[continuing chapter twelve]
Stewart thought for a moment that the blow had killed the Federal captain, but Grant’s back rose and fell slightly as he lay in the dust and rubble on the crude wooden floor. That meant he was still breathing. For now, at least.
“Easy, there.” The man who’d spoken to Grant gestured, with Stewart’s Colt, toward Grant’s red-haired friend—he’d taken both pistols from the unconscious Federal captain. There was another revolver in the waist-band of the man’s trousers. “Don’t want to do anything rash now, do we?”
“Depends,” growled Grant’s friend. “Is tearing your head off rash?”
“Mr. Sherman, is it? You should take this as a lesson, you know. Stay out of politics. It’s not your game.”
“And this is not what I’d call politics,” Stewart said. “Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?”
“My name’s Macartey,” the man said. “I own this building. And I believe that what I’m doing is dealing with trespassers in the way my people have always dealt with them.”
“Thank God you showed up,” Brown said, walking briskly to where Macartey stood. “That lunatic was just going to let these men walk away, before I’d finished with my prisoner.”
“Well, I’d say their plans have changed,” Macartey said. “And they’re not the only ones. Boy?”
The man who’d struck Grant on the back of the head walked past Stewart, grinning insolently and swinging the big stick he’d used on Grant. With one hand he grabbed Patton by the collar and hauled him up until he was more or less standing.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Macartey said. “Isn’t this a wonderful thing, then?”
For a moment, Stewart could only stare. The man in the Confederate uniform wasn’t Patton after all.
He wasn’t even a Confederate.
“Menard?” Stewart asked. The Canadian captain gave him a sickly grin. “What in God’s name are you doing here? And why are you in that uniform?”
Menard mumbled something that sounded like “Sorry”.
“This is too rich,” Macartey said. “It’s maybe not what I wanted. But I’ll still be able to make use of our captain here, I think.”
“Are you mad?” Stewart said. “This man’s a soldier! The government is going to crash down on you and your organization like an avalanche!”
“The government? Sweet Jesus. Do you think for a single second that I care a tinker’s damn about what this government thinks or does?” Macartey turned to Menard. “Sorry I don’t have a priest here for you, son.”
Then he shot the captain in the stomach with Stewart’s revolver.
They were all shouting before the sound of the pistol-shot had stopped echoing around the room. He’s going to kill us all, Stewart realized as Macartey’s man dropped Menard to the floor and walked back to join his boss.
“What the hell have you done?” Brown was the first to make himself heard above the noise. “This isn’t part of the plan!”
“Not part of your plan, perhaps,” Macartey said, and suddenly everyone was quiet again. “You never thought to ask about my plans, I’m guessing.”
“You have to let these men go,” Brown said. “I can figure out a way to explain all of this. But you must walk away now.”
“Why?”
“For God’s sake, man! If the Canadians and British find out I was involved in this, it could mean war!”
“Well of course it could, you stupid ass. That’s what I’m counting on.”
“You’re what?” Brown was still staring open-mouthed at Macartey when the man he’d called “Boy” smashed his heavy stick into the base of Brown’s skull.
“Pompous, nigger-loving ass,” Macartey said, spitting on the unconscious Federal.
“Has anybody told you lately, Macartey, that you’re stark, raving mad?” Cleburne should have been quaking, but instead he stood, hands clasped behind him and feet slightly apart—exactly, Stewart realized, as though he were at parade rest.
“It may be I’m mad. But you’re about to be roasted.” Macartey laughed. “Who do you think the better-off, you British bum-boy?”
“You never called me that when you wanted my help,” Cleburne said softly. His eyes had a cold, narrow cast to them. I hope he’s never that angry at me, thought Stewart.
“Well, a man can stomach a lot when he needs something,” Macartey said. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered I could get along just fine without your kind. The sort of fight I’m planning, it turns out, doesn’t need any soldierly training.”
“You’re going to kill us,” Stewart said, “so the British will go to war with the United States. The Irish will rise while the British are distracted.” There was a perverse sense to that, he thought. From what Cleburne had told him about the Garda in New Orleans, though, liberating Ireland wasn’t exactly near the top of Macartey’s list of priorities. “But for you, a world war will just be a bigger warehouse fire,” he said. “Others will fight; you’ll steal from all of them.”
“You’ve got him figured exactly right,” Cleburne said. “Mr. Macartey wouldn’t recognize Ireland now if he were up to his neck in it.”
“And what if that’s true? Why shouldn’t a man get rich? Isn’t that what this new world is about? Why did you come here, Mr. high-and-mighty Cleburne? And what do I care about Ireland? Let the good Dr. Meighan and his friends worry about restoring Ireland to the Irish. I’ll help them, but only so long as it suits me.” Macartey picked up Stewart’s abandoned storm-lantern and began drizzling its oil supply onto the cotton-lint and other debris on the floor. “As you’ll see soon enough, I am prepared to make some sacrifices for the cause. This building, for example.”
