The Fireraisers

by Malcolm Archibald

  Mr Holderby shook his head. 'I agree with Sergeant Watters that you, Mr Beaumont, should break all contact with the slave states. However, I can assure you that the United States government has not, and never will, sanction your assassination, or the assassination of anybody else.' Holderby looked at Watters. 'The idea is not only ludicrous, Sergeant, but it is also downright insulting.'

  When Beaumont looked at Watters, there was strain in his eyes. 'In this case, I agree with Mr Holderby. It would be better if you left now, Sergeant Watters.'

  'Mr Beaumont,' Watters began, 'there are three men presently in Dundee who plan to kill you.'

  'That may well be true, but I am sure they are not in any way associated with the government of the United States.' Beaumont exchanged a quiet nod with Holderby. 'I will pass on your warning to your superiors, Watters, who will doubtless look into it. Really, Sergeant, I am sure that you speak with the best intentions, but I am only a businessman. I'm hardly a target for the United States government.' He led the laughter in which Mrs Caskie and Holderby dutifully joined.

  'George,' Marie took hold of Watters's arm. 'It's time we were leaving. We're doing no good here.' She lowered her tone. 'George!'

  Watters nodded. After his adventures on Alexander MacGillivray and his mad dash from the Dogger Bank to London to Dundee, all his efforts were wasted. Waves of intense weariness engulfed him.

  'Come on, George.' Marie led the way to the door, which Cattanach opened with a small bow.

  'Thank you for your time, gentlemen. My regards, Mrs Caskie.' Watters managed to remember his manners. 'I do hope you reconsider your position, Mr Beaumont.' He stepped outside.

  'He's not worth it, George,' Marie told him as they boarded the chaise. She drove away at a sedate pace. 'Let's get you home.'

  'No.' Watters struggled to free himself from his exhaustion. 'Even if Beaumont does not believe me, the girls at his mills are still in danger. Take me to the police office.' He took a deep breath. 'I think I'd better drive.'

  'In your condition?' Marie shook her head. 'You're not fit to walk, let alone drive, George.'

  * * *

  'Watters! Good God man, I heard you were dead!' Mackay stared at Watters across the width of his desk. 'How the devil…?'

  'Never mind that, sir,' Watters said. 'I have to warn you that Mr Beaumont and his mills are in grave danger.'

  'We've been through all this before, Watters,' Mackay said. 'Neither Mr Beaumont or I consider that there is any further danger.'

  'I know, sir. Bear with me for a moment.' Watters gave Mackay a brief description of the past few days.

  'Your life gets ever more interesting, Watters.' Mackay's fingers drummed on his desk. 'Are you sure of your facts?'

  'I saw these men,' Watters said. 'They murdered a telegraph operator in London. One, the man who called himself Ted Houghton, is the leader. The other two I only know as Niner and Scouse.' He gave a brief description of all three.

  Mackay frowned. 'I have one hundred officers to cover all of Dundee, including eighty-seven constables. I shall send a couple to protect Mr Beaumont. I shall also order the harbour police to be extra vigilant, but like Mr Beaumont, I cannot think that the United States authorities would sanction assassination.' He looked at Watters. 'Now I suggest that you return home, Watters, sleep, wash, change, and maybe get something to eat. You look like a packet sailor rather than a sergeant of the Dundee Police!'

  'Yes, sir.' Watters saw that he was not making any impression on Mackay.

  'I will take what action I can, Sergeant,' Mackay spoke kindly. 'I also have to police the weekly market at Fairmuir and, as you know, at present, Dundee is plagued by illicit shebeens, which means a rise in drunkenness and petty assaults.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Now off you go.' Mackay's voice was nearly benign. 'You've done your duty and all you can do. It's time to let somebody else take the strain.'

  As he returned home, Watters's sense of failure was overwhelming. He had tried to warn Mr Beaumont but failed; he was only a sergeant of police, a man without power. Worse, he was now a man who engaged in actions not compatible with respectability, for no honest man would consort with women like Katy or roll stupid youths for their pocket-book.

  'Come on, George.' Marie managed him. 'Eat, wash, and sleep.'

  Watters allowed Marie to bully him.

  'You've done your best. It'll all seem better after some sleep.'

