“Where are we going?” Sherman huffed.
“And what are we doing when we get there?” added Captain Gale. He’d been ordered to go with Grant and Sherman; evidently the major didn’t trust them much.
“We’re going to the Levee,” Grant said. “And we’re looking for a boat.”
They’d doubled back along Chartres to Pitt, a narrow street that would let them get to the Levee unseen by Macartey. “You think they plan to take him on the river?” Gale asked.
“It’s their only real way to escape,” Grant said. “And if assassination was their plan, Byron would be dead already.”
“So you and I are pirates now, are we?” Sherman grinned, his teeth seeming almost to glow in the dark. “How are two old men and a Canadian going to take a ship?”
“Boat,” said Grant, “not ship. I doubt that Macartey would be fool enough to try to bring a ship to the Levee, given how closely it’s watched these days. No, I think we’re looking for a smaller craft, something that’ll get them downstream to where a bigger vessel is waiting.”
“Smaller like that?” Sherman asked, pointing.
The Levee was crowded, as always, most of its docks and wharves occupied by riverboats or ocean-going ships. Downriver, though, just beyond the market, a lantern glowed. In the light it shed Grant could see the shape of a single-masted boat, nearly exactly what he’d expected.
“Like a barge with a mast stuck on it,” Gale said. “Who’d want to escape in that?”
“Desperate men?” countered Grant. “Follow me, and stay in the shadows as much as you can.”
They ran, silently as they could, along the waterfront. As they passed Nelson Square Grant slowed them to a walk and took them right out to the edge of the Levee, where they were hidden somewhat from both the square and the men on the waiting boat. The shouting voices coming from the square told Grant that he didn’t have much more time.
“All right, you two,” he said to Sherman and Gale. “Up on that riverboat and see if you can get a good view from her. You may have to take a shot if this doesn’t work.” He handed his revolver to Sherman.
“If what doesn’t work?” Gale said. “You haven’t told me what you plan to do!”
“I’m going to get wet,” Grant said, stripping off his coat, vest, and boots. “And if all goes well I’m going to get your governor-general wet, too.”
* * * *
The water wasn’t too cold, or at least he’d quickly got used to it. Sure hope I don’t swallow any of this, he thought, then forced himself to concentrate on staying on course, because otherwise he’d think about how the river smelled.
He’d been able, by moving quickly through the shadows cast by the moonlight along the Levee, to get within a single riverboat-length of his target. That still meant he’d have to swim nearly a hundred feet to get around the big sternwheeler’s bow and under the wharf to which Macartey’s boat was tied. He only hoped he’d get to the boat before Macartey did.
Once he’d got around the riverboat and gained the relative shelter of the still water under the wharf, a new difficulty presented itself. When he’d been swimming out beyond the docks and wharves, he’d been able to see where he was going thanks to moonlight, supplemented by the lantern the Irishmen had placed just beyond their boat. Under the wharf, Grant could scarcely see anything, and twice he collided with pilings before he gave up trying to move quickly. The second collision left him with what he was pretty sure was a sprained wrist. This is going to hurt some, he thought.
The boat Macartey had provided for his escape had clearly seen better days. It was also considerably lower in the water than the typical craft tied up along the Levee, and so the Garda men had laid a plank to bridge the substantial gap between wharf and boat. That was what Grant had been looking for. Keeping his hands and feet below the surface of the river, he carefully paddled until he was directly under the plank, and settled in to wait.
He’d scarcely got his breath back when the wood of the wharf began to rumble with the sound of heavy footfalls. A jumble of voices occasionally rose above that sound, and Grant thought he heard a trumpet calling in the distance.
“Get him aboard,” a voice shouted, “and ready to cast off!”
That was his cue. Grant pushed himself along the hull of the boat until the plank was no longer directly overhead. Looking straight up, he saw two men scurry across the plank, driving it downward. They thumped into the boat, which obligingly settled a bit deeper.
Now Byron was coming across. In the brief glimpse Grant got of him he obtained an impression of a big-bellied old man, bound round with rope and being pushed from behind. The man pushing him seemed to have hold of his bindings from the back. Well, that was too bad.
Grant took a deep breath and clenched his teeth together. Then, with his bad wrist he gripped the edge of the plank and pulled himself up. With his good hand he grabbed at one of Byron’s ankles, slipped loose, grabbed again as Byron shouted and tried to pull his leg away.
Trying without success to suppress a groan of pain, Grant pulled with all of his might. The governor-general, cursing now, struggled and tried to pull away. Grant loosed his grip on the plank, made a desperate grab with his bad hand.
Screaming, Lord Byron plunged off the plank and into the Mississippi. His Irish captor was pulled in after him.
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