“What makes you think burning this building will help you?” It was Grant’s friend—Sherman, Macartey had called him. “The watch knows about you, Macartey. They’re going to know that this fire wasn’t an accident.”
“Sweet Jesus but you’re all thick in the head,” Macartey said. He motioned to Boy, who took some cord from one of the pockets of his frock-coat and bound the unconscious Grant’s hands behind him. “It doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn if the watch think this fire was arson. What matters is that they won’t for a second think that I had anything to do with it. What’s the profit in me burning my own, uninsured, building?” When Sherman made as if to resist Boy’s approach with more cord, Macartey pointed the revolver at Sherman’s belly and cocked the hammer. “Belly wound’s a nasty way to die, son.” Sherman gave in. When Boy had finished binding Sherman’s wrists, he thumped Sherman between the shoulder blades with his cudgel, with enough force that Sherman was left on his knees, gasping for breath and hoarsely whispering curses. “You really don’t want to make him angry,” Macartey said with a satisfied smile. Like a father preening over a talented son, Stewart thought.
For a moment Stewart considered putting up enough of a fight that Boy would knock the sense out of him. The short-term pain might be worth it if it prevented him from feeling the heat of the fire Macartey planned to start. That was a coward’s way out, he decided. So instead he slowly walked over to Captain Menard, who lay on his side, curled up like a baby. Unlike Captain Connell, who continued to scream and curse with irritating frequency, the French-Canadian had been silent since Macartey had shot him.
“Stay with us, Captain,” Stewart said. “We’ll get help for you as soon as we can.” I’ve no idea how we’ll do that. But if I can do it, I will. If only to find out what happened here.
“Sorry,” Menard said. “Didn’t mean—this shouldn’t have happened.”
“How did it happen? Menard, how did you get Patton’s uniform?” Stewart felt a kick, and looked up. Boy, grinning like any school-yard bully, gestured rudely. Stewart put his hands behind him. When Boy had finished tying Stewart’s hands, he kicked Stewart’s feet from under him. Stewart grunted, surprised despite experience at the pain from his knee, as he hit the floor. He rolled onto his side so that he faced Menard. Boy tied Menard’s hands as well, though he at least had the decency to let Menard keep his hands clutched to his torn-open belly.
“You may as well know,” Menard whispered. Stewart was impressed at the self-control the man displayed. Save for the grimaces that twisted his face, he betrayed no sign of the pain he must be feeling. “You—aren’t the only Confederates we’ve been talking to.”
“I know about Barber,” Stewart said. “What I don’t understand is why he was sneaking around when we were here. And how do you know about Barber?”
“I was his contact.”
Stewart gaped. “His contact? In what way?”
“His contact with Lord Byron’s office.” Menard drew a long breath. “This treaty of yours is not popular, Stewart. The people don’t like slavery. The government might have fallen if it had agreed to an alliance with you.”
“We weren’t asking for an alliance.”
“That’s what it would have come down to. The United States will declare war if we recognize you.”
Stewart had to agree, if only because he’d heard this from Judah Benjamin the other day. “So who was Barber, and why were you talking with him?”
“He represented a party that was willing to”—Menard paused, grimaced, and clutched his hands a little tighter the wound. “—Willing to discuss an eventual end to slavery in the Confederacy. In return for an alliance.”
“That’s”—Stewart was about to shout “preposterous”, but with an effort changed it to a murmured, “not going to happen.”
“Not everyone in your country is prepared to die for slavery.” Menard looked up at him. “Some would sacrifice slavery for their own freedom.”
Stewart thought of his father’s friends, and tried to imagine them in a position where they could dictate an end to bondage. The picture would not form. “I cannot believe that our government would ever accept such a proposal,” he said quietly. “But how did your work with Barber lead to you this place, and in Patton’s uniform?”
“Not too sure of that myself,” Menard said. For a few minutes he said nothing more, and Stewart was afraid the Canadian was gone. He looked around, to see that Cleburne had also been bound. Macartey was at the far end of the room, and his Boy was nowhere to be seen.
“I’d been following Captain Patton.” Stewart looked down; Menard had apparently found some new reserve of strength. “The other night—someone—told me that Captain Patton was going out, to Mrs. Beacon’s brothel.”
“That’s where he was taken. Oh. Except that it was you that the Yankees took.”
