by Ralph Peters
on canal barj tomorow after dark
guns and men and gold he wil
atak canady I am with him hury
EIGHTEEN
“YOU WILL DO IT, SIR, IF YOU WISH TO SAVE OUR Union!”
Mr. Douglass did not move. Behind his mighty shoulder, Mr. Morris leapt about in a dance of enthusiasm for the task I had assigned him, but the great Douglass only stared down at me. His hands tested the air at his sides, clenching and falling slack again, and his face had taken on the maroon hue of fine leather.
I know fear. I am not the blustering sort who will pretend he has never been afraid. Oft was the time when only the dread of failing in my duty saved me from abasement. I have seen fear gnaw at men, on the eve of battle or faced with disease. Some are afraid of serpents. Worst are those who see into themselves.
“I . . . my weapon is the pen . . . not the sword . . .”
I was abrupt with the poor fellow. For time was our enemy.
“Well, throw your inkpots at them, man. We need you with us.”
“Need, need! We need you, Fred,” Mr. Morris sang. “Union, save the Union . . .”
Now I do not suggest that Frederick Douglass was a coward, for he was not. Fear shadows us all like a padded-foot assassin and leaps out when our guard is down. For all his daring speech, Douglass long had led an ordered life, with the turmoil of bondage decades behind him. Twas the unexpectedness, see, of being asked to take a gun in hand that threw him. His was a world of boundaries, and well he knew the fate of the black man who lifts his hand against his white brother, no matter how just the cause. And I had made it clear we would be outnumbered.
Outside, the Lord’s cannon boomed and lightning smote the earth. Sleet slapped the windows, clinging to the glass, and the wind wailed. When the world goes thus awry, old voices bid us keep to our firesides.
“I . . .” Douglass, never at a loss for words, could hardly begin. “I . . . dare not . . .”
I turned away. Brusquely, I’m afraid, for I have a heathen temper when there is a fight before me. It comes from my sergeanting days in India, when the lads needed to fear me more than the enemy. I waved to Morris to start him along on his errand. For the good preacher was to find John Underwood and bring him to meet me, along with any arms and men the sheriff had at hand. Just at the door, I turned again to Douglass.
“You will go,” I told him, “to the livery stables. Tell John Brent to bring his horses, properly saddled and without delay, to the door of St. Michael’s. Do that much at least, Mr. Douglass.”
I did not know if we would be out-rifled ten to one or worse. I wanted every hand, and had drawn Morris and the Moor a sketch of the conspiracy in order to enlist their help. Morris had risen to the call with such alacrity that I feared for his welfare, should he be entrusted with a gun, but Douglass withered. When I needed him to swell.
Looking into the eyes of the bold orator one last time, I understood why slaves do not rise up. We men burn such deep fears into our fellows that they cannot overcome them in a lifetime. I have seen it in myself, when thrust among the rich. The onetime servant fears the master always.
If he would not raise his hand, I hoped Douglass would at least raise our horses. For we would have to ride hard to overtake the barge before it issued from the outlet canal. I dreaded that prospect more than I did the looming confrontation, for I am not happy on a horse in sunlight, let alone upon a night like this.
I pulled on my India-rubber cape, set my hat upon my head, and followed Mr. Morris out the door.
Heaven blasted us. Just as it did the old king on the heath. Colt hard against my hip, I told the preacher:
“Pray as you go, Mr. Morris. And have the sheriff show you how to load.”
I HAD MY OWN TASK BEFORE ME, though twas one of little hope. I bent into the sleet, holding my hat to my head with a naked hand. My gauntlets had long been missing and my fingers stiffened as I marched through the town.
I was off to see the priest, you will have guessed. For only he could halt this wickedness now, by calling on his Irish to desist. I did not think he would help me, for he was in it deep. But we must do all we can to hinder bloodshed. And I will tell you: I felt my share of fear, just like Fred Douglass. I wanted to see my wife and child again, and to live long. I would have liked to call up the militia and let a thousand others share the burden. But look you: There was no time for dallying. A man must stand to his allotted duty, just as our gentle Savior stood to His.
McCorkle was the key.
