The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: LONDON: DECEMBER 1862

  Pushing through a crowd of porters, some wheeling their baggage, others chatting with harassed travellers, Watters looked for his train. He stopped a harassed porter who was manoeuvring a barrow through a cloud of steam, a collection of thieves, morning- suited businessmen, and casual travellers.

  'Is this the train for Dundee?'

  'That's your sort, mate. Change at York and Edinburgh.' The porter was thin-faced and tired, but his blue uniform was tidy. He put a hand to his cap in a perfunctory salute.

  Having calculated exactly what the fare would be, Watters mentally thanked the fishermen for their generosity and the youth for his stupidity. Although a second-class ticket did not allow him upholstery on the wooden seat, at least he had glass in the windows. The lack of cushions was nothing compared to the discomfort of an open boat in the German Ocean, but the worry about Marie suffering at his absence kept him awake the entire jolting ride north. The impending attack on Beaumont was of secondary consideration. At least Ted Houghton and his accomplices were far behind in London, but Watters had no interest in the constant unfolding of the English countryside he passed through. He consulted his Bradshaw Guide three times, hoping to find a connection that would bring him faster to Dundee but without success.

  Unless he was actively employed, Watters fretted, but his nervous fidgeting eventually upset the six travellers who shared his compartment so that he had to force himself to sit still despite the energy that itched and burned inside him. There was an exodus at York when he had to wait for an hour to change trains; he found a seat, and the train rattled on to Edinburgh.

  When his attempt to telegraph Beaumont failed because the lines were down, Watters spent a cold two hours waiting for his connection to Dundee. Eventually, he squeezed into a crowded train. The guard grunted at him. 'You're lucky to get on, mate. The carriages are full, but you can take your chance. On you get.' The guard ushered him on board, touching his badge with its ornate double crest of Edinburgh and Berwick. Almost immediately he blew his whistle so the train creaked forward in a great cloud of white steam.

  Watters settled back on the wooden seat between an unsmiling Edinburgh matron with long pins prominent in her hat and a man in a black coat who was chewing an apple. As the train entered the first of the tunnels that took them out of Edinburgh, Watters tried to concentrate his thoughts on Beaumont. When they emerged into daylight, the matronly woman was removing a hatpin from between her teeth while the man had settled down with a newspaper. They rattled on northward toward Granton and the Leviathan, the rail ferry that crossed the Forth.

  Despite a rising tide that could have complicated matters, the train passed smoothly across the Forth. Watters watched as a call-boy on the bridge transmitted orders from the ship's master to the engine driver who drove the freight coaches on board the rail ferry. The passengers transferred to Auld Reekie, whose paddles churned the Forth impatiently as they boarded.

  The passage was only thirty minutes but seemed longer, with Watters wondering if he would have time to telegraph Beaumont while he was in Fife.

  'Excuse me,' he asked one of the seamen. 'Is there a telegraph machine at Burntisland?'

  The seaman stared at him. 'Maybe, I don't know. Ask at the harbour office.'

  Auld Reekie was docking first, so Watters thought he might have time to telegraph while the freight wagons were unloaded. With his hopes rising, he glanced ashore.

  Oh, dear God.

  Ted Houghton stepped onto the stone quay, still in his tall hat. One hand was inside his coat as he examined the passengers on the ferry.

  Of course, Ted will be travelling to Dundee. He is going to murder Beaumont. What a fool I was not to consider that. If Ted is here, Scouse and Niner will be with him. They must have caught the same train as me.

  Ted was undoubtedly a professional, so would probably have any telegraph covered. Watters swore and shrunk into the crowd. Burntisland looked bustling enough with the chimneys of factories and tenements for the workers, so there would be a police station here, but what chance would he have of finding it before Ted found him?

  Keeping his shoulders bowed, Watters mingled with the crowd that boarded the train. He watched Ted board the carriage ahead; the other two must be elsewhere on board. Watters knew he could either remain on the train or leave and find another means of transport. Travel by sea? That would be too slow, even if he could find a vessel that was sailing to Dundee. Horseback? Again, slower than the train, and he was not an expert horseman. He had no choice but to sit tight. With luck, he could still warn Beaumont before Ted reached him.

