The Killing Look

by J. D. Rhoades

  Burn the Plague Ship Marjorie Ann. Burn it to the waterline. And let none of the infected escape.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Cade was sitting by the bed, going through the laborious ritual of reloading the cap-and-ball revolver. He looked over at Marjorie every few seconds to make sure she was still breathing. He’d just snapped the cylinder on the pistol closed when he heard the shouting.

  Marjorie’s eyes opened slowly. “What’s that?”

  “Don’t know,” Cade said tersely. “I’m going to find out. Stay here.”

  He encountered Bridget in the short corridor, her eyes wide. “What’s all that racket?”

  Cade could hear the tumult increasing. “Stay here,” he repeated.

  Out on deck, he could see the skeleton crew of the Marjorie Ann lined up along the rail, looking down to the wharf. Samuel was with them, his arms folded across his chest. He was closest to Cade, and he turned as Cade came up beside him. “This looks bad.”

  Cade looked over the four-foot railing. On the wharf below, a group of people was gathered, stretching the length of the ship. They were a motley group, most of them raggedly dressed, with a few swells here and there. Cade noticed with a twist in his gut that those were the ones who appeared to be carrying rifles and handguns. He spotted about a dozen women who, judging from the dress and gaudy makeup, had come from the brothels and cribs. There must have been a hundred people in the group, and none of them looked happy. In the flickering light of the torches and lanterns carried by many, Cade could see expressions of rage and disgust. Quite a few looked terrified, eyes wide enough to see the whites from twenty feet away. Some were shaking their fists, and almost all were shouting. In the uproar, Cade couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  “What the hell are they so haired off about?” Cade asked.

  Samuel shook his head, his face grim. “I heard someone yell something about plague.”

  “Plague? On this ship?” Cade looked down the railing. Sorokin and Mr. Peters were trying to pull the gangplank back on board the ship to keep anyone from boarding. A pair of tough-looking characters had taken hold of the other end and were trying to wrestle it away. Sorokin gave a mighty heave and yanked the wooden gangplank out of the hands of one. The other, refusing to let go, was pulled into the water between the ship and the wharf. The crowd nearest to him burst into laughter and jeers as the man spluttered and struggled in the water.

  “This looks ugly,” Cade muttered.

  “Agreed.” Samuel reached down and picked up the rifle they’d taken off one of the Pinkertons. The other was propped up against the railing. Cade realized he’d left his pistol and the coach gun in the cabin. “Back in a second.”

  In the cabin, Cade checked the pistol, made sure it was loaded. He grimaced. Six shots wasn’t going to hold off that mob, and this damned cap and ball revolver took a damned eternity to reload. He didn’t know how many shots the rifles they’d taken had in them, but he wished now they’d looked around for more ammunition. There were two shots in the double-barreled coach gun and a few shells. He hoped like hell there were more firearms on board, because if that flock of dingbats outside got out of hand, this was going to go very badly, very fast.

  “What’s happening?” Marjorie demanded. She was sitting up in the bed, fully awake now.

  “There’s a crowd outside,” Cade said. “They’ve got it in their heads that there’s plague on board.”

  “Plague?” she scoffed. “That’s absurd.”

  Cade went to the door. “Tell them,” he muttered.

  “I will.” She stood up, her face determined.

  “I didn’t mean it,” Cade said. “You stay here.”

  “The hell I will,” she snapped. “This is my ship.”

  There wasn’t any use in arguing with her, Cade saw. “Just keep your head down.”

  When they got back on deck, Captain Alton was standing at the rail, attempting to address the crowd. “What’s the meaning of all this?” he bellowed. “What do you people want?”

  His vehemence seemed to quiet the crowd slightly. Some looked around at each other uncertainly. Then one of the better dressed men stepped forward and spoke loudly enough to be heard on deck. “You’ve just come in from China, right?”

  “Aye,” Alton called back. “We brought a hold full of tea and silks. What of it?”

  “That’s not all you brought back!” another voice called.

