“What are you doing here? How did you find us?” Stewart pulled back from Pauline, brushing his face where the makeup made it itch. Cleburne, Captain Grant, and his friend Sherman joined them, having seemed to silently agree to give Stewart and Pauline a moment together.
“Thomas came for me,” Pauline said.
So you were wrong after all, Stewart thought to Menard’s spirit. “On his own? What a resourceful boy.”
“Man, you mean,” Cleburne said. “I have to agree, though. That was impressive.”
“What did he say? Why isn’t he with you?”
“He was worried, Charles—Captain Stewart,” Pauline said. “I didn’t really understand him, I must say. He said something about having missed Captain Menard, and being afraid that both the captain and you were in trouble.” She looked past the others to where Menard’s shrouded body lay on a sidewalk, awaiting the arrival of the New Orleans garrison’s provost marshal. “I see he was right to worry.”
“He was,” Stewart said. “But where is he?”
Pauline shifted. She looked back at Menard’s body rather than at him, Stewart noted, and his spirits sank again. “I promised I wouldn’t tell,” she said after a moment.
“So he’s on his way to St. Louis,” Stewart said.
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
“You said he was worried about Menard, Miss Martin?” Sherman said. “Sounds to me as if your Thomas had a second employer, Captain Stewart.”
“He did,” Stewart said. “At least one.” He gave the others a condensed version of his last conversation with Menard, sparing anything to do with the Federal invasion plans for Kentucky.
“A shadow treaty commission. Interesting,” Grant said. “I wonder if Major Brown knew about that?”
“Perhaps,” Stewart said. “I knew I’d seen him somewhere before I met him tonight. It wasn’t until just after Captain Menard died, though, that I remembered. Brown had disguised himself as a waiter and got into our hotel. I saw him one morning when I’d been chewed out by General Magruder. I’m pretty sure Brown overheard me and Patton talking about the whorehouse where Brown and Connell took Menard, thinking he was Patton. If Brown spent much time in our hotel, who knows what he learned.”
“Well, he didn’t learn not to trust his Irish friends. Speaking of which, we should get moving again,” Grant said. “Even if you haven’t fully got your wind back, we can’t afford to take any more time. Lord Byron’s in danger.”
Stewart followed Grant back into the street. “Captain,” he said, keeping his voice low, “I can go with you only so far.” When Grant turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, Stewart said, “If we haven’t caught up with Macartey by the time we reach the Cabildo, I’ll have to leave you. I think that time is of the essence if I’m going to save Captain Patton.”
“Are you sure?” Grant said. When Stewart nodded, Grant said nothing, but Stewart was sure he saw a corresponding nod of the Federal captain’s head. Grant was a soldier too; he understood about duty.
“I saw the Garda take Captain Menard,” Grant said. “I was convinced it was a Confederate officer too. Do you suppose that your Thomas had anything to do with that?”
Stewart wanted Thomas to be responsible for Menard’s death. The Negro seemed to be responsible for just about everything else that was wrong with New Orleans. But Stewart shook his head. “I very much doubt it. Menard had promised to help him run away, and to steal his wife and children. I don’t think that Thomas would betray that kind of help.”
“Do you propose to go after Thomas?” Cleburne had caught up with them. His stare was, Stewart noted, as sharp as it had been when he’d confronted Macartey.
“No,” Stewart said. “I can’t spare the time.”
“Not to mention,” Sherman said from behind them, “that it’s against the law to kidnap escaped slaves in Canada.”
“That hasn’t stopped people in the past,” Cleburne said.
“It’s irrelevant,” Stewart snapped. “I’m a soldier. My duty comes before any personal interests.” Cleburne nodded, his mouth twitching upward. That’s probably as close as I’ll get to an apology from that one where the subject of slavery is concerned, he thought.
Stewart decided that he wasn’t going to go with Grant to the Cabildo. It wasn’t that he disliked Grant’s company. If he was being honest with himself, the opposite was probably true. But he couldn’t afford to be tempted into going after revenge on Macartey for what the Irishman had done to Menard.
He unbuttoned his smoke-stained jacket. “I think you should take this,” he said to Grant, drawing out a Colt Army revolver. Handing it to the Federal, Stewart said, “I found it under Captain Connell’s body. Macartey seems to have missed it in his hurry to burn us to death.” Stewart was loathe to give up the weapon—especially to a Yankee—but given that Grant was going into known danger where Stewart might be able to avoid it, giving up the pistol seemed to make sense.
Grant took the revolver. “Thanks,” he said. “Does this mean you’re taking your leave before we reach the Cabildo?”
“Sorry, Captain Grant,” Stewart said. “I know that Lord Byron’s in danger. But I am under orders to rescue Captain Patton. I have to go.” He turned to his Cleburne. “Mr. Cleburne could go with you, though. It’s up to him.”