  Watters's bed was welcoming amidst all the familiar surroundings of the room, from Marie's clothes hanging up to the golf clubs sitting in the corner waiting for him. He closed his eyes to be immediately transported to the golf course, where Ted Houghton stood at the first tee with a pistol in his hand as a train rumbled through an explosion halfway across the rough. Ragina's face came to him, with Katy smiling as she stripped that unfortunate young man, while bearded fishermen tried to drag him across a crowded train in a net.

  Watters woke with a start as the messages scrambled through his brain. What had he left undone? He rummaged through his memory, from Alexander MacGillivray to Katy and Ted Houghton. There was something he had forgotten. What was it?

  That cylindrical fire-making device! He had told Beaumont about it, but in the confusion, he had forgotten that he still had it in his inside breast pocket. Swearing, Watters rose to his feet, for he knew that he had to show the thing to all Beaumont's factory managers, or they would not know what to look for.

  'Damn it all to buggery!' Watters poured cold water from the pitcher into the ewer for a brisk wash. He was still unshaven, but that could not be helped. Ignoring the seaman's canvas, Watters dressed as respectably as he could, slipped the cylinder into his left breast pocket, Marie's seawater-stained New Testament into the right, and opened the sea chest that sat under his window. For a second, he considered Beaumont's four-barrelled Sharps revolver but returned to his Tranter Dragoon despite its longer barrel.

  He knew that, whatever Beaumont or Mackay believed, Ted Houghton was not yet finished. Ted had resolved to kill Beaumont and seemed sufficiently professional to carry out his intention. While dealing with such killers, it was better to stick with what was familiar. Fastening on a shoulder holster, Watters slipped in the Dragoon, tore a hunk from the loaf of bread that Marie had in the pantry, and hurried to greet the morning.

  Dundee woke early to go to work, and although it was not yet six, already the streets were busy. Cold December rain dampened the shawl-shrouded heads of women that thronged towards the mills while men moved towards the shipyards, forges, and warehouses around the docks. With the omnibus service not starting until 8:45, even the mill clerks, artisans, and square-backed businessmen had to walk. Watters hailed an early-rising Hackney.

  'Where to, mate?'

  Watters told him, listing the mills and factories individually while the driver raised his eyes in disbelief. 'That's half the mills in Dundee!'

  'No, it's only Mr Beaumont's mills. On you go, driver!'

  One by one, Watters visited the mill managers, from Mr Fairfax in Brown's Street to Mr Cosgrove in distant Lochee, while the Hackney driver mentally toted his fare with every call. Watters explained to the managers precisely what they were to look for, showing them his example.

  'This little thing!' Mr Cosgrove lifted the cylinder.

  'This little thing can destroy your mill,' Watters said. 'Watch for it.'

  It was after eleven when Watters left the Bon Vista Mill. 'One last stop, driver, and then you'll have to find another fare.'

  The driver, head bowed to the near-freezing rain, shrugged. 'Where to this time, mate?'

  'Dock Street. The offices of Beaumont's Mount Pleasant Company.'

  There was a hold up at the old Toll House near Logie House lodge, and another opposite Dudhope Free Church, so Watters, impatient as ever, ordered the driver to take the Scouring Burn route. Only when the driver turned his horses did Watters see what had caused the trouble. A horse pulling a jute cart had slipped on the greasy road, spilling
some of the bales of jute, which impeded the passage of a Hackney. One of the passengers had left the cab to complain, his tall-crowned hat glistening in the rain. Even at this distance, Ted's false London accent cut thinly through the rougher growl of the carter's reply.

  'Use the whip, driver!' Watters was suddenly urgent. 'Get down this road as fast as you can.'

  'I'll lose my license if I do,' the driver began.

  'You'll lose your teeth if you don't,' Watters assured him, and one glance at his level eyes was enough to convince the driver to whip up his horses.

  It was a mad dash down to the Scouring Burn, but then the cab's speed ebbed as they again encountered heavy traffic. Carts of jute and wagons of coal clattered over the road, with carters jockeying for position against a background of the incessant racket of the mills.

  More profit; more profit; more profit.

  'Move past them, man!' Watters swore, but the driver gestured ahead with his whip.

  'How should I do that? Go through the mills? You'll have to have patience!'

  Watters glared ahead at the congested street, dark with tall buildings, crowded with wagons, its atmosphere thick with smoke. He could either wait or go on foot. Wastefully throwing the driver a sovereign, Watters leapt from the Hackney cab and began to run, hoping that the Lochee Road was equally busy to delay Ted's cab.