  The journey across Fife seemed interminable, with the train stopping at a score of stations. At each halt, Watters expected Ted or one of his colleagues to appear at his carriage door. Each time the train restarted with a hiss of steam, he felt relief surge through him. Without a weapon, all he could do was sit in hope, but the train reached the crossing at Ferryport-on-Tay without incident. Again there was the confusion of crowding into the ferry, Thane of Fife, but this time, Watters shuffled along with the mob, keeping his head ducked down. The passage was short, so Watters told himself that all he had to do was stay hidden until they reached Broughty Ferry.

  Only twenty minutes and I'll be in my own territory. Once there, Ted can whistle for all I care.

  Finding a seat near the starboard paddle-box, Watters pulled up his collar as far as he could. From here, he could see Mount Pleasant with its flanking Italianate tower from where Beaumont observed his vessels sailing into the Tay. Watters wondered if Beaumont was watching him now, and then thought of Marie and how she would view his return. Thinking of Marie relaxed him; he closed his eyes as tiredness overcame him.

  'There's our man!'

  Dear Lord!

  A pair of powerful army hauled Watters bodily backwards onto the deck before he could retaliate. Ted and Niner stood in front of him, hard-eyed, both dressed in smarter clothes than they had ever worn at sea.

  'Keep still you bluebottle bastard,' Scouse breathed in Watters's ear without relaxing the grip around his neck.

  'Dundee Police!' Ted shouted. 'Stand back! This man is attempting to escape from justice!'

  When Watters tried to speak, Scouse increased the pressure on his throat, so the words came out as a strangled croak.

  Niner pushed a small revolver against Watters's temple until Ted snarled, 'Don't be stupid, constable; we'll need his evidence at the trial!'

  'It's all right, sir,' Scouse said. 'I've got him secure.'

  'Gag him and keep him still!' Ted ordered as Watters struggled to escape.

  The crowd watched with interest as Watters fought back, but their sympathy was all with the respectably-dressed attackers rather than the travel-stained man in his sea clothes. A middle-aged, middle-class matron murmured approval as Scouse squeezed harder, at the same time banging Watters's head against the rail.

  'That's the way, constable! Give the scoundrel what for!'

  Her words distracted Scouse for barely a second but sufficient time for Watters to ram his straight fingers into Scouse's throat. He twisted away as the garrotter's grip slackened.

  'You villain!' The matron stepped quickly back from Watters. A heavily whiskered businessman held a rolled-up newspaper like a club while putting a protective arm around the matron's shoulders.

  Watters had a flash of satisfaction to see that Scouse's face was severely bruised, while a fresh bandage adorned one wrist. He wondered briefly if Katy's customers in the Ratcliffe Road had given him those decorations, but there was no time to gloat as Niner slashed at him with what appeared to be an official police baton.

  'I'll take him.'

  'Give him toco!' The matron was pressing against her protector, watching intently. She slid a hat pin free and held it before her, jabbing threateningly towards Watters. 'Go on! Hit the blackguard! Wallop him hard!'

  Watters had only landed a single punch when something slammed into his kid
neys. He grunted in agony, reeling away. Ted slipped a blackjack from up his sleeve and aimed a blow that Watters managed to avoid just as the ferry gave a lurch; water churned from the paddle boxes.

  'Is he one of these garrotters?' The matron answered her own question. 'Yes, he is. It's in the eyes you know.' She turned to the whiskered man who held her. 'I can always tell. He's one of these garrotters.'

  Unarmed and against three iron-hard men, Watters knew that he could not win. As the police baton descended again, he rolled away, hoping to give the impression that he was severely hurt. He sheltered in the space between the crowd and the white-painted paddle box, trying to gain time, but the passengers were urging his attackers on, seeking blood to assuage the boredom of their existence.

  'Hit him again!' the matron shouted. 'Go on! Wallop the garrotter again!'

  The movement of the boat upset Ted's swing, but the blackjack still landed with enough force to numb Watters's shoulder. He grunted, swung a wild kick, overbalanced as the ferry rose to a wave, and fell against the low guard-rail. The Tay was grey and choppy, with a vicious current, but it offered more chance than he had here.