  Alton scowled and addressed the speaker as if he was dressing down an unruly sailor. “What the devil are you babbling about?”

  The tone didn’t set well with the crowd. They began to stir and mutter restlessly. Cade grimaced. He’d seen mobs in action before, and talking down to them never worked.

  “We’re talking about plague!” the first man shouted. “You know what it could do if that pestilence took hold in this city?”

  For once, Captain Alton was speechless. He shook his head, clearly not believing what he was hearing. After a moment, he regained his voice. “There’s no plague on this ship. None.”

  “Liar!” a voice called. Another voice joined in. “Liar!” The crowd took up the chant. “Liar! Liar!” The crowd was in full voice again, and Cade saw the chance of getting out of this without violence slipping away. Then the chant began to change. “Liar! Liar!” began to be replaced with, “Burn it! Burn it!”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  “Shit,” Cade said. He ran down to where the captain was standing just as the first lantern shattered against the side of the ship. It didn’t catch, but fell hissing into the water. But soon the air was full of flung torches and lanterns, arcing over the water, their flames reflected below. Most of them fell short, a few burst against the side of the ship, but one lantern made it over the rail, bursting at the foot of one of the masts. Flames began to spread.

  “FIRE ON DECK!” Alton called out. There was the crack of a rifle, and the captain pitched forward, falling to his knees before going over onto his face. Cade skidded to a stop in front of him just as another rifle shot zipped past him, so close he could feel the wind of the bullet. The single shots became a ragged volley. Bullets buzzed like angry bees by Cade’s head. He dropped to the deck and belly-crawled to the rail.

  He looked over to where Samuel was crouched down to avoid the fusillade aimed at the ship. When the shots slowed a bit, he popped up and returned fire, shouting something that Cade couldn’t make out. Someone in the crowd screamed in pain and rage, and the wood of the railing splintered in front of Samuel as the armed members of the crowd all turned their aim on him.

  Cade took the opportunity to come to one knee, the Navy revolver drawn. He saw a man running toward the edge of the dock, his right hand swinging back with a lantern gripped tightly, ready to toss. Cade braced the heavy pistol on the wood of the deck, took aim, and fired. He’d been aiming for the man’s chest, but the shot took him in the forehead. He staggered as the top of his head disappeared, but momentum carried him forward, pitching him into the dark water as the lantern fell from his slack hand. It burst on the wharf and the crowd parted around it. Their cries and shouts of rage rose to a howling roar like a hurricane.

  Cade took aim at another man he saw in the crowd who was kneeling and pointing a rifle at the ship. The shot caught the rifleman in the throat and knocked him back on his ass, clutching vainly at his throat for a moment before toppling over on his side. Someone leaned over to pick up the rifle and Cade shot him too. He thought he heard two rifles now, firing from the deck, and looked down the rail. Marjorie had picked up the other rifle and was firing into the crowd, her face as calm and intent as if she was at a shooting range.

  “Marjorie!” he yelled. “Get down!” She ignored him.

  Another torch made it over the rail and landed a few feet away. The planks of the deck began to catch. Bullets singing overhead, Cade tried to crawl toward the fire, shucking off his coat with the idea of using it to smother the flames. He heard the
sound of running footsteps, then Mr. Peters leaped over his prone form. The bucket of water he was carrying sloshed onto him, soaking his clothing. Peters threw the remaining water from the bucket onto the smoldering torch, then threw himself flat on the deck as the riflemen on the dock turned their attention to him. He rolled to one side and looked at Cade reproachfully. You brought this on us, his look said as clearly as if he’d said it in the King’s English.

  “I know, man,” Cade muttered. “I know. Sorry.”

  Peters shook his head and rose to a crouch, heading for the rail opposite the mob. He went over it without stopping, and Cade heard a splash as he went into the water.