  Dodging between the carts, Watters ran down the middle of the road, ignoring the jeers of the carters. Panting with effort, he hurried from the Scouring Burn, past the West Port and into the thickly populated Overgate with its old houses, corbie-stepped gables and crazy windows. Ahead of him, toward the narrow eastern end of the Overgate, a Hackney manoeuvred around a static water cart.

  'Halloa! Cabbie!' Watters shouted, waving his hand to attract the driver's attention.

  Ignoring him, the driver eased free, cracking his whip, but Watters put his head down and spurted with the thought of Ted gloating over the bloody corpse of Beaumont spurring him on. He drew level with the cab as it reached the narrows of the Overgate.

  'Hey! Open up!' Running alongside, Watters hammered at the wooden cab door. 'Ease up, cabbie!'

  'Bugger off, you! I've already got a fare.' Glancing over his shoulder, the driver swung his whip in a vicious backwards sweep that cracked off the door an inch from Watters's hands. A man's face appeared at the window of the cab, his mouth working frantically, and then the door slammed open, nearly throwing Watters back into the street.

  'It's bloody Watters!' Niner leaned out, his face still swollen and bruised.

  'Push him off.' That was Ted's voice but now graced with his Western American accent.

  The whip swung again, slashing against Watters's shoulder so he gasped with pain. The driver shouted: 'Shut that damned door, somebody! I can't drive like this.' The cab swayed from side to side as it rattled over the cobbles of the High Street, with the pillared Town Hall on the right and Reform Street opening to the left.

  Ted leaned out, his face calm. 'You again, Watters? I thought we had got rid of you.' Pulling a Colt from inside his jacket, he levelled it, only to replace the weapon quickly as curious passers-by stopped to stare.

  There was a sharp right-hand turn down the slope of Castle Street, with the Exchange Meeting Rooms looming at the bottom and the masts and spars of shipping thrusting from the docks just beyond. 'You'll keep,' Ted said, nodding grimly.

  'Hey! You! Let go of that cab!' Tall in his blue coat, Constable Mackenzie pointed to Watters. Ted slammed shut the door, agonisingly trapping Watters's fingers. Pulling his hand back, Watters lost his balance, fell, grazed his knees and elbows on the granite cobbles, banged his head against the tall wheels of a stationary phaeton, and lay still for a second, recovering his senses as the cab clattered downhill.

  Somebody was walking toward him. 'Are you all right, mister? That was quite a tumble you took.'

  A horse was nuzzling Watters curiously as he struggled upright, swaying. He saw Ted's Hackney turn sharp left onto Dock Street, where Beaumont had his shipping offices. Watters followed, limping at first but picking up speed as the urgency of the situation chased away the sting of his injuries.

  'Mackenzie!' Watters yelled. 'Come with me!'

  Without waiting to see if Mackenzie obeyed, Watters ran onto Dock Street, where the great Royal Arch dripped rainwater onto the fish wives sheltering below. The Hackney rattled to a halt outside Beaumont's offices a hundred yards ahead. Ted looked quite casual as he left the cab, paid the driver, and slid through the open door of the Mount Pleasant Company, with Niner following close behind. Scouse remained on the street. Standing with legs apart in the company's doorway, Scouse looked as formidable as a guardsman.

  There was no time to work out tactics. Watters ran along the street, swerved around a group of seamen who swarmed from a collier brig, and threw himself at Scouse. Aware that Scouse was probably his match in a fair fight, Watters did not hesitate. Feinting for Scouse's eyes with the forked fingers of his left hand, Watters jerked up his knee into the man's groin, followed by a smashing right hook to his jaw. He felt the snap of breaking bone, heard the shout of Constable Mackenzie somewhere behind him, followed through with two swift and savage kicks to Scouse's kidneys, and thrust through the door.

  Niner was waiting immediately inside the doorway. His swung blackjack grazed Watters's forehead, opening a shallow cut. Temporarily blinded with the blood flowing into his eyes, Watters reeled back as Niner smashed down the blackjack a second time. Blocking the blow with an instinctively raised forearm, Watters countered with a feeble punch that glanced off Niner's bicep. The cosh swept upward, aiming for Watters's groin, but he jerked backwards, legs apart and arms crossed in front of him. The blackjack struck his left hand, numbing his thumb. He grunted, sensed the figure behind him, and turned to defend himself.