“I probably should,” Cleburne said. “Byron’s the King’s representative and all.” He paused. “But to tell you the truth, gentlemen, I’m thinking Captain Stewart can probably use my help. The Watch will be able to help you, Captain Grant.”
“Assuming we don’t encounter any watchmen who’ve sold themselves to the Garda,” Sherman said.
“Good luck to you, then, Captain,” Grant said, offering his hand to Stewart. “I hope we meet again sometime.”
* * * *
Grant was somewhat surprised to find that he meant what he’d said to the young Confederate. Stewart was a decent fellow—for a traitor. He had refused to leave the roof of the burning warehouse without Captain Menard’s body. That was an impressive show of respect to a fellow-officer, all the more so given that Menard wore another country’s uniform.
That Stewart was still a traitor was a serious issue, and a week ago Grant would have considered it his duty to do all he could to stop the Virginian. Tonight, though, it didn’t seem to matter so much. What he cared about now was stopping Macartey, and preventing the United States from looking any worse than they already did.
Grant was grateful that the authorities had ignored him outside the warehouse, and he hoped they would continue to do so for just a bit longer. The watchman who’d accompanied the fire company was—he hoped—flying back to the Cabildo to warn them about Macartey’s plans for Lord Byron. The firemen he and Sherman had left behind were busy trying to save the neighboring warehouses; either they’d given up on saving Macartey’s building or they’d decided that someone who fired his own warehouse didn’t deserve their efforts.
“You’d rather be going after him, wouldn’t you?” Sherman gestured after the departing Stewart, who with Cleburne and Miss Martin was rapidly heading away from the river.
“Not sure,” Grant said. He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his trousers. “I think I have a greater responsibility to save that old reprobate, Byron.”
“What about Macartey?” Sherman asked. “Aren’t you worried that he might have set another trap for us?”
“If he has, is there anything I can do about it?” Grant shook his head. “We use what we have, Sherman—however little. We don’t know exactly what Macartey has planned. We know where Lord Byron is, though. So we go there, and we do what we can. If we find Macartey, we can deal with him then.”
They had just crossed Canal and were heading downtown on Old Levee Street when the night burst abruptly into a concerto of gunfire. The shots echoed crazily down the massive stone walls of the Custom House and the other new, massive buildings the government had been erecting here; it was almost impossible for Grant to tell exactly where the firing was coming from, but he had a good idea of where to start looking.
“Too late,” Sherman huffed beside him.
“No such thing,” Grant said.
* * * *
Macartey and his gang had taken Lord Byron outside a theater that faced onto Nelson Square. When Grant and Sherman arrived at the northern edge of the square they found a mixed force of watchmen and soldiers milling in apparent confusion on the uptown edge of the square. Those who weren’t arguing with each other in harsh whispers were staring into the middle of the square, trying to spot the governor-general in the small group that appeared as nothing more distinct than a singular black mass, slowly making its way across the manicured lawn.
Grant recognized one of the watchmen. “Captain Gale,” he said. “How can we help?”
“That depends,” Gale said, “on how well you see in the dark. I don’t know a damned thing about what’s happening.”
“Irish rebels,” Grant said. “The ones I was investigating earlier.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Gale said, and immediately ran to consult with one of the soldiers.
In a moment both men were back, the soldier—a major in full dress uniform—glaring blackly at Grant. “You seem unusually well-informed, Captain Grant,” the major said.
“Until a few minutes ago my friend and I were prisoners of those men,” Grant said. Quickly he explained about Macartey’s then-undefined threats against the governor-general, and his firing of his own building. “I believe Macartey may have assassinated one of the soldiers from the legation staff,” he said. “He told me his plan was to start a war between Great Britain and the United States.”
“So you say,” the major responded. “What can you tell me of their plans?” He pointed to the black bulk, just now edging past the large statue of Nelson that was the center of the square. “They seem to be making toward the river, but I’d like to know for certain. I have some of my men blocking the riverward edge of the square, and Marines on the way to reinforce them.”
“I don’t know what they plan to do,” Grant said. “But surely they’re going to kill Lord Byron the second anyone tries to arrest them—or even to prevent them from moving.”
“I agree with Captain Grant,” Gale said. “It may be too dangerous to try to stop them.”
“It is assuredly too dangerous to let them go! If they reach the river Lord Byron is lost.”
“Then what do we do?” Gale asked, spreading his hands in that gesture that meant helplessness and frustration.
“I have an idea,” said Grant. “I’ll need you to keep Macartey from moving beyond the square for a few minutes, Major.” He thought a moment. “Perhaps you could ask him what he wants with Lord Byron. See if there’s anything he’d be prepared to accept in exchange for the governor-general.”
“Are you mad? We can’t negotiate with people like that!”
“I didn’t suggest you make any promises you feel obligated to keep,” Grant said. “Just keep him from moving for ten minutes. Then you can let him go, but be prepared to follow and attack him as soon as you hear gun-shots.”
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