[Continuing chapter eleven]
"This is the sort of street I’d hoped to live on some day," Cleburne said. They stood on a sidewalk along a street of large, new houses. Some were brick, some were wood, and all were bigger than anything Stewart had seen, Arran aside.
"Which one's the U.S. legation?" Stewart wasn't in the mood for a lecture on architecture.
"Down at the end of the block," Cleburne said. "Right on the corner."
"I'm inclined to just walk in and demand to see Patton," Stewart said.
"Not a bad idea, if you're prepared to make a scene. Otherwise, you might ask to see Mr. Brown. Or Captain Brown. Do you think he's in the Federal Army, the way O'Driscoll said?"
"If he's a spy and he wants to avoid being hanged, he pretty much has to be a soldier," Stewart said. "I wouldn't guarantee that he's an officer, though. What he's been doing hardly qualifies as gentlemanly behavior."
"Only the Confederacy demands that an officer be a gentleman," Cleburne said with a narrow smile. "You and the British, that is. The United States are probably more interested in what a man can do than they are in how much money a man has or who his friends are."
Stewart chose to ignore the dig. "Let's go get him, then."
"You're not worried about just waltzing into the enemy's consulate and demanding to speak to one of their spies?"
Stewart thought about that for a moment. "All right," he said. "Here's what we'll do. First, take me back to the hotel."
* * * *
"I just want you to wait here, Thomas," Stewart said. "We think the men who took Captain Patton are working in that building. Mr. Cleburne and I are going in there to see if that’s true. If we haven't come out—" Stewart looked around. "If we aren't back here by the time the shadow from this tree reaches that wall, I want you to run downtown to the Cabildo and tell the soldiers on duty that something's wrong at the U.S. legation." He looked at Thomas's blank face, hoping he wasn't expecting too much from a slave. "Do you understand all that?"
"Yes, sir." Thomas's eyes flickered momentarily, and Stewart wondered whether the man was angry at Stewart for dragging him away from what had become a comfortable routine, or was offended at Stewart's assumption of his ineptitude.
It doesn't matter what he thinks, Stewart decided. "Good," he said. "Let's go, Cleburne, and have a chat with our Federal cousins."
* * * *
Sam Grant recognized trouble as soon as the servant escorted it into Colonel Van Doncken's office. One of the two men who stood in front of him was a complete stranger. The other he had last seen propped up against a tree near the Shenandoah River. From the confused expression that briefly touched Captain Stewart’s face, Grant guessed that the Confederate recognized him but didn’t know why.
"We'd like to speak to Brown," the stranger said. He had a broad Irish accent but a military bearing that suggested service in an army, undoubtedly the British.
"I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name," Grant said as pleasantly as he could muster. "My superior's name is Van Doncken. But the Colonel's out at the moment. Perhaps you could leave a card and some idea of what it was you wished to see him about."
"So your chief's a colonel, Captain? I'd guess that Brown's a major, then. Not a bad rank for a spy." Grant's eyebrows rose in spite of himself; he hadn’t expected Stewart to be so clever. At Harper’s Ferry, Grant had told himself that Stewart had just been blessed with luck as good as Grant’s had been bad. I thought then that he was just a boy. He doesn’t look or sound like a boy now, though. Stewart continued examining him, clearly trying to place him.
The fact that he was a mystery to Stewart was small consolation to Grant. Stewart had traced Brown's trail back to the legation. How he'd done it wasn't important; what mattered was that Grant’s fears were all coming true, one by one. I knew, Grant thought, that this was going to be bungled. Bungled, and worse: Last night’s expedition had proven to him that Brown and Connell hadn’t left the city after being ordered to; they’d just transferred Patton away from the legation.
Still, he had a duty to at least try to fend off this angry young man. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I don't know anything about any major named Brown. We have no majors on our staff at the moment." This should have been true, since by now Brown should have been long gone and with luck already half-way to Missouri province. Grant was sure that Stewart had seen through all of the lies, though. I never was much good at dissimulation. "I wish I could be of more help to you."
"You've already helped me more than you know, Captain." Stewart made a mocking half-bow. "Now you can do your superior a similar service. When I find Captain Patton—and believe me, Captain, I will find him—the Canadian and English authorities are going to be very interested in the role this office played in his abduction. If your colonel values his military reputation—assuming that he has one, which I'm inclined to doubt—he'll put himself on the first boat north, before he can be expelled from the country. Good day, sir."
"Your strange tale mystifies me, sir," Grant said. "But I'll be sure to pass on your message to Colonel Van Doncken." Grant stared at Stewart's back as the Confederate walked stiffly from the room. There was something about these aristocratic Southern officers that practically begged to have some of the pompous wind taken out of their sails. But Grant's heart wasn't in it today, even if by nature he'd been inclined to banter.
Instead, he waited until the rattle of the front door in its frame announced that Stewart and his companion had left the consulate. Then he went upstairs to Bancroft's office.
"It would seem we didn't get Major Brown and his prisoner out of here soon enough," he said from the doorway. Bancroft looked up, startled. He's probably more shocked at my effrontery in speaking first than he is by the news, Grant thought sourly. He closed the door behind him and walked right up to Bancroft's desk. "We've just been visited by a Confederate captain—interestingly enough, out of uniform."
"What do you mean by this, Captain Grant?" Bancroft sputtered. "I'm working—or can't you see that?"
"Colonel Van Doncken's out trying to curry favor with Lord Byron’s military advisor," Grant said. "Someone has to be told about this, and it seems to me important enough that you should know about it as soon as possible. Though I wonder if it isn’t already too late to do anything about it."
"Good God, man! Are you drunk?"
"No, sir. I am not." Grant eyed the decanters on the sideboard, and was surprised to realize that he hadn’t been drunk since this affair had begun. "I'm telling you, sir, that the Confederates know about Major Brown. The man I just spoke with warned me that his superiors are going to have the Canadians close the legation and have everyone in it expelled from the country. Doesn't that news bother you in the slightest?" It amuses the hell out of me, he told himself.
"Captain Grant, I find your behavior inexcusable. If you really do have news that is of a military nature, then your duty demands that you provide that information to your superior. I have no interest in hearing anything from you. Do I make myself clear?”
Absolutely, you jackass, Grant thought. Aloud he simply said, “Yes, sir.” Without any further word he left the office.
Let ‘em rot, then, he thought. He couldn’t maintain the indignation, though. He’d sworn an oath, and so long as he was capable he owed the United States his every effort, even if Bancroft was obviously desperate not to know what was going on.
He had one advantage over the Confederate officer: he knew the building Patton had been taken to. Perhaps the worst could be avoided if Patton were quietly returned to the Confederates’ hotel. And perhaps pigs will sprout wings.
Grant closed his tiny office and set out to find Tecumseh Sherman.
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