“I had followed Patton to Ramparts Street. Had just turned downtown when somebody jumped me from behind. Don’t know where I was when I came to my senses, but remember asking a woman for help—a foul-smelling harlot. Funny—she seemed to be expecting me.” He grinned. “I don’t remember the rest too clearly. I was in a carriage, I think. I remember the smell of coal-dust, and cooking. When I woke again, I was here. You have to contact the Cabildo, Stewart. Let them know what happened to me.”
“I will if I can,” Stewart said. He had no idea whether he was going to get the chance, but Menard didn’t need to know that. “Do you have any idea who betrayed you? Was it the person who told you about Patton going out?”
“No.”
“Can you be sure?”
“Yes. It was my spy inside your commission. I had very good reasons for trusting him.”
“You had a spy inside our group?” Menard had told him he didn’t know anything about spying. I’ll never trust anybody again. “Who would betray us that way?” A coldness came over him. There was no question about where the spy had been placed. “It was one of the servants, wasn’t it?”
“Slaves, you mean. Yes. Thomas.”
“Thomas? My Thomas?”
“Sorry, Stewart. He’s been helping me. Telling me how your negotiators think, what they’re planning.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Oh, he’s long gone by now.”
“What? He was with me this afternoon!”
“Our agreement was that as soon as he felt it was no longer safe, he was to head north to St. Louis. I truly hope he’s gone. I was supposed to see him this morning.”
“He has a wife and child in Virginia. Surely he wouldn’t abandon them.”
“For a chance at freedom? Don’t be so sure.” Menard smiled. “But he won’t have to abandon them. A short time ago they were purchased by a man. Supposedly a planter from Alabama. Actually an agent of an anti-slavery group. They’re probably on their way to St. Louis now.”
“Oh, God.” Betrayed by just about everyone, it seemed. And he was still no closer to finding Patton.
Another thought occurred to him. “So when the Comet blew up, and Barber was trying to get the attention of the soldier on the levee, it was you he was asking for, not me.”
“Yes.” Menard coughed; blood spattered his lips and Stewart’s coat. “We thought you had blown her up.”
“I thought the Federals had done it.”
“We were watching them. Wasn’t them.”
“Macartey’s men?”
Menard shivered. “Maybe. Wants to start a war, doesn’t he? What better way?”
Macartey would have to have known about Barber. Stewart wasn’t too sure about that, since Barber seemed to have been able to avoid just about everyone in New Orleans save for Lord Byron and his staff.
“Looking forward to that fire,” Menard said. His grin was stretched tight. “Getting cold.”
“Don’t worry,” Stewart said. “We won’t be inside here for long once Macartey leaves.”
Which the lawyer seemed in the process of doing. “Boy!” he shouted down the stairs from the door at the far end of the room. Then he strode rapidly back to where Stewart, Menard, Cleburne, Grant, and Sherman were huddled together.
“Sorry, lads, but it’s time to go.” Macartey grinned idiotically. “Since I can’t really depend on the English to draw the correct conclusion from this little tableau, I’m going to have to take our friend Major Brown here.” He hefted the still-unconscious spy and passed him to Boy, who had arrived bearing a blazing bundle of sticks. Boy passed these to Macartey, then slung Brown easily over one shoulder. “The good major has an appointment with Lord Byron,” Macartey said with a chuckle. “The discovery of his body ought to make it clear even to the English what I want them to think.”
He tossed the burning sticks to the floor. As they scattered, they ignited oil-soaked cotton lint everywhere they landed. “So long, boys!” Macartey shouted from the top of the stairs. “Enjoy your trip to Hell!”
“Good God,” Sherman said when the door to the room slammed shut. “That madman is going to attack the governor-general.”
“What?” It was Grant. “What about Byron?” Stewart heard a scuffling sound. “Hey,” Grant muttered. “Why am I tied up?”
“Betrayed,” Sherman said.
“Betrayal seems to be the order of the day,” Stewart said, thinking about his hands around Thomas’s throat. “Your Major Brown, Captain Grant, was betrayed by the revolutionaries he took up with.” Suddenly, he knew where he’d seen Captain Grant before. “We’ve met, haven’t we?” he said. “At Harpers Ferry. I seem to recall hearing the word betrayed there, too.”
“I’ll give your people credit,” Grant said. “When they took me prisoner, they didn’t tie me up.”
“Could you save the pleasantries of the reunion for later? We’re going to be burned here.” Sherman’s voice sounded high and edgy.
“We’re not dead yet.” Grant, on the other hand, sounded as if he still hadn’t come fully to consciousness. The fire, the cutting of the ropes into skin—none of this seemed to matter to him. Stewart found the man’s calm a bit scary; no one could possibly be that nerveless. At the same time it seemed to Stewart that Grant’s demeanor was affecting him, slowing his heart and clearing his head. It was as if he could actually draw on that calm, like an emotional letter of credit. He tried to look around him, to see the burning room but not the fire.
