Precipice

by Thomas Webb

  After the grime and filth of his ordeal in the tiny prison, the newly laundered clothes felt like heaven, and they fit surprisingly well. Once he was clean and with fresh clothes on his back, the soldiers marched Montclair from the edge of the swamp to the practice circle. This same practice circle was where their father had watched him and Randall drill for countless hours in the sweltering Louisiana heat. When he saw it, a crippling sensation of deja vu rippled through Montclair’s body.

  Torchlight bathed the practice grounds, holding deepening twilight at bay. A set of box seats had been constructed around the sunbaked patch of earth.

  Montclair looked over as he stepped onto the cracked, red clay. To his horror, Rebecca and the children sat front row center. The scent of her perfume carried on the breeze, tears in her and her daughter’s eyes reflected in the torchlight. His nephew Phineas sat by his mother's side, holding her hand. Little Randall sat on her lap, his face buried in her neck. Montclair’s heart broke, seeing her and his niece and nephews sitting there, a captive audience to the horrific spectacle to come. Anger bloomed within him.

  Montclair was not surprised to see his stepmother sitting with them, a look of demonic glee on her face. She’d been waiting for this ever since the day his father had brought him here and introduced him as ‘my son’, ever since she’d learned of his existence.

  And there, in the center of the practice grounds, Randall waited. A long, wooden table covered in white cloth stood next to him.

  Randall was dressed similar to Montclair, only his shirt and trousers were of better quality, and on his hip hung a saber. Black leather wrapped round the handle, gold and silver filigree on the guard, a capital “M” over crossed sabers surrounded by a stylized wreath on the blade’s scabbard and pommel. Montclair recognized the saber instantly. It had belonged to their father.

  “Those clothes fit you well,” Randall said. “Some of my old things.” He shrugged. “We always were of a size.”

  Montclair marched up to his brother, anger evident on his face. “Christ the Healer, Randall, at least have the decency to send Rebecca and the children away! There’s no reason for them to see this!”

  Randall took a long look at his daughter and his sons. His eyes lingered on his wife.

  “Please, Randall!” Rebecca pleaded. “End this! Let your brother go. He-he can leave, and we’ll never have to see him again!” Her eyes begged him.

  Montclair could almost feel his brother’s turmoil as his love for Montclair raged against his sense of family honor. Maybe there was still a chance?

  “No.” A voice, undeniable and full of venom, broke the spell. Montclair’s stepmother stood to her feet. “Son, you must do as duty demands.” She turned to Montclair. “And you! I would have my grandchildren stay, so that they may see the stain of you removed from our family and from my Phineas’ good name."

  Montclair smiled at her then, baring his teeth like a cornered wolf, remembering all the hatred she’d shown him, trying his level-best to look like his father just to rub it in her face.

  "He loved my mother more than you could ever know, Sadie." Montclair drank in the pained look on her face, savoring it. “When I would see them together, it was obvious. Their love was nothing like what I saw between him and you. I almost felt sorry for you,” he added.

  He meant it, but relished the twisting of the knife all the same.

  Montclair turned to his brother and pointed at his sister-in-law, niece, and nephews. “Are you certain you want them to see this?”

  Randall hesitated. “When-when I first saw you in the foyer,” he began, ”when you first returned home. The memories all came flooding back. The feelings for my brother — for you, Julius — came flooding back. It was good to see you that one last time, to think what things could have been… if you hadn’t turned your back on your home, betrayed your family. I wish it could be different.”

  “It still can!” Montclair pleaded, seizing onto the chance, no matter how desperate, to end this peacefully.

  “I almost wavered,” Randall said. “Almost.” He shook his head. “No. It’s too late, Julius. Honor demands blood.”

  Montclair’s heart sank. So this was it. Randall was hell bent on going through with it.

  He nodded. “All right, Randall. If this is what you want… then so be it.”

  Randall motioned to a man nearby, who spread a selection of blades across the table next to him. The man bowed before Montclair as he presented them.

