[Continuing chapter fifteen]
“You’ll go down to the river, sir,” Stewart said, “and bring Captain Miller and his men up as close to the fort as you can without allowing yourself to be seen.” Stewart looked around him. “I’ll take Marshal McCulloch with me, and have Cleburne and Mr. Patton waiting here, where they can see both the gates and you; when we’ve opened the gates, one of them will signal you. At that time, sir, it would be best if you brought Captain Miller into the fort at a dead run. If we can do this quickly, we can be in possession of Fort Walker before her defenders even know we’re here.”
“And if you can’t get the gates open?”
“I’ll likely be dead,” Stewart said, swallowing that bitter realization. “In which case I suspect it won’t matter to me what you do then.”
“I’d rather assume that we’ll succeed,” Cleburne said. “But if we can’t get the gates open, I suggest we take our small force and try to capture Reynolds at the Presidential Mansion. That would be a suitable fall-back plan, I’m thinking.”
“Fine,” Stewart said, swallowing. “Let’s all work with the assumption that we’ll get the gates open.” He felt a disorienting lightness in his vitals, something he didn’t remember from the violent days in Kentucky, just weeks ago. I was younger then, somehow, he decided. I seem to have more to live for now. He looked up at the dark mass of the fort, marveling at how something so ordinary could suddenly have taken on such a malign aspect. Then he looked at the men with him. Be a leader, he told himself. This is what you trained for. Even if it isn’t the place you expected to find yourself in. “Time to get moving, Marshal,” he said to McCulloch as the latter returned with the soldiers he’d promised to collect.
Stewart and McCulloch edged themselves into position under the fort’s walls; looking back Stewart could see Secretary Travis and the newspaperman Russell walking toward the river, where their tiny force waited. Behind him Cleburne and John Patton stood, shifting with what could easily be nervousness; nerves were a natural consequence of having nothing else to do.
“You shift around to the gates,” Stewart told the marshal, “if you can do it without being seen. That way you’ll be able to keep them open the moment I can open them up.” He looked up at the walls. “Shouldn’t be too hard to climb, but still I’d appreciate a boost if you’d care to give it.”
“You sure you want to do this?” McCulloch asked. “Ain’t really your fight, is how I see it.”
“Oh, but it is,” Stewart told him. “When it’s all over I’ll explain it to you.” You shouldn’t be trying to do this with your leg the way it is, he reminded himself. Or at least you shouldn’t, were it not that this really is your fight. “Wish I could take my rifle up there with me.” He jammed his revolver as firmly as possible into the holster.
“I’ll be sure to hand it to you once we’re inside.” McCulloch made a stirrup of his hands, Stewart put one booted foot into place, and then he was rising as the marshal tossed him upward.
There were sufficient irregularities in the wall that Stewart was able to get a handhold on his first try. From there he was able to reach up to the wood of the parapet with his other hand; it was easy to get the impression this fort wasn’t really intended to provide much more than an impressive appearance.
The muscles of his arms burned as he held himself in place, just high enough to be able to see over the edge of the parapet. He spotted the guards, their silhouettes outlined by the false dawn on the eastern horizon. He guessed—hoped, prayed—they weren’t paying sufficient attention to the spot on the wall he’d reached. With a deep breath he heaved himself up sideways, hooking a boot onto the parapet and using the leverage he’d obtained to pull himself up and over.
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve“You’ll go down to the river, sir,” Stewart said, “and bring Captain Miller and his men up as close to the fort as you can without allowing yourself to be seen.” Stewart looked around him. “I’ll take Marshal McCulloch with me, and have Cleburne and Mr. Patton waiting here, where they can see both the gates and you; when we’ve opened the gates, one of them will signal you. At that time, sir, it would be best if you brought Captain Miller into the fort at a dead run. If we can do this quickly, we can be in possession of Fort Walker before her defenders even know we’re here.”
“And if you can’t get the gates open?”
“I’ll likely be dead,” Stewart said, swallowing that bitter realization. “In which case I suspect it won’t matter to me what you do then.”
“I’d rather assume that we’ll succeed,” Cleburne said. “But if we can’t get the gates open, I suggest we take our small force and try to capture Reynolds at the Presidential Mansion. That would be a suitable fall-back plan, I’m thinking.”
“Fine,” Stewart said, swallowing. “Let’s all work with the assumption that we’ll get the gates open.” He felt a disorienting lightness in his vitals, something he didn’t remember from the violent days in Kentucky, just weeks ago. I was younger then, somehow, he decided. I seem to have more to live for now. He looked up at the dark mass of the fort, marveling at how something so ordinary could suddenly have taken on such a malign aspect. Then he looked at the men with him. Be a leader, he told himself. This is what you trained for. Even if it isn’t the place you expected to find yourself in. “Time to get moving, Marshal,” he said to McCulloch as the latter returned with the soldiers he’d promised to collect.
Stewart and McCulloch edged themselves into position under the fort’s walls; looking back Stewart could see Secretary Travis and the newspaperman Russell walking toward the river, where their tiny force waited. Behind him Cleburne and John Patton stood, shifting with what could easily be nervousness; nerves were a natural consequence of having nothing else to do.
“You shift around to the gates,” Stewart told the marshal, “if you can do it without being seen. That way you’ll be able to keep them open the moment I can open them up.” He looked up at the walls. “Shouldn’t be too hard to climb, but still I’d appreciate a boost if you’d care to give it.”
“You sure you want to do this?” McCulloch asked. “Ain’t really your fight, is how I see it.”
“Oh, but it is,” Stewart told him. “When it’s all over I’ll explain it to you.” You shouldn’t be trying to do this with your leg the way it is, he reminded himself. Or at least you shouldn’t, were it not that this really is your fight. “Wish I could take my rifle up there with me.” He jammed his revolver as firmly as possible into the holster.
“I’ll be sure to hand it to you once we’re inside.” McCulloch made a stirrup of his hands, Stewart put one booted foot into place, and then he was rising as the marshal tossed him upward.
There were sufficient irregularities in the wall that Stewart was able to get a handhold on his first try. From there he was able to reach up to the wood of the parapet with his other hand; it was easy to get the impression this fort wasn’t really intended to provide much more than an impressive appearance.
The muscles of his arms burned as he held himself in place, just high enough to be able to see over the edge of the parapet. He spotted the guards, their silhouettes outlined by the false dawn on the eastern horizon. He guessed—hoped, prayed—they weren’t paying sufficient attention to the spot on the wall he’d reached. With a deep breath he heaved himself up sideways, hooking a boot onto the parapet and using the leverage he’d obtained to pull himself up and over.
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Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen
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