Strike a Match 2

by Frank Tayell

  “That’s kind of cynical, isn’t it?” Ruth asked, looking around.

  “Maybe. Give a man a fish and he’ll be fed for a day. Sell a man a fish and he’ll come up with a way to buy more. Set the price too high and he’ll learn how to steal. It’s a balancing act. Some people need to be pushed, and others need to be dragged as we walk the tightrope, but it’s far better than slipping into the barbarism awaiting us either side. We’re in the way,” he added as a trio of railway workers swung a coal-hopper over the tender.

  “Sir, are there any orders?” Lieutenant Lewis asked, coming up to join them.

  “Go to the telegraph office, see if there are any messages,” Mitchell said.

  The lieutenant saluted and headed toward the small brick building with a yellow stripe below the eaves. A dozen cables snaked into it from the wires that ran along the railroad.

  “He seems like a good officer,” Mitchell said. “Technically you won’t be under his command, and hopefully it won’t matter, but if it comes to it, do what he says. Now, I better go and report that incident on the tracks. Keep an eye on the train. No one gets off. No one comes on board.”

  “You think anyone will try?”

  Mitchell smiled. “I didn’t mean anything sinister. I meant people like that.” He gestured toward a man standing by a barrow that held a trio of steaming pots. “We want to keep what we’re doing secret, remember?”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” Ruth’s stomach growled as her nostrils registered the scent of broiled meat. Hoping that by not looking at him, she might be able to forget the food vendor was there, she began walking down the length of the train.

  The depot was far larger than any of the others they’d been through that day. To the south, the tracks ran for five hundred yards before reaching the currently open gate, guarded either side by two uniformed Marines.

  “We allowed off?” Corporal Lin called down from the door.

  “Sorry, no,” Ruth said.

  “One minute?” Lin suggested, gesturing toward the vendor. “I can be there and back before the officers return.”

  “Could you eat the food, and get rid of the bowls, too?” Ruth asked. “Sorry, it’s the captain’s orders.”

  “Fair enough,” Lin said, though the look in her eyes suggested she’d probably try for the cart as soon as Ruth’s back was turned. “Do you know what happened back there?” the corporal asked. “Is it connected to the prisoner?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ruth