  “Can’t say as I blame you, son,” Cade muttered. He rolled to the rail and stuck his head up. Samuel was firing steadily now, taking a shot, then ducking down and heading to another firing point. Judging from the way the crowd was beginning to waver, moving this way and that, his shots were taking a toll. Some of them, particularly the more raggedy men and the painted whores, started running down the wharf, unnerved by resistance. This wasn’t what they’d signed up for. But the ones who remained, twenty-five or so, were the ones with rifles and torches, and they didn’t look like they were going anywhere. Cade sensed this was the hard core, and he had a feeling he knew who was backing them.

  “Cade!” Samuel called over to him. “I’m running dry!”

  “Shit,” Cade muttered. Samuel was nearly out of ammunition and he was down to his last three rounds. He looked around. Sorokin was standing upright by the mast that had been the first to catch fire, carrying a good-sized bucket in each hand. He set the left-hand one down and threw water over the steadily growing fire from the one he carried in his right. Steam rose from the flickering blaze licking up the mast. As the huge Russian bent for the other bucket, he staggered slightly, letting out a loud grunt. Cade saw the blood starting from his side where a bullet had struck home. Sorokin shook his head like a bull in the ring shaking off the pain of the spears and hoisted the second bucket. Cade got up, head and shoulders over the rail, and spent his last three shots on trying to keep the mob’s heads down to give Sorokin a chance. As he turned back and slumped down, fishing out his silver powder horn, he saw the big man dump the second bucket over the flames, then stagger as another shot hit him in the back. The flames hissed and sputtered, but didn’t go completely out. Sorokin began to crawl away.

  Cade looked toward the stern. He and Samuel could follow Peters over the rail, but he didn’t know how to swim, and he doubted Samuel had had the chance to learn. Further, there was still Marjorie to worry about, not to mention her daughter and Bridget. He cursed to himself as he began the laborious loading process on the cap-and-ball revolver. He shook the powder from the horn into one cylinder, fitted a brass projectile over it, then pushed it into place with the loading lever. This is going to take too long, he thought as he fished in his pocket for the small case of percussion caps that fit over the nipple at the back of the cylinder. As he did, he looked up and saw the longboats on their wooden cradles. If he could get one in the water, putting the ship between them and the mob, maybe they could get away. But each boat was a good ten feet long, solidly built. There was no way one man could get one into the water by himself, and then get everyone into them, including a child and a woman still sick from being poisoned. He looked around for Scarface Henry, but he was gone. Probably over the rail with his shipmate. Alton had said they were loyal, but that was apparently to him, and whatever loyalty they had to the ship died with him.

  He spotted Sorokin, who’d made it to the raised lip of a hatchway where he slumped in a sitting position, his head down. He’d taken two shots but he was still breathing. Cade shook him by one shoulder. The Cossack raised his head groggily, his eyes bleary and unfocused. “Sorokin,” Cade said again, pointing behind him at the longboats. “We need to get one of those boats in the water.” Sorokin stared for a moment, then raised his own finger to point silently. Cade looked. He realized that Samuel had stopped firing. With nothing to keep them at bay, the mob pitched more lanterns and torches onto the deck and the starboard boat was burning. “Well, there’s one left,” Cade muttered. He looked over at Sorokin. The man’s eyes were wide open and staring. He was gone.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Cade shook his head. “God damn it,” he muttered.

  He couldn’t see through the smoke and flames where Samuel was, couldn’t tell if he’d ceased firing because he was shot or just out of bullets. He saw a figure between the boats, obscured by the smoke but moving toward him. “Clayborne!” he called out. But it was Bridget who emerged from the choking cloud, running at a crouch, carrying something in one hand. As she reached Cade, he saw she was carrying the stubby carriage gun in one hand and a bandolier of shells in the other. Well, that was something. The shotgun wasn’t much good at range, but maybe he could discourage the bastards. Not that he could do it for long.

  “Where’s Samuel?” he asked, taking the shotgun from her hand.

  She looked at him, wide eyed, her hair wild and disheveled around her pale face. “I don’t know. I saw him throw the gun down, then everything was all smoke. And flames.” He could see the tears running down her face and knew that it wasn’t just her eyes watering from the smoke. “I’m afraid.”