I found him by his fire reading Scripture. I rushed inside without the slightest knock and stood there sodden, dripping like a fish.
Had the Angel of the Apocalypse come in with fiery sword, I do not think the priest would have been amazed one bit the more. He sat up as if pricked immodestly and his eyes went huge in the firelight.
“But . . . you’re . . .”
I shook my head and spoke though numbed lips. “Alive, Father McCorkle. For the O’Hara boys are faulty executioners. And now you are wanted, see. To put an end to this wickedness. For you have had the measure of these matters from the beginning, but do not know what lies behind the doings.”
“Sure, and I haven’t the one notion o’ what you’re raving about. Have ye been conked on the pate, then, and all disordered?”
“You do not know who stands behind Kildare. But I will tell you. For the sake of your Irish and the Union both. Kildare is paid with English gold. Your parish folk will cross the river, and the Royal Artillery will be waiting on the shore. To welcome them with canister. Those who do not fall under the volleys will throw down the rifles they know not how to use.” Oh, how clearly I could see it! “And they will be Her Majesty’s prisoners. But they will have done what is wanted of them by Kildare and those behind him. They will have served their purpose. The moneybags of Manchester and Birmingham will have their war and their cotton. And the Irish will be their fools again.”
The priest’s expression did not change. But his eyes narrowed. I would tell you they clenched, as if eyes were fists, to give you the sense of them.
“I don’t know what all your blathering’s about, Jones. But I’m beginning to think there’s a touch o’ the Irish in the vexed blood o’ the Welsh, for it’s a terrible gift for imagining ye have. And a great love o’ the talk. Will it be banshees next? Or the Devil’s Coach Devour at the door?”
Outside, the wind wailed. The little house fair shook under the storm’s assault. Drops of wet fell down the chimney, hissing into the fire.
The priest glared into the burning. “You’re a fool, Jones. A daft man. And no good to anyone.”
But his voice was different. He spoke like a poor actor, mouthing lines in which he has no confidence.
“I am a fool,” I said. “I give you that. But fools may be forgiven.” I took a step toward the crumpled blackness of him. “And you, Father McCorkle? Will you be forgiven? For sending your boys to death or captivity? On a hopeless mission? Arranged by English gold?”
“Ye Welsh,” he said. “Forever calculating, ye are. With your little paymaster souls. Our Lord’s mission was hopeless, too.”
“I will stop Kildare. With you or without you.” Certainly,my voice sounded more confident than I felt. “I’m telling you it’s all an English plot, man. To use the Irish to provoke a war. For the love of—do you really think they have a chance to conquer Canada? There’ll be no rising of the Frenchies. Naught but a slaughter there’ll be. And widows and orphans for nothing.”
He turned on me. Face scorched by the fire. “Damn ye, Jones. Damn ye for a lackey and a dupe. It’s nothing but their dancing dog, ye are. And not even fit for a jig, with the crook o’ the leg on ye. They’ve crippled ye, and still ye beg their bones.” His fist pounded the table and it shivered like an invalid. “The Irish will be free.”
“Not in Canada, they won’t.”
“We’ll rise. We’ll rise and show the world.”
“You’ll rise to nothing. You’ve been be
trayed.”
“Liar!Tis nothing but a damnable liar I see before me. A Judas. Coming to bait me with your nonsense about English gold. A lying little Welshman, and a Judas.”
I smiled a little, as we do when we are struck hard, and clutched the grip of the cane Herr Kempf had whittled. “Haven’t you wondered where Kildare—Kilraine, I should say—where he gets his money? Do you think his bit of magic with the girl brings so much in, then? Do you know the price of an Enfield rifle in the middle of a war, man? Or of uniforms, or boats, or provisions? Do you know where the money comes from? From an English lord, I tell you. From a wicked dozen of them, most like. But twas only the one I saw in the streets of Rochester, giving Kildare his instructions. There is your Judas. Your informer. It’s Kildare.”
“You’re a filthy Protestant liar.”
I closed toward him. But not in anger. For my desperation was beyond the reach of insult. The commotion of horses out in the street told me it was time to go.