  After a last glance over the unsympathetic faces, Watters threw himself over the side. He allowed the cold water to close above his head, kicking to gain distance from the ferry. Surfacing with a rush, Watters struck out for the shore. Niner took quick aim with his revolver and fired, but the shot went wide, then the wash of the paddles pushed Watters back under; the current carried him away from Thane of Fife, scraped him against a sandbank, and thrust him further out to sea. He swallowed water, heard that horribly memorable roaring in his head, attempted another couple of strokes towards land, and winced when something struck him hard on the head.

  For a moment, Watters was back off of the Sisters, drowning. 'Grab hold, mister!' The voice was not unfriendly, and Watters obeyed, finding himself holding onto a rope that somebody was pulling. 'What are you doing, falling off the passage boat like that?'

  The face was familiar, the words pleasant as Curly John pulled him aboard the fishing boat. 'Oh, it's you, Sergeant Watters! We heard that you had drowned.'

  'Not yet.' Watters slumped to the bottom of the boat. 'Not yet.'

  The entire episode had only taken a few minutes, but already Thane of Fife was docking at Broughty Ferry, the crowd was waiting to surge ashore, and Curly John was steering for land.

  'There's a life at stake,' Watters announced, deliberately dramatic as he felt his various aches and pains, 'and I have to get to Dundee.'

  'Dundee?' Curly John shook his head. 'We're not going there. We're taking you to Nesshaven, so lie quiet now, Sergeant Watters.'

  Perhaps it was the result of the repeated blows from blackjack and baton or the strain of the past few days, but Watters could not resist as the fishermen steered for their home. Somebody placed a bottle in his mouth, but it was water, not reviving spirits that eased down his throat. After three swallows, Watters spewed it up again.

  'That's the way, Sergeant, get rid of all that salty sea. You lie easy now. We'll soon have you safe.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: NESSHAVEN AND DUNDEE: DECEMBER 1862

  By some instinct that she had, Marie had arrived at Nesshaven. She was waiting with the women, staring at Watters through moist eyes. 'I thought you were dead,' she said.

  He looked at her for a long minute before replying. 'No,' he said, 'I'm alive.'

  She helped him out of the boat, her hands warm and secure on his arm. 'I thought you were dead,' she repeated. 'I was told you were drowned.'

  Watters winced as the blows from blackjack and baton took painful effect. 'Not quite. How are you?'

  'I'm all right. How did you get here? What happened?' As Marie became more used to his company, her voice raised. 'You disappear for days, and then step out of a fishing boat as if nothing had happened!' Sudden anger had replaced Marie's concern, but Watters could not spare time for explanations.

  Stooping, he planted a quick kiss on Marie's forehead. He desperately wanted to hold her close. He knew he could not. 'I'll have to warn Mr Beaumont. He's in danger, great danger!'

  'Do you think I care a fig for Mr Beaumont or a hundred Mr Beaumonts?' Marie glared at him with her expression slowly calming. 'Danger from what?'

  'I'll have to get to his office', Watters said. 'Now.'

  'He's at Mount Pleasant.' Marie was already moving toward the village, her skirt snapping against her legs with every stride. 'I've got a hired chaise.' She glanced at Watters. 'You look shattered, George. I'll drive.'

  'You don't know how to,' Watters said.

  'You muffin! How do you think I got to Nesshaven? Sit tight; you look awful.'

  Watters had never known anybody drive so fast and with such recklessness as Marie did on the road to Mount Pleasant. She hurtled out of the fishing village, forded the burn in a cascade of spray, and splashed along the muddy track with a careless disregard for her appearance or comfort. 'Hold on George,' she said, taking a bend so sharply that Watters thought she would overturn. People stared as the chaise rattled through Broughty Ferry, crashing over the potholed road and showering passers-by with mud from the many puddles, but Marie was in no mood to listen to complaints. When a carter raised a fist in anger, she lashed at him with her whip.

  'Stupid man!' Marie said, pushing the horse even faster to the quieter West Ferry.

  By the time she reached the drive of Mount Pleasant, Marie, Watters, and the chaise were filthy.

  'I rather enjoyed that drive,' Marie said. Jumping from the chaise, she threw the reins over the horse. 'I'm coming too!' She followed Watters up the broad steps to the front door. The footman had difficulty masking his astonishment at these two apparitions.

