silas’s flesh with chemicals that burned like the heat of a volcano from within. There had been the intense scrutiny of the doctor and his cohorts through the barred windows while Silas writhed on a hospital bed, chained in place. Then there had been blessed empty spots where nothing was to be known.

Silas had liked that until he’d realized that something else was happening whilst he was missing time. Often, he woke without clothing and blood caking his flesh. Even worse, it often wasn’t his own blood. Then there were the wretched nightmares that plagued him when he was able to sleep, which was a pleasure that was to be found few and far between.

The doctor used Silas as an example to visiting military types, and Silas recognized such languages as French and German from the ones who came to watch him through solidly embedded bars. An example of what, he did not know, only that the doctor considered him a success of his methods and employed him thusly as a case in point.

Silas had been allowed to associate with the other prisoners in the evenings, but that privilege vanished as the sound of cannons had drawn closer and closer to the facility. On a clear evening the clanking of men wearing enhanced armor could be heard. That had been a recent development of perhaps weeks. The war was coming to Silas and the place where he was being held, and he suspected that the doctor didn’t dare allow him to survive the experience.

The last day Silas remembered was that one where Dr. Jean-Paul Morrow peered through the bars and apologized in his spurious fashion, which wasn’t an apology at all.

I had hoped that this would end differently, Dr. Morrow said. Sadly, I was mistaken, and my benefactors have lost the war. There, this portion of my grand experiment ends.

The war is over, Silas repeated. A volley of cannon fire answered him. The walls shuddered in response.

Well, it is over, but there are those of your counterparts who refuse to give up the ghost. Through the bars the doctor shrugged.

You mean some Southerners haven’t agreed to surrender as of yet, Silas gritted. And as to your purpose here and now, I would suspect you’ve come to clean up your mess.

Dr. Morrow barked laughter. This is why I enjoy your company, Lieutenant. Your wit and intellect would be a redoubtable thing if allowed to burgeon.

What did you do to me, Doctor? Silas demanded, not for the first, tenth, or hundredth time.

Why, I made you better, Dr. Morrow answered with a mysterious smile. "I made you extraordinaire. It is, however, a sublime shame that I cannot allow you to leave this place on two legs."

Silas could see the doctor’s shoulders move and surmised that he was making a gesture to someone he couldn’t see. There was a series of shots and men began to scream.

It really is a shame, Dr. Morrow said regretfully, but needs must be met at great expense.

As Silas heard the cries of the men he knew were in other cells, he felt the rushing of anger through him. His skin prickled with energy, and a burning pain cascaded over him. It was as if the doctor had just injected him again with that mysterious substance he’d been using on his test subjects.

The doctor’s eyes went wide, and Silas could abruptly see the pores on the other man’s flesh. He could see the dilation of his pupils. He could smell the sourness of his sweat.

The formerly encompassing darkness did not immediately fall over Silas as he recognized that the familiar disability was overtaking him. Instead, it was as if his entire being swelled with power.

Dr. Morrow stepped back, and Silas said in a deep voice that he nearly didn’t recognize as his, "I don’t think the bars will aid you, Docteur." His hands came up, and he saw that claws had burst forth from the ends of his fingers. Dr. Morrow began to yell frantically, casting anxious glances to his sides, and backed away at that point. Silas could feel the muscles of his face form a sinister smile that allowed for the new set of fangs growing there.

A guard pointed a gun through the bars, but Silas simply grasped the end of the barrel and twisted it. The resulting sound of shrieking metal filled the cell.

Then a cannonball hit the side of the cell, crumbling the blocks into fist-sized bits of stone and mortar.

Silas didn’t hesitate in what he did next. He was, after all, extraordinaire and acceding to Dr. Morrow’s wishes, he did not leave that place on two legs. Instead, he departed on four.

Chapter 1

1871 – Somewhere in Illinois

For not the first time, Silas woke up to the sounds of frenzied shouts. It took him several minutes to realize the noises were all in his head. Further, he was standing beside his bed holding a double-barreled blunderbuss over his head like a club ready to smash in the heads of imagined perpetrators. He took a deep breath and lowered the weapon as he doubly ascertained the threat was purely illusory. A minute later, he attended to his morning ablution and went about his typical business as if he hadn’t awoken screaming. He didn’t bother with the single military uniform he owned, but with a rough woolen shirt and work pants paired with his worn work boots. He left the plain and tiny back room where he slept and entered the main hanger of the military facility. He promptly and eagerly lost himself in the workings of an aether-driven engine of a giant dirigible.

An hour after that, someone shoved a mug of coffee into his hand as he labored over the complicated series of devices that powered the engines of the great dirigible towering over them both.

Hot and black, the someone said.

Silas spared the man a glance, already aware of his identity. He was a man now, but years before he was a boy named Drew Cobb. He’d been taken to Morrow’s facilities along with Silas and many others, not just the twelve soldiers who’d been pared from Camp Ford. He’d thought only three of them had escaped that fateful night, but he’d later learned there were others. They had been held in rural Mississippi, but Silas didn’t know that until much later.

