[Continuing chapter nine]
"Ponsonby Street, eh?" Cleburne wrung out the cloth he'd been using; the water, Stewart was pleased to see, showed only a trace of pink now. Cleburne had dropped everything he'd been working on, and shooed several customers from his shop, when Stewart was brought in. While he'd worked cleaning cuts and inspecting bruises, Stewart had told him everything, from his suspicions of being followed through the evening spent with Pauline and Marie-Anne that had indirectly led to Patton's fateful visit to Beacon's. Stewart had thought it prudent, though, to refrain from suggesting why it was that he and Patton might have seemed so interesting to whoever had taken Patton.
If it had occurred to Cleburne to wonder about this, though, Stewart saw no evidence in his expression as he returned with the cloth freshly soaked in cold water. "You seem to have the damnedest luck, boyo," Cleburne said. "What happened to you today definitely doesn't happen to most visitors here. Not unless they're foolish enough to actually go into Ponsonby Street or The Swamp, that is." Then the cool wet of the cloth was on Stewart's forehead again, and the pain of the cut over his eye diminished.
"What are you going to give me for my leg?" he asked. "It feels broken."
"It isn't broken, you sad specimen. It isn't even that badly banged up. So I'm not going to give you anything except maybe a good stiff drink. They hit you right on the bone, thank God."
"I don’t feel especially thankful," Stewart said.
“It would have been a lot worse if they’d damaged the ligaments. Now, let's return to the important question, which is why you're of a sudden being singled out for attack by our Irish underworld."
"They knew me," Stewart said. "One of them called me 'captain,' and it seems to me they went after my bad leg. I don't think they were just street thugs, Cleburne. I think these men were working with—or for—the men who took my friend Patton. Maybe the men who've been following us since we arrived in New Orleans."
"I've had a thought or two about that in the last few minutes," Cleburne said. "It seems odd to me that a bunch of Ponsonby Street toughs would set on a solitary man that far from their base. I've seen mobs from Ponsonby that far uptown, to be sure, but they're usually rioting or trying to beat up on a whole company of the watch. Going after just one man—and a man they've been looking for—is damned curious."
Now Cleburne was watching Stewart more closely. "It would be very convenient that everyone assume that someone like the Green Oak Boys had set on you. But there are other Irish gangs in this city who have interests that are, shall we say, more political than financial."
"Republicans?" Stewart was disoriented for a moment. He'd always considered the Irish republicans, with their flamboyant hatred of the English, to be spiritual fellows if not allies.
His thoughts must have been obvious, for Cleburne said, "Oh, come on, Stewart. Get past your own biases for a moment. The British are at this very moment negotiating a treaty with the Confederacy, dragging their Canadian children along whether Canada wants this or no. A handful in the Yankee upper classes may still be anglophile, but everybody else north of Mason-Dixon thinks the English are the devil with no chins and bad teeth. Of course the U.S. government will be doing whatever it can to strike back at Britain." Cleburne finished his ministrations and rolled down his sleeves again.
"Don't forget, there were several U.S. congressmen and senators implicated in the United Irish invasions of Ontario and Quebec a few years ago. Why should it surprise you if the Federals are using Irish agents now?"
"All right," Stewart said. "I'm convinced. Especially if what I heard those men speaking was Irish." He repeated the phrase he'd heard.
"Gaelic, it's called," Cleburne said. "And your horrid pronunciation aside, I'm pretty sure that what you heard was a man telling someone named Padraig to run. The only thing I can't understand," he added, his gaze fixed on Stewart, "was what makes your friend Patton so attractive. Why wouldn't they have gone after Mason or Benjamin or even Magruder?"
Stewart refused to take the bait. Cleburne had helped him, yes. But he was Irish himself. Besides, Stewart was pretty sure that Walker would kill him if he told anyone the reasons he suspected for Patton's seizure. "The only thing I can think of is that Patton was alone and easy to take," he said. "Do you have any idea where we might find these republicans, if that's what they are?"
"Not republicans, at least not likely,” Cleburne said. “There are a number of secret societies here—they’re generally known as ‘Ribbonmen’—but none of them is republican. We’ll probably find them up by St. Thomas Street near the market," Cleburne said. "Corduroy Alley, they call it. A lot of Irish there, and most of the secret societies have their bases in that neighborhood. They fight with one another all the time, arguing over whose faith is the truest."
"You know a fair amount about them, don't you?"
"The idiots have been trying to recruit me since I arrived here," Cleburne said. "They either don’t know or don’t care that I’m not a papist. The Defenders and the Garda are always looking for Irishmen with military experience, and perhaps they’re just not fussy about faith when it comes to weapons and tactics. Whatever their reasons for wanting me, I've managed to discourage their attentions so far."
"Several groups?" Stewart felt the pain diminishing, but that didn't mean he was suddenly going to be up to taking on several mobs of Irish fanatics. "I think I'm going to have to look at other sources of information before I decide to go charging after the Irish. " How much help, he wondered, could Cleburne give me? How far do I trust him? I think this situation is a bit bigger than I can handle on my own.
"Would you"—he began.
"I think I should probably be helping you," Cleburne interrupted. "After all, I do feel a small sense of responsibility for you. If I'd just let you be crushed by that cotton the other week, you wouldn't be having any of these troubles."
"I'd be grateful for the help," Stewart said. "But please don't be upset if I'm not always open with you. We may find ourselves dealing with sensitive subjects."
"I understand," Cleburne said. "I've been seeing it in your eyes since you were brought in here. I'll come along for the excitement, and I'll ask no questions if that'll make you more comfortable."
"That being the case," Stewart said, "our first stop should probably be Placide's Varieties." He swallowed; his throat felt suddenly tight. "I've got to know if it was Miss Martin's friend who lured Patton away from Beacon's last night."
"I understand how you feel," Cleburne said. "Believe me, I do. I hope for your sake that your suspicions are unfounded. But if it was a whore who lured your friend, your Miss Martin may still be able to steer us in a helpful direction." The Irishman's face was set, stern, and Stewart could see where this man had developed a habit of command. Once an officer…, he thought. I hope my face sometimes shows that resolution.
He got to his feet, trying to ignore the dizziness that washed over him for a moment. He hadn't wanted to think about Pauline in the way that Cleburne implied, but hearing her discussed so matter-of-factly acted as a sort of aide-memoir to his conscience. She had, after all, taken him into her bed after he'd done nothing more than buy her dinner. If she had betrayed him, it was best that he start preparing himself for the truth. "We should go and quickly," he said. "I can't afford to waste another moment."
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