  Montclair looked over at Randall’s family — at his family — then back to the table. Each blade had been placed with care, neat and evenly spaced, one next to the other. Montclair tried several, testing their weight and balance. He hefted a polished cavalry saber and held it aloft, admiring the torchlight as it glinted off the blade. Montclair spun the saber in his hand, liking the feel of it. He nodded once. If he had to let this play out, he wanted the best tool for the job he could get. This one would do.

  His thoughts turned to the previous year. To Washington. More specifically, to the roof of a Baldwin 60,000 steam locomotive as it hurtled north through the blasted wastelands of the demilitarized zone. He’d dueled the cruelest and most skilled blade in the Confederacy that morning. Thanks to the teachings of Ueda Kenshin, he’d won. Would he be able to end this as easily? Randall was a master of the saber in his own right. Growing up, Randall had almost always been the better of the two of them. There was no guarantee Montclair could defeat him. Even if he did, was killing his own brother his true aim? How to finish this, then? And how, if it came to it, could he show his brother mercy and still live to see another day?

  “It’s time,” Randall said.

  He stepped forward to stand face to face with Montclair. Montclair tasted bile in his mouth, felt churning acid deep in his gut.

  Randall looked around the practice ground at his soldiers, meeting every eye. “No matter the outcome,” he announced, ”none of you are to interfere. That’s an order! Do I make myself clear?”

  None of the soldiers objected. Montclair wondered if they’d be as obedient if he ended up the victor.

  Randall looked at him. “We’ll do this in the traditional manner,” he said.

  Several of Randall’s troops removed the table and the unchosen weapons as Randall waved for the intermédiaire.

  A slight man in a waistcoat and sleeves scurried onto the practice grounds. “Gentlemen,” the man said. “You will each turnabout and march. The distance will be exactly five paces.” He looked up at Montclair and Randall, holding the gaze of each of the larger men until they’d nodded their understanding. “Then, and only then, will both of you turn and face one another.” He paused. “Do this now.”

  Montclair turned his back on his brother and marched his five paces. When he turned again, there was no love in Randall’s gaze, only a cold, dead nothingness in his brother’s ice-blue eyes.

  The intermédiaire looked at each of them in turn. “Gentlemen, you may salute your opponent.”

  “Randall—” Montclair began, a last attempt to end this madness before it began.

  Randall replied with silence and a blade salute. Montclair heard Randall’s wife choking back sobs. Resigned to his course of action, Montclair saluted back. Randall shifted his feet, moving his body into fencing position.

  “Are you prepared to begin?” the intermédiaire asked Montclair.

  Montclair continued to stare across the fighting ground at his brother.

  Without waiting for a response, the intermédiaire turned to Randall. “Are you prepared to begin?” he asked.

  Randall nodded.

  “Very well, gentlemen,” the intermédiaire said. “If both fighters are prepared, then may one of you die well.” He sliced the air with his hand. “En garde!”

  23 Mississippi River - Onboard the Lady Luck, October 1866

  The dead man’s partners burst through a side door, too late to help him but just in time to die alongside him. Several more followed on their heels, all
bringing guns to bear.

  “Cover!” Scarlet shouted, one arm supporting her rifle, right hand firing, bracing herself with the left as she scooted, derrière-first, behind a roulette table. She shouldered the table over, roulette wheel shattering into a thousand pieces, just as a blanket of lead flew from behind her. She breathed a sigh of thanks, grateful for the covering fire from Carlyle and his sailors.

  If they didn’t take this room fast, her relief would be short-lived. The Gambler’s entire organization would be on them.

  Scarlet put her back against the wooden table as rounds, too close for comfort, impacted all around her. She shut her eyes. Chips of wooden shrapnel flew. One found a mark, cutting across her cheek. She felt the blood, warm and thick, begin to trickle. They needed fire superiority, and they needed it yesterday.

  Think, Scarlet!

  Carlyle and his sailors leapfrogged from cover to cover, shooting their way forward toward her position. Carlyle led the way, his rifle doing most of the talking. The Gambler’s men’s bullets just missed him as he scrambled up next to her.