“We need to get loose if we’re going to get out of here,” he said. “That means we need to find a way to cut these ropes.”
“I have a knife in my boot,” Grant said. He paused. “No, I don’t, damn it.”
“Pity,” Stewart said. Then his gaze fixed on the spot where the Federal spies had been interrogating Menard. “I’ve found something nearly as good,” he said.
It turned out to be a lot harder than he’d expected to get to his feet without the use of his arms and hands, but after flopping about on his back, turtle-like, for a time he eventually got into a sitting position. He couldn’t suppress a gasp when he propelled himself to his feet, and for a moment he could only stand there, seeing tiny lights flicker before his eyes, while he tried to recover his breath. “You all right?” Cleburne asked. He and Sherman were following Stewart’s lead and struggling to their feet.
“Been better,” Stewart said. “Been worse, too. I’ll live. At least, I intend to try.” He walked over to one of the crates Brown and Connell had been using, and looked down at the lamp.
“The glass from the chimney ought to do instead of a knife,” he said. “Assuming I can find it with my hands tied behind my back.” He moved until he was directly in front of the lamp, turned around and began to crouch. “I just wish it wasn’t still burning.” He stretched his hands as much as the cords would let him, extending his fingers until they trembled.
“Shit!” He lurched forward, fingers stung. Behind him, the lamp tipped, fell, shattered. “Too hot!”
Stewart whirled around. The lamp and the shards of its chimney lay in a circle of flame, flame that spread to the mess of straw and cotton on which Menard had lain. “I’m not sure that’s the effect you were hoping for,” Cleburne said with a nervous laugh.
“It’s not as if he could really make things any worse,” Grant said. The captain, Stewart noted, was still on his side, on the floor. Perhaps he’d not fully recovered his wits yet.
Stewart toed the center of the flame with his boot. That looked like a suitable piece of glass: he carefully nudged the shard away from the flames. Then he stared at it. In order to pick up the glass, he’d have to get down on the floor again.
“Here,” Sherman said. “You stay up.” He rushed over, nudged Stewart out of the way and stood directly over the glass shard. Then he carefully lowered himself, grunting with the exertion, until he was seated on the floor.
“Christ,” Sherman muttered, his hands fumbling blindly. “Let’s hope this does for that rope the way it’s doing for my fingers.”
A minute later Stewart and Sherman stood back to back. Sherman worked the glass back and forth against the cords around Stewart’s wrists. Since neither of them could see what he was doing, Sherman sliced Stewart’s skin almost as frequently as he cut the strands of rope. Stewart bit his lip to keep from crying out each time the edge of the glass cut him. If Menard could stay quiet with a pistol ball in his gut, Stewart wasn’t going to complain about a few cuts. Besides, it was getting hard to breathe now, and complaint would require breath Stewart didn’t think he could spare.
“Give it a try,” Sherman said. Stewart closed his eyes and flexed his wrists and hands. The pain was high and sharp, like having a thousand splinters drawn at once. But the rope held. “Damn,” Sherman said. He slashed, cutting Stewart again. Now, though, there was a difference in the way the cord felt around Stewart’s wrists. I am going to hate this, he thought. He tried again to force his hands apart.
The cord came free, and Stewart’s arms shot out from his sides with such force that he nearly lost his balance. “Thank God!” Cleburne shouted, and for a moment they laughed with mad relief.
Stewart took the bloody shard from Sherman, marveling at the blood smeared on his and Sherman’s hands, and cut the man’s bonds as quickly as he could. Then he went to free Cleburne while Sherman picked up another piece of glass and cut loose his friend Grant.
“Are you able to stand?” Stewart asked Grant once Sherman had cut him free.
“Of course,” Grant said, getting easily to his feet. “I just figured I’d stay down as long as I could. Air’s better closer to the floor.”
“We’re not home-free yet, lads.” Cleburne stood by the door at the far end of the room. “He’s fired the stairs going down.” Cleburne shut the door. “We won’t be getting out that way, I think.”
Sherman ran to a window. “Think we could jump?”
“Sure,” Grant said. “If you don’t mind a broken leg, or worse. And there’s no way that Canadian fellow can go out the window.”
Stewart, who had carefully sliced open Menard’s bonds, was now searching Connell’s body. The Federal had died at some point after Macartey had left. He smiled, having found what he’d been looking for. “Unless we could rig some sort of sling.”
“Not enough time,” Grant said. “Besides, I still think the stairs are the way to go.”
“Weren’t you listening?” Cleburne said. “They’re burning. For all I know they may be burned right through in places.”
“Wasn’t thinking of going down,” Grant said.
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