  'Mr Beaumont is busy. You cannot go in just now.'

  'Busy? Damn it, James, this is a matter of life and death!' Watters pushed past the man. 'Where is he?'

  'Why, in his study, sir, with Cattanach, Mrs Caskie, and an American gentleman.'

  An American gentleman? Dammit, Ted has got here first. 'Don't come up, Marie,' Watters said. 'It might be dangerous.'

  'Try to stop me,' Marie said. 'Just try!'

  Despite being hampered by her long skirt, Marie was only three steps behind Watters as he launched himself up the stairs. She was at his heels when he reached the carved door of Beaumont's office. Watters heard the voices coming from inside the room, lifted his foot, and booted the door open. It slammed back on its hinges as he threw himself inside.

  'Good God, man! What the devil do you mean by that?!' Beaumont rose from his chair. He stared at Watters. 'Sergeant Watters! I heard that you were dead!'

  Holderby and Mary Caskie also rose, staring as Marie crashed in behind Watters, her hair dishevelled and skirt spattered with mud from her hectic ride. She still held her riding whip in her hand. Cattanach took a step back from the desk as though in fear.

  Mary Caskie pointed at Watters. 'How dare you act so?'

  'There's a plot on your life, Mr Beaumont,' said Watters. He felt suddenly foolish with his dramatic entrance into what had evidently been a civilised discussion.

  Only the heavy ticking of a long case clock broke the silence of the next few seconds, then Beaumont invited Watters to sit down and explain. Raising his eyebrows, Holderby rose from his seat.

  'Cattanach,' Beaumont said, 'fetch a decanter of brandy and some glasses. Sergeant Watters seems distraught.'

  Watters jerked a thumb at Holderby. 'I think it would be better for us to be alone, Mr Beaumont.'

  'You are very direct, Sergeant Watters.' Holderby rose from the chair. 'I can appreciate that in a man, but perhaps Mrs Caskie would prefer a more gentlemanly approach.'

  'Please sit down, Mr Holderby,' Beaumont said quietly. 'Sergeant Watters, I appreciate your concern, but I trust Mr Holderby implicitly.'

  Smiling, Holderby bowed to Marie. 'Your servant, ma'am.'

  Watters dragged across a chair and held it until Marie sat down. 'Whether or not you trust Mr Ho
lderby, Mr Beaumont, your connections with the Southern States have created problems. With your permission, sir?' Without waiting for a reply, Watters crossed to the door, pushed it shut, and propped the single remaining chair against the handle.

  'He's dressed like one of these gypsies.' Mrs Caskie produced a fine ivory fan and wafted it before her face. 'Is the man mad?'

  'No, Mrs Caskie. I am merely concerned. Now listen.' Remaining on his feet, Watters paced across the room to check the windows while quickly relating what he had heard on the Federal paddle steamer.

  'I see,' Beaumont said when Watters had finished. 'Thank you for telling me this.' He sat for a moment. 'So what do you advise, Sergeant Watters?'

  'Inform the police, arm yourself, and warn each of your factory managers to be extra vigilant.' Watters had spent his time on the long train journey from London devising countermeasures. He glanced again at Holderby, who had listened with an expression of incredulity on his face. 'There is more, sir, which you may prefer to hear alone.'

  'Continue,' Beaumont ordered. 'I do not need to repeat that I trust the present company with my life.'

  'You may have to, sir, but if you insist.' Watters took a deep breath. 'For your own safety, and that of your family and workers, I advise you to break all contact with the Southern States of America and publicly announce your disapproval of their peculiar practices.' He was aware of the growing tension in the room. Marie was watching him intently.

  'Mr Beaumont has no intention of obeying the orders of such as you,' Mrs Caskie interrupted. 'So please leave.' Snapping shut her fan, she pointed it at Watters. 'I am sure that this whole affair is exaggerated, or you have misheard. It is all stuff and nonsense. I wonder at you men sometimes; I really do.'

  'Sergeant Watters has been correct in the past,' Beaumont said. 'I have never had any reason to doubt his word.'

  Mrs Caskie snorted. 'Don't you indeed. Well, I do. Mr Holderby, pray forgive this impertinence. I am sure that Mr Beaumont will order these people removed from his property.'