  A broad smile lit his face when he bumped up against the overturned roulette table beside her. “Never feel so alive as when there’s bullets flying, right?”

  Scarlet popped out, sent a round downrange, and quickly popped back behind cover. She shrugged. “If you say so!” she shouted, fighting to be heard over the crackle of incoming shots. These were definitely the strangest sailors she’d ever met. “We gotta secure this room and find the target!”

  Carlyle glanced at his wrist-clock. “Rest of my crew should almost be to the bridge! If they take it, we turn this boat around and get her back to Union waters!”

  Scarlet glanced left, toward the doorway they’d come through only moments ago. The steady tat-tat-tat of River’s rifle chatter drew Scarlet’s eye to the woman, on one knee behind cover, fighting like a hellcat.

  Scarlet shook her head at Carlyle. “Won’t matter if we’re overrun before we do! We’re too far outnumbered!”

  Another incoming barrage, each shot a tiny clap of thunder. The smell of hot powder and blood. A cacophony of screams.

  “We have to take him! That’s our ticket out of here! That’s our play!”

  “Just how do you propose to do that?” Carlyle asked.

  A fresh volley of rounds snapped into the table for emphasis.

  A thought occurred to Scarlet. “You got any of those grenadier’s charges?”

  It was the first time she’d ever seen Carlyle hesitate. He shook his head. “Can’t use those in here. Space is too confined.”

  Scarlet’s eyes flashed. “Every second we argue is another second more reinforcements arrive. We don’t use the charges? We’re done for.” Scarlet held out her hand. “Give ‘em over, Carlyle.”

  He handed her two of the small bombs with the pull-fuses, the look on his face telling her he wasn’t inclined to like it.

  Scarlet pointed to the opposite end of the room. “Can you make it over there?”

  Carlyle gave it a rapid assessment. “I think so.”

  “Good. When you’re in position, we both throw.” She jerked her head toward the position. “Go. I’ll cover you.”

  Without waiting for him to acknowledge, Scarlet curled into the fetal-shooting position. She tucked into a tight ball, the barrel of her rifle gripped between her knees. She shifted her body a hair-length past the edge of the overturned table, exposing as little of herself as possible, sighted in between her feet, and pulled the trigger.

  An aether round streaked through the gaming room at low altitude and high velocity, ripping through feet and ankles, rewarding Scarlet for her efforts with the sounds of men screaming. Carlyle became a black-clad blur in the corner of her eye as he broke cover and dashed to the far end of the room.

  Scarlet counted to ten in her head, rotated her body, and got to a knee in a single, graceful motion. She ducked back behind cover, looking over her shoulder for Carlyle. She caught his eye as he slid into position and sent him a questioning raised eyebrow. He acknowledged with a less-than-confident thumbs up.

  They were as ready as they’d ever be.

  “Fire in the hole!” Scarlet shouted. She yanked the pull fuses and threw. Carlyle did the same, lobbing two more charges toward the group of criminals.

  Scarlet hugged her rifle to her body and pulled herself into a ball, squeezing in tight behind the table. She plugged her ears with her fingers and screwed her eyes shut, opening her mouth wide to equalize the pressure from the blast.

  Even with her ears plugged and mouth gaping open, the resounding boom still rung her bell. The concussive wave blasted into the roulette table, smashing the wood and sending Scarlet flying. She landed by the entrance, belly-down in a heap atop her rifle. Stars exploded behind her eyes, a symphony of pain, every part of her body bruised. Somehow, she retained the presence of mind to cover her head as debris and dust rained down.

  Carlyle was right. Quarters were too close for the handheld bombs, but it wasn’t like they’d had a choice.

  Scarlet drug herself from under the rubble, coughing up dust and plaster. She got up, ears still ringing, sighted in, and scanned the room. The opposite side was chaos, a charred and blackened disaster area, full of dead and dying bodies in various states of dismemberment. At the other end of the gaming room, Carlyle and his sailors picked themselves up and checked the area for threats. Scarlet did a quick headcount. A sense of relief filled her when she counted all hands present.