McCorkle began to rise. I think he would have liked to strike me a blow.
I slapped my hand down upon his Bible. Flat upon the Scriptures, may the Lord forgive me. Our faces come spitting close.
“Damn me for eternity, if I have spoken one false word, Father McCorkle. We need you to come along with us. To stop this. Before it ends in blood.” I was pleading with every mote of my being. “I cannot say who will live and die. Only that your people will lose, one way or the other. And the price they pay will be a high one. There will be no freedom or glory in it, only shame and betrayal.” How can you reach such a fellow? “I beg you, man. Come with me and talk to them. Tell them what I’ve told you. Stop this . . . this madness . . .”
He was a statue, not a man. A statue of a hard and vengeful prophet.
“I will not go with ye,” he said. “And damn ye.”
Twas time to do my duty, so I told him, “Damn me, you may. But stop me, you won’t. And the blood will be on your hands.”
The fiercest smile I ever saw deformed his lips.
“May it be your blood then,” he said.
HUNCHED AGAINST THE STORM, four horsemen waited in the street. Their flesh and weapons shone beneath the lightning. I wished they were more, for there would be a plentitude of Irish.
Two empty mounts waited, heads lowered, on the flank of the little party. One was for me, the other for McCorkle. I cannot tell you in Christian words how I felt toward the priest at that moment.
John Underwood was there, massive, with a carbine slung barrel-down. Douglass had come, after all. A hunting piece lay across his saddle and, despite the weather, he looked like a prince at his sport. Morris carried a shotgun nearly the size of himself. I have never seen a man so ill matched to arms. A good gust might have blown him away. Last of the four was John Brent, whom I had not expected.
“The priest will not go with us,” I told them all, casting my voice above the slap and spatter of the sleet.
“Oh, for crying in a bucket,” the sheriff said. “I could’ve told you that.”
“Well, we will leave the horse,” I called. “The Lord may move him still.”
Underwood shook his massive head in doubt. Water flew from the brim of his hat.
“And which shall be mine?” I asked John Brent, steeling myself to mount. I wondered at Brent’s presence. I had not told Morris to ask for his participation, only for his horses. I worried for John Brent, see. For he must live on in the town as a black-skinned man, while Douglass could leave with the morning train. Even if we won the day, the Irish would never forgive him.
Brent tugged a canvas from the saddle of the horse that was to bear me. “Quickly,” he told me. “Get up before it gets wet.”
I rose at his command, with only a bit of trouble from my bad leg. I tucked my cane beneath my cape then spread the sour rubber around me. My stick would fair impale me, if I fell. But I had ridden off without my cane once and would not do so again.
The saddle was dry and snug. Brent was ever a thoughtful man. I wanted to say something to my benefactor, to give him a last chance to change his mind about coming along. Yet . . . was he not a subject of our Union? And was this not an hour of need?
Twas as if he read my mind. Leaning over, he spoke into my ear.
“I’ve driven for you all winter, Major Jones. You get to know a fellow along the road. If I didn’t stand by you now, I’d never call myself a man again.” Then he laughed. “Besides, ole Reg’lar John has to keep an eye on his horses.”
I held onto the reins a bit too tightly and the horse shied.
“Her name’s Betty,” Brent told me. “Give her a little slack now.”
I was about to call out to John Underwood, to ask him to lead our pursuit, when another horseman come slopping fast up the street. We sensed him, then heard him, but hardly saw him until he pulled up and the sky bleached white again.
Meeks, it was. The deputy. Spattered in mud, with melt soaking him and his horse.
So we were six in all.
“Eli Denton,” Meeks shouted, breathless, “says they passed his way . . . maybe two hours ago.”
Underwood straightened. Putting me in mind of a dog that has caught a scent.
“Two hours! Only two hours!” Morris crowed. For he knew more of canals and the speed of their traverse than did I.
“Who is Eli Denton, then?” I asked, with the icy rain striking my face. I had taken off my hat so I would not lose it at a gallop. For a proper hat costs money, and the braid and brass cost more, besides. The hat was stuffed beneath my rubber cape. For a head can dry more cheaply than a new hat can be purchased.
