Nashville

The Clockwork Pimpernel - Chapter 1

A lone wagon, a hunched driver and an empty stretch of dirt road. Early morning light pulls long shadows into the cattails along the Cumberland River. The clip-clop of the four horse team, the smell of peat and slow moving water. A painting of mundane innocence. It is a lie, in the service of a noble effort.

Percy physically chafes under the layers of his disguise. Spiritually, he writhes in impatience, longing to cast off all deception and ride out of town, cavalry sword pointed at the horizon.

“I can’t let pride drown out reality. I draw attention, someone could die. Someone not me, obviously. I’m invincible.”

“Percy! Focus!” A timid whisper from under the stacked tobacco leaves in the cart behind him manages to sound annoyed, concerned, and proud at the same time. “You’re not nearly as invincible as you think, mon cher.”

“I told you not to stay home and keep up appearances, love,” he whispers back, around the corncob pipe stuck at an angle between his lips. “How’s our cargo holding up?”

A rustle and an -oof- later, a second muffled voice filters out, “I hate tobacco! It reeks of oppression.”

Percy, clucks at the lead horse and twitches the reins. “Hie, Sultan! Steady on. Don’t rush the others.” A worried glance at the road ahead quiets his reply to their reluctant guest. The thick trunk of a fallen oak lies across the dirt track. “Quiet! Both of you. We may have trouble.”

Six mounted men prod their horses out of the trees and trot over to intercept the fully loaded wagon. Percy adjusts his overcoat and assumes the chosen role for this mission.

“Laddies, if scowling were poetry, each and every one of you would be Homer!”

“Shut up, old man!” The leader guides his horse past him to flank the stacked bundles. “Some of President Jackson's property tried to walk away this morning. This ‘baccy marked from Blakeney plantation. Ain't you going the wrong direction?”

He half-heartedly pokes the load with his well-oiled rifle.

“Sir Percy gave ole Elijah direct orders. Elijah goes to the market, any less than three dollars a pound and Elijah turns around and brings it back. All of it.” Percy fakes a cough to press the iron-gray horse hair bristles tighter to his upper lip. He winks slyly. “I'm sure he'd never miss a leaf or two if you and your friends had a hankerin’”

Shiny Rifle spits into the ditch, “Never touch the stuff. Get it out of here!” He waves and a pair of his lackeys pull the tree out of the road.

Percy clicks his tongue again and snaps the reins. A secret smile starts to bloom in his chest. It almost… almost… makes it to his face when Mr. Norbert Rillieux, chemical engineer and stowaway… sneezes.

“Bloody hell, Norbert!” Percy doesn't even look to see Shiny Rifle’s reaction. “HAH! Go Sultan! Get these nags moving.”

Both reins jump to his left hand. A Colt revolver that has been digging into his butt since leaving Nashville finds his right. He snaps off two shots over his shoulder. Two more staccato cracks sound behind him. A hurried glance back freezes his heart. Marguerite’s raven locks, freed to the wind, stream like a silken banner announcing, SHOOT HERE!

“Ayeee! I think I winged one, cher”

“Love… I need you to stay down!” The cart hits a gnarled maple branch, fallen across the road, and bounces with bone rattling force. Percy’s pistol, jarred from his grip, drops to the ground. “Damn the luck! Love? Forget what I said. Keep shooting! But for God’s sake, don’t kill anyone.”

Pistol shots punctuate groans and curses from the wagon’s other passenger. The older man has the sense to stay hidden though. Wheels rattle, leaf springs squeal, wood protests as the horses drag the vehicle over stone, rut and dirt. More than one tightly bundled bale of tobacco bounces off to become a leafy obstacle to pursuit.

Ahead, another country road angles to meet theirs. A squad of Tennessee Militia cavalry wheels in formation and gallops to head off the fugitives. A dark headed lieutenant leads the charge, fearlessly grabs the traces guiding Percy’s favorite stallion and pulls the whole team to a stop. The other soldiers train their guns on the wagon. Percy drops the reins and raises his hands.

“Sorry to get you into this, love.” Percy wraps his wife into a protective embrace. Shiny Rifle hauls his mount to a stop, wincing in pain, bloody gash gaping on his shoulder.

“Lieutenant! These miscreants are ours. They absconded with some of our employer’s ‘property’” Wide, bloodshot eyes dart between the officer and the woman with weed-tangled hair. “Besides, this mulatta bitch owes me some… pain.”

“Chançeux couillon!” She spits back. “Fais pas l’gros avec ta bouche — ton boudin peut pas payer ça.”

Loosely means “You're a lucky idiot whose skill can’t backup his mouth.” She may or may not be doubting his manhood at the same time.

Percy locks down on his Elijah mask. Out of the corner of his eye, he senses the militia troops tense, knuckles whiten on triggers, barrels start to swivel toward the thug.

“Sir, mind yourself!” the young soldier pushes loose curls from his forehead, hand shaking perceptibly. His horse canters over next to the wheezing man. “Last I heard, we are known as the Volunteer State, not the vigilante state. We’ll take it from here. She will be dealt with, I assure you. Your esteemed employer can lodge a formal petition for recovery of any property and other restitution that we find in the official investigation.”

His formal tone, uniform, and posture slowly but surely erode Shiny Rifle’s bravado. His finger plays across the scene, pausing at each face it passes. “Mister Jackson will be dealing with all of y’all, mind you.”

Shiny Rifle yanks the horse's head around and gallops away, gang in tow. As soon as the retreating men are out of sight around the bend, Marguerite squeals and throws her arms around the cavalry officer. “Armand! Well done, Ti-frè!”

One by one the ‘militiamen’ lower their weapons and grin. They all fall in around the wagon which resumes its course down the highway at a click and a twitch of the reins from Percy.

“Indeed well done, brother! Your timing is impeccable as always.” He pats the seat next to him. “Jump on up here, love. Did you enjoy letting your Cajun swamp cat out for a bit of a romp?”

“Whyever would you assume that, my lord?” She arranges her skirts next to him, shoulders touching, proper Southern drawl in place. “Shall we retire to the manor with our new guest, posthaste?”

Beaming eyes lock for a beat.

“Indeed, milady, indeed.”