  She knew they were Carlyle’s sailors, but in the last few weeks, she’d trained, sweat, and bled alongside them. She’d come to think of them as her crew, Carlyle included. Dust covered them, and some bled from their ears or cuts to the head, but they were all still standing. All still in the fight.

  Scarlet caught Carlyle’s eye and pointed toward the only door they hadn’t been through, a door marked “private.” Carlyle, understanding the message, signaled for his shipmates to regroup.

  When they were all in position, Scarlet took the lead. River shifted up to the breacher position, approaching the door first. The navy scout tried the handle. To everyone’s surprise, it moved. She nodded once to Scarlet, indicating her readiness. Scarlet counted it down on the fingers of her non-shooting hand.

  Four.

  Deep breath.

  Three.

  Muscles tensed.

  Two.

  Set.

  One.

  River threw open the door and cleared out of the fatal funnel. Scarlet’s Chassepot flew up, and she was first in through the door. She broke left, clearing along the wall and into the deep corner. Carlyle broke right, the rest of the sailors taking the room’s center.

  The office was empty save for a small man in a bowler hat and an expensive waistcoat. He stood from behind a mahogany desk covered in stacks of coin and greenbacks, raising his hands to show he wasn’t armed. “Now, now, ladies n’ gents, no need for all that.”

  “On the deck!” Scarlet shouted, already moving to take the Gambler into custody. “Hands out in front of you! Now!”

  “Easy, girl,” the Gambler said. “I left the damned door open for y’all, for Christ the Healer’s sakes. Don’t that count for nothin’? We can talk this ou—dammit!”

  Scarlet had a knee in the Gambler’s back, barrel of her Chassepot pressed against his skull before he could finish his thought.

  “We’re clear,” Carlyle said, having checked the rest of the Gambler’s office. He pointed at River and another sailor. “You two, cover the hatch. Give the grownups here a minute to talk.”

  River and her colleague positioned themselves just outside the Gambler’s office door.

  Scarlet pulled a set of irons from a pouch on her lower back. She smiled as she clamped them on the Gambler’s wrists and stood him up. “You’re going to tell the rest of your people to surrender,” Scarlet said.

  “Fair enough,” the Gambler replied. “Then what?”

  “Then the Lady Luck and every goon on
board her will be extradited North. She’ll be impounded. They’ll stand trial.”

  “And me?”

  “You? Well, you’re going to tell us everything you know about the Cabal and its plans. The reign of your criminal empire is over, Legree.”

  “Hmmm,” the Gambler said. “Not sure I like the sound of that too much.”

  Carlyle stood in the corner, rifle slung across his back, arms folded across his barrel chest. He laughed. “Is that so? You talk like you got some other option.”

  The Gambler glared over at the brawny sailor. “I’m a businessman, soldier boy, first and foremost.”

  “I’m a sailor, actually.”

  “Whatever. You think old Ulysses’d be willing to strike a bargain, soldier boy?” He looked at Scarlet. “Or how about you, Miss Scarlet? Think you and I can make a deal?”

  Scarlet was a professional. In the game of espionage, you lived and died by keeping your cards, and your emotions, close to the chest. But the Gambler was a master poker player, born and bred. For a man like him, the slightest tell was an open book. A single twitch of her brow undid her.

  “Yep,” he said coolly, “that’s right. I know who you are. Know a lot more than that, too. If you can make all this,” he looked around at the office, the Lady Luck, the irons on his wrists, “go a little more in my favor, maybe I’ll part ways with some information I know for a fact you’d be interested in havin’.”

  Scarlet chuckled. “And just what in hell could you know that I’d be interested in?”

  The Gambler smiled up at her, teeth shining in the lamplight. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you’d like to find out where it is they got your minder stashed? Copperhead’s his name, ain’t that right?”

  24 Near Louisville, Kentucky - The Worthington Manse, October 1866

  Abe’s body moved faster than his mind, hard-earned muscle memory the payoff for months of arduous training. He twisted under the rifle muzzle like a boxer slipping a punch then flipped the barrel back, slamming it into the woman’s face. Her nose snapped with an audible crack. In an instant, she was on the ground.