“Denton’s got the keeping of the first lock,” Underwood answered me. Then he turned his horse into the street and let a whoop. “Come on, boys. We’ve got ’em now.”
I was glad that one of us was confident.
THE SHERIFF WAS A LION. How sadly we misjudge our fellow men. I well recalled my alarm during our first interview, when he sat across the table from me, with his bulk and those ears and his doubts. I suspected then that he was composed of appetites only, a creature without a core, and not worthy of his occupation. He had proved me wrong that very day, and now, in the face of greater odds, he charged forward like a young hussar—though I had learned that he was over fifty, and not the man of forty that he seemed.
He had to wait for stragglers several times, for we were horsemen of different pedigree, and only John Brent rode with a skill equal to the sheriff’s. Once, I will admit, Underwood had to come back after me, for my horse had strayed in the darkness and the storm. I was embarrassed to be the cause of the least delay. I bounced along behind him, with ice crusting my eyebrows and shame in my heart.
We rode across the heights, lashed by the heavens. Twas hard to see, and cold, and as desolate within a man as without. But I am an old bayonet and know that the weather is as hard on the enemy as it is on ourselves, and he who takes a grip has the advantage. They would not see or hear us, or expect us, and we might gain surprise to raise our chances.
The going was hard, for the roads were muddy ice and the fields icy mud. I mustered the courage to kick my mount in the flanks to spur her on, for riding behind the others left me a target for the clots their mounts kicked up. I must have looked a sad, ramshackle thing.
Sheriff Underwood stopped us in the center of a field. A wild place, it was. Lightning stabbed the earth and lit our faces. Horse eyes bulged.
“Stay here,” Underwood told us. “Abel, you tell ’em about handling their guns, in case they don’t know. Give ’em a dose of your soldiering business. I’m going to have a look along the gorge.”
He would have done well on the Northwest Frontier, that John Underwood. He knew the scout goes best who goes alone.
“Look you,” I said, as my horse strayed sideward, “the first thing is to clear the mud from the barrels.”
Obediently, they swung their weapons into their arms.
“Don’t point them at each other,” I said quickly. “
They are wet now, and likely will not fire. But one will take a friend’s life out of spite. Point the barrels downward, gentlemen.”
“Won’t fire? Won’t fire?” Morris exclaimed. He cradled the shotgun in his arms, as if it were a slighted child.
“Yours may do a damage, Mr. Morris. For it is a fine piece and has a hooded mechanism. But I cannot speak for those with caps exposed.” I looked around me. The storm seemed to have weakened just a little. Or perhaps I was becoming conditioned to it, for a man can become accustomed to anything. “Remember, gentlemen: if your guns do not fire, theirs will not, either. And they do not know that yours are wet for certain. They will have their doubts, and doubts are fatal. Which of you have pistols in your belts?”
Meeks murmured, and John Brent raised his hand. No doubt Brent kept one loaded in his barn for the day the hateful came hunting. Underwood would have a revolver, as well. With my Colt, that made four.
“Do not take them out, but keep them dry. I will tell you when to draw them. For they will be our weapons in the fight, if fight we must.”
“I have no pistol, sir,” Douglass said, with just the least crack in his voice. “I would fulfill my role, Major Jones, and not stand idly by.”
“Pick up the first that falls,” I told him.
UNDERWOOD RETURNED IN A COAT OF MUD. He must have gone crawling. When he spoke, he aimed his words at me.
“They’re down there, all right. Don’t I know it? Lanterns front and back of the barge, lit up like a society ball. Good thing, too. Still have to get snot-close to see anything. There’s two mules drawing along the towpath on the near bank, with Napper O’Hara—the young one—on ’em with a switch. Mules are strung one behind the other, so they’ll block a shot from up near the front. Half a dozen Irish out on the deck with staves, breaking up the last of the ice as they go.”
“Armed?” I asked.
The sheriff shook his head. “Couldn’t tell for certain. I’d bet that Napper’s got a pistol tucked away. He’s the wilder of the two, though Bull’s the meaner. If the boys on deck have rifles, I didn’t see ’em. But seeing’s the problem down there.”