When he’d finally came to his senses, he and the others were somewhere in the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, a fact that was determined when they encountered a farmer plowing his acreage in the foothills of the same. The bewildered but helpful man had given them water, some food, and directions to the nearest town. He’d also attended to Cobb’s gunshot wounds which were halfway healed, digging out three lead balls while the boy bit down on a leather strap.

It was months before Silas was able to tell his story to his commanding officer in Fort Kearny in Washington, D.C. He was only mildly surprised to discover that there were many others who had been experimented upon. It wasn’t only by Dr. Morrow but also scientists on the Union side.

Cobb waited by Silas’s side as he drank the coffee. The boy-cum-man had been a true companion. Like Silas, Cobb hadn’t felt it was safe to return to his family in New York. Nor had the third man, Elijah Remington, and both assisted in the U.S. Army’s dirigible program, losing themselves in the service of their country. It was only days before the latest ship would be launched. It was the military’s largest and fleetest vessel and the one upon which Silas toiled.

I heard you this morning, Cobb said. You sounded like a soul stabbed you in the nethers.

Silas spared the young man another glance. He was only twenty and one years old, yet he appeared to be in his fourth decade. War had been hell to him, and that wasn’t the worst thing. You don’t look like a brick of solid gold, he said to Cobb.

All that ruckus might alert them to what we don’t want them to know about us. As it is, locals ain’t happy with us, Cobb went on. Rumors going round about these beasts that folks keep reporting. They call them mud monsters and say they steal babies from their cribs.

Silas snorted. Control had been hard pressed to obtain, but their select group had gained it, and the only thing they hunted during the midnight hour was deer or elk or the occasional rabbit.

The word is getting out, Cobb said. Even soldiers look at us funnily. A fella asked me yesterday did I have hair on my palms.

To hell with them, Silas growled. Let them go through what we endured, and see how their story changes.

That ain’t apt to happen, Cobb said. The doctor over to Murphysboro says he’s got a draught that will make you sleep all night without nary so much as a dream. Rem had a bad spell, but his seems to have passed.

Hints of monsters everywhere, Silas said bitterly and finished the coffee with three large gulps. He handed the mug back to Cobb and said, Pass me that aether meter. This mechanism isn’t ejecting the aether as it’s designed to do.

Cobb did so without putting the mug down. The papers back east are all atwitter on the subject. Can’t have a day pass without something about it. They say that the monsters are men who were tested upon in the war. They say they’re moving west en masse. They say that normal folks don’t want them in their towns. They’re looking for a place of their own.

Lord save us, Silas said. He looked at Cobb and sighed. The former boy and private didn’t look like a monster who stole babies from a crib. He had sprouted in the time immediately past their escape and then a little more in last few years likely because he got regular meals and sleep. His blonde hair was askew, and his blue eyes just as luminous as they had always been, although his face was lined with the stains of his young life. Despite that, the local town’s female population certainly thought him comely as he was often invited to homegrown functions where the girls fawned upon him. His Union jacket had also sprouted new stripes because Silas had successfully lobbied for the young man to be promoted to sergeant, just as Remington had been promoted to first sergeant.

Silas smiled ruefully. Cobb was a good man. He didn’t deserve what had happened to him. None of them had.

"Did you ever think of tracking that man down?" Cobb asked.

Silas didn’t need to ask whom Cobb referred to because he had thought of that very subject many times. The war department said he left the country. He could be anywhere. The French say he’s not in their country now, and I believe they don’t want him back even if he is a French citizen.

Didn’t answer my question.

Don’t need to.

Fine, old man, Cobb said laughingly. Those oak leaf pins look good on your uniform when you care to put it on.

Didn’t ask for a promotion.

They ain’t going to want you messing with the engines on account that you’re the battalion executive officer now, Cobb said.

Go away, Cobb, before I tear you a new hole.

Cobb laughed. There’s someone here to see you.

Silas sighed heavily. Why couldn’t you start with that?

How would that be any fun for me? Cobb asked. Looks like a fella from Washington, D.C., if you ask me.

Politician? A general? Silas asked. He adjusted the meter and then sighed again, turning it off. He handed it back to Cobb and muttered, Put that away.

Wearing a suit and a top hat, Cobb said as he complied. He’s got the smell of money on him. The head of his cane is gold. His watch is gold. Took a bath today, too. Ain’t smelt a fella who bathes with lavender oil afore.

Just those ladies in that place you like to go to on Friday nights, Silas said slyly. You’re not the only one with a new improved nose.

Wouldn’t hurt you to go there, neither, Cobb said with a sniff toward his underarm.

Off with you, Sergeant, Silas slung at him. I expect someone wants to take a gander at a freak to see what he can see.

The fella was looking at me oddly, to be certain, Cobb agreed as he walked away. You’ve grease on your cheek, old man.

Silas wiped the grime away with a rag before he suddenly chuckled.

* * *

The man was indeed a politician. Silas could smell the lavender first and then the ink he’d used recently, as well as the scent of a dozen people who’d touched him lately.

The realization was that many