  “You’re fine, girl. Keep yourself together.” The flames from the boats were rising, and Cade could see that before too long, he’d be cut off from the stern of the ship. “Come on,” he said. He headed toward the port side, as yet untouched by flame.

  Bridget stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Cade.”

  He stopped, looking at her impatiently. “Come on, Bridget. We’ve got to move.”

  “Please, Cade.” Her eyes were panicked. “Don’t let me burn. I’m afraid. Don’t let me burn.”

  “I won’t.” He tried to pull his arm away.

  She gripped it tighter. “Shoot me. Please.”

  He succeeded in pulling his arm free. “I’m not going to shoot you, you crazy—”

  “PLEASE!” she shrieked. “It’s better than that.” She gestured toward the flames getting closer.

  “Come ON, damn you!” Cade roared. “Or stay here and burn.” He turned and ran down the port rail, not looking back to see if she followed.

  The heat felt more intense as he reached the door to the stern house. “MARJORIE!” he shouted. Before he could open the door, it swung wide.

  Samuel was there, carrying the other shotgun. Marjorie was behind him, holding Violet’s hand. “We’re all right, Levi.”

  “Good,” Cade said. He looked at Samuel. “You good to help me with one of those boats?”

  Samuel nodded. “Lead the way.”

  Cade turned to Bridget. “Get them ready. And see if you can find some rope. Once we get that boat in the water, we’re going to need to start lowering people down.”

  Bridget didn’t move. She was still trembling and looking at the flames.

  “MOVE, damn it!” Cade used his cavalry voice, the one he’d used while applying a boot to the ass of a slacking trooper. “You don’t want to burn, this is how we go.”

  “Okay,” the terrified girl whispered, and pushed past them into the cabin. Cade could hear Violet crying.

  “Come on,” Cade said to Samuel. “Let’s see if we can figure out how to get this damn boat from up here to down there.”

  As Samuel nodded, another volley of shots rang out. Samuel staggered to the left, crying out in pain. He slumped to the deck, clutching at his arm.

  Cade crouched beside him. “Easy, partner,” he said with a calm he didn’t feel. “Where are you hit?”

  “My arm,” Samuel groaned. “I think it’s broken.”

  Cade’s frustration boiled over. “God damn it,” Cade snarled. “That is enough.” He ran to the rail, dropped behind it, and propped the coach gun on the splintered wood. He spotted the hoodlum who’d addressed the captain earlier and drew a bead on him. Some instinct seemed to
warn the man, and he turned to face Cade. He saw the shotgun leveled at him and began backpedaling frantically. Cade fired. The shot missed. Cade took aim again, fired, missed again. He dropped down, broke the shotgun open, and reloaded. As he did, he looked behind him and saw that the second longboat was on fire. There was no way off the ship now. As if sensing their final victory, the flames roared higher.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He was talking to Marjorie, to Bridget, to Samuel. He’d led them to this place that had become a deathtrap. He looked back up, teeth clenched. If they were going to die, he was going to take some of the bastards responsible with them. He snapped the gun closed, raised himself to look over the rail again, and took aim. The hoodlum who was clearly the leader of the group was calling out something to his soldiers. He turned back toward the ship, a smug look his broad face. He was enjoying the prospect of burning a shipful of helpless people alive. He was also presenting a target that Cade couldn’t possibly miss. Cade tightened his finger on the trigger, then stopped.

  The hoodlum was looking down at his own chest, a puzzled look on his face. An unfamiliar object seemed to be protruding from his body, shiny and glistening wet in the flickering torchlight. He reached up with both hands to grip the unexpected growth, but it disappeared as if it was something from a dream. Blood stained the front of the hoodlum’s white shirt. He fell forward bonelessly, falling to the wharf on his face. Behind him stood a diminutive figure, dressed all in black, a hood over their face. With a careless snap of the wrist, the figure flicked the hoodlum’s blood off a gleaming foot-long blade. The figure held an identical blade in the other hand. Cade couldn’t see a face beneath the black hood, but there was no doubt in his mind who it was holding those blades.