  'What's happening here?' Constable Mackenzie was broad and fair with eyes that had seen twenty years of dockside brawls. He produced his truncheon with a flourish and moved in. 'Drop that blackjack, you!'

  Nursing his injured hand, Watters leaned against the wood panelled wall. He noticed the reception clerk lying across his desk with blood seeping from a cut in his head.

  Niner lowered the blackjack. 'It's a personal thing, officer.' He attempted a Dundee accent. 'It's a continuation from an earlier argument. This man has followed me all across Dundee.' His sudden smile took them both by surprise. 'Look, officer, I'll show you.'

  Reaching inside his jacket, Niner pulled out a .32 pocket Adams. The first shot took Constable Mackenzie high in the chest, sending him staggering against the wall. The second slammed between Mackenzie's eyes, killing him instantly. However, the few moments' diversion had given Watters time to clear the blood from his eyes. Even before the sound of the shots faded, Watters was moving.

  With no time to pull his own gun, Watters threw himself forward, grabbing for Niner's arm. Niner dropped the Adams at once, jabbed an elbow into Watters's face, and leaned forward to bite deep into Watters's already injured hand.

  Yelling, Watters jerked backwards as Niner thrust two fingers toward his eyes. Watters snapped his teeth at the fingers, missed, and reeled as a knee smashed against the outside of his thigh. He staggered, grunting in agony as Niner's iron-shod boot raked down his shin. As Watters fell against the wall, Niner scooped up his Adams.

  'I'll take him, Sergeant!' Duff's voice was welcome as the stocky criminal officer smashed his staff against Niner's wrist. The crack of breaking bone was audible as Duff followed up with an underhand swing to Niner's groin and a savage blow on the back of his head. Niner fell without a word. After a single step toward the polished stairs that led to Beaumont's office, the accumulated pain of Watters's injuries hit him. For a long moment, he leaned against the wall, fighting to control the agony.

  'Take a deep breath,' Watters told himself. 'Fight the pain.'

  He tried again, grunting as he limped up the stairs, ignoring the staring faces of Beaumont's office staff.

  'Call the
police!' Watters said. 'Tell them that Sergeant Watters needs help!'

  Beaumont's door was shut, but Watters smashed through, staggering to regain his balance as he reeled into the room. Beaumont was sitting upright in his chair, both hands to his neck, around which Ted had a length of thin cord.

  'Let him go, Ted,' Watters said. 'It's over.' He pulled the Tranter from his shoulder holster, but Ted ducked behind Beaumont, still pulling on the cord. Beaumont waved one hand in a gesture that could have meant anything.

  As Watters tried to aim, Ted hauled Beaumont from the chair, using him as a human shield as he gradually backed toward the open window.

  'We're two stories up,' Watters said, 'and you're alone in a strange city. The gunshots will have alerted the police. You've no chance, Ted. Give up now, let Mr Beaumont free, and you will get a fair trial. You might not get the rope.'

  'What's the rope to me, Watters?' The Western accent was pleasant, despite the circumstances. 'I'm fighting for the cause of freedom. You're fighting to retain slavery. If I die, I go to heaven; when you die, it's an eternity of brimstone and pitch!' Still retaining his hold on Beaumont, Ted took another backwards step.

  Watters followed slowly, looking for an opening to fire. 'I'm fighting to maintain law and order in Dundee, Ted, if that's your name. Was it you who killed that poor fellow in Calcutta as well? Or was it one of your paid assassins? Niner or Scouse or some other hireling?' Watters spoke desperately, grasping for time as he tried to think what best to do. 'They're both under arrest by the way.'

  'I've no idea what you're talking about.' Ted shifted even further back until he balanced on the window ledge. 'I know nothing about a killing in Calcutta.'

  Watters realised that Ted was a fanatic, a man prepared to die for his cause. There was no point in trying to reason with him. Watters met Ted's gaze, saw his eyes widen slightly, and guessed that something was happening behind him.

  Instinct made Watters duck and spin in time to see the bloodied and battered Scouse stagger into the room with Niner's Adams revolver in his fist. Almost immediately, Scouse fired. Watters never knew where the bullet went, for he squeezed the Tranter's trigger in the same movement. He saw his bullet strike Scouse's chest, cocked, and fired again. Scouse crumpled, staring at the blood that spurted from his chest. The incident had taken less than fifteen seconds.