[Continuing chapter sixteen]
“Can’t you just wait them out?” Russell asked. “Surely they’re not going anywhere.”
“Can’t spare the men to watch them,” Stewart said. “Or the time, for that matter. We’re doing well, Mister Russell, but we need to have everything tied up here before first light if we’re going to secure the city and have a hope of meeting Walker before he gets here.”
McCulloch had already taken the men with the ladder around the corner of the house; when Stewart caught up with him, McCulloch was standing, looking up at the second-floor windows, presumably trying to guess which window looked in on the fugitives. “It’s the left one,” Stewart said. “But don’t set the ladder against the building until I tell you.”
He ran back around to the front door, stuck his head in and yelled, “Start shifting, gentlemen!” and ran back outside. A gunshot from upstairs testified to the nervousness of the men in the bedroom. Good, he thought.
When Stewart waved the ladder into place, though, Marshal McCulloch stepped in front of him. “You don’t need to do this, captain,” he said. “This bit’s more my fight than yours, I say.”
“I wasn’t joking when I said it could be dangerous, marshal.”
“Don’t matter. For folks in my line of work, every day’s dangerous.” He was climbing before the men had fully stabilized the ladder. He didn’t seem to care, and Stewart understood: speed was what mattered now, while the enemy were still distracted by the noise outside their door. Feeling a sudden chilly discomfort, he began to climb after the marshal.
The covered porch wrapped around three sides of the commandant’s house, and the gently sloping roof of the porch provided a broad ledge that ran right under the windows on the second floor. At the top of the ladder McCulloch thumbed back the hammer of his Colt so that a primed and loaded chamber swung under it. Then he stepped onto the porch roof and ran, quietly and quickly, to the bedroom window.
The bar in New Orleans, Stewart realized. He was thinking back to the morning he and Cleburne had gunned down those idiot Irish giants while searching for George Patton. Shooting men who were only semi-aware of the danger they were in hadn’t seemed very honorable then; it seemed even less so now. Of course, your idea of honor’s been a bit devalued lately, he reminded himself.
The rebel officers faced away from them, toward the door, which they’d barricaded from their side by pulling a heavy-looking chest in front of it. The room was mostly dark, but Stewart could just make out the shapes of the two men in the jaundiced, guttering light provided by a cheap tallow candle. Part of him was aware that he and McCulloch would be perfectly silhouetted against the growing light from behind them; of course the bedroom would face east. Then one of the enemy turned, and McCulloch opened fire; without further thought Stewart fired as well, thumbed the hammer, fired again. A flare of light beside him told him that McCulloch seemed to be emptying his revolver, but Stewart didn’t flinch. You’ve had guns go off right beside your ears before, he thought, and remembered Captain Menard’s pointless death.
The morning breeze cleared the gray smoke quickly, and through the shattered window Stewart saw the two rebel officers, their pale shirts now patterned with darker, spreading stains, sprawled face-down over the trunk they’d thought would protect them. He realized, to his surprise, that he had fired—and on the clear evidence hit his target—without consciously aiming. Was there some magic connection between his eye, his imagination, and his hand that allowed him to do things like this? It would be something to think about. When there was time for real thought.
“Pretty sure that’ll be it,” McCulloch said. “I doubt anyone else will want to put up a fight now those two are finished.”
“There’s always somebody,” Stewart said, hoping that in this case he was wrong. He holstered his revolver, found his hand shaking a bit, and decided this was because he hadn’t wanted to shoot people in the back. “Think we should go in there and make sure they’re finished?” Please say No.
“Let somebody else do it,” McCulloch said. “We should be thinking about our next move.” He turned back to the ladder.
Travis was all for holding steady, consolidating his position and enhancing his force with however many of the garrison could be persuaded to follow him. “We don’t want to move too quickly,” he was saying to Russell when Stewart and McCulloch reached the bottom of the ladder.
“I’m not sure I agree with you,” Russell said. “Perhaps you should be moving now, while you’ve still got some darkness and some surprise to help you.”
“He’s right, sir,” Stewart said. He was pleased to note that, while some of the surrendered rebel officers and NCOs wore fear on their faces, most of the privates seemed to agree with the shooting of Alexander, whoever or whatever he had been. “At least let me take a few of the men and do a quick circuit of the city, to see how many rebels we have to deal with.”
“We’ll compromise, then,” Travis said. “You take Mr. Patton and any of Miller’s men you like, and scout out the rebel positions, especially the president’s mansion—I’m sure that’s where Reynolds will be—and the old capitol building. They’ve probably got the congress and the cabinet locked up in there. I’ll keep Cleburne, McCulloch and Miller with me, and we’ll see what we can do about returning these men to their proper loyalty and duty. Report back here in an hour, Marshal, and we’ll move on the largest concentration of rebels then.”
“Sounds like we’re going to have all the fun,” Mercer Patton said. “C’mon, captain. Let’s go find us some rebs.” He paused a moment. “No offence meant, cap’n. Does seem funny to be saying that to you instead of calling you one,” he said.
“I wouldn’t use the word funny about this situation myself,” Stewart said, “but no offence is taken.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the stables. “Let’s see about getting ourselves some horses.”
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve“Can’t you just wait them out?” Russell asked. “Surely they’re not going anywhere.”
“Can’t spare the men to watch them,” Stewart said. “Or the time, for that matter. We’re doing well, Mister Russell, but we need to have everything tied up here before first light if we’re going to secure the city and have a hope of meeting Walker before he gets here.”
McCulloch had already taken the men with the ladder around the corner of the house; when Stewart caught up with him, McCulloch was standing, looking up at the second-floor windows, presumably trying to guess which window looked in on the fugitives. “It’s the left one,” Stewart said. “But don’t set the ladder against the building until I tell you.”
He ran back around to the front door, stuck his head in and yelled, “Start shifting, gentlemen!” and ran back outside. A gunshot from upstairs testified to the nervousness of the men in the bedroom. Good, he thought.
When Stewart waved the ladder into place, though, Marshal McCulloch stepped in front of him. “You don’t need to do this, captain,” he said. “This bit’s more my fight than yours, I say.”
“I wasn’t joking when I said it could be dangerous, marshal.”
“Don’t matter. For folks in my line of work, every day’s dangerous.” He was climbing before the men had fully stabilized the ladder. He didn’t seem to care, and Stewart understood: speed was what mattered now, while the enemy were still distracted by the noise outside their door. Feeling a sudden chilly discomfort, he began to climb after the marshal.
The covered porch wrapped around three sides of the commandant’s house, and the gently sloping roof of the porch provided a broad ledge that ran right under the windows on the second floor. At the top of the ladder McCulloch thumbed back the hammer of his Colt so that a primed and loaded chamber swung under it. Then he stepped onto the porch roof and ran, quietly and quickly, to the bedroom window.
The bar in New Orleans, Stewart realized. He was thinking back to the morning he and Cleburne had gunned down those idiot Irish giants while searching for George Patton. Shooting men who were only semi-aware of the danger they were in hadn’t seemed very honorable then; it seemed even less so now. Of course, your idea of honor’s been a bit devalued lately, he reminded himself.
The rebel officers faced away from them, toward the door, which they’d barricaded from their side by pulling a heavy-looking chest in front of it. The room was mostly dark, but Stewart could just make out the shapes of the two men in the jaundiced, guttering light provided by a cheap tallow candle. Part of him was aware that he and McCulloch would be perfectly silhouetted against the growing light from behind them; of course the bedroom would face east. Then one of the enemy turned, and McCulloch opened fire; without further thought Stewart fired as well, thumbed the hammer, fired again. A flare of light beside him told him that McCulloch seemed to be emptying his revolver, but Stewart didn’t flinch. You’ve had guns go off right beside your ears before, he thought, and remembered Captain Menard’s pointless death.
The morning breeze cleared the gray smoke quickly, and through the shattered window Stewart saw the two rebel officers, their pale shirts now patterned with darker, spreading stains, sprawled face-down over the trunk they’d thought would protect them. He realized, to his surprise, that he had fired—and on the clear evidence hit his target—without consciously aiming. Was there some magic connection between his eye, his imagination, and his hand that allowed him to do things like this? It would be something to think about. When there was time for real thought.
“Pretty sure that’ll be it,” McCulloch said. “I doubt anyone else will want to put up a fight now those two are finished.”
“There’s always somebody,” Stewart said, hoping that in this case he was wrong. He holstered his revolver, found his hand shaking a bit, and decided this was because he hadn’t wanted to shoot people in the back. “Think we should go in there and make sure they’re finished?” Please say No.
“Let somebody else do it,” McCulloch said. “We should be thinking about our next move.” He turned back to the ladder.
Travis was all for holding steady, consolidating his position and enhancing his force with however many of the garrison could be persuaded to follow him. “We don’t want to move too quickly,” he was saying to Russell when Stewart and McCulloch reached the bottom of the ladder.
“I’m not sure I agree with you,” Russell said. “Perhaps you should be moving now, while you’ve still got some darkness and some surprise to help you.”
“He’s right, sir,” Stewart said. He was pleased to note that, while some of the surrendered rebel officers and NCOs wore fear on their faces, most of the privates seemed to agree with the shooting of Alexander, whoever or whatever he had been. “At least let me take a few of the men and do a quick circuit of the city, to see how many rebels we have to deal with.”
“We’ll compromise, then,” Travis said. “You take Mr. Patton and any of Miller’s men you like, and scout out the rebel positions, especially the president’s mansion—I’m sure that’s where Reynolds will be—and the old capitol building. They’ve probably got the congress and the cabinet locked up in there. I’ll keep Cleburne, McCulloch and Miller with me, and we’ll see what we can do about returning these men to their proper loyalty and duty. Report back here in an hour, Marshal, and we’ll move on the largest concentration of rebels then.”
“Sounds like we’re going to have all the fun,” Mercer Patton said. “C’mon, captain. Let’s go find us some rebs.” He paused a moment. “No offence meant, cap’n. Does seem funny to be saying that to you instead of calling you one,” he said.
“I wouldn’t use the word funny about this situation myself,” Stewart said, “but no offence is taken.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the stables. “Let’s see about getting ourselves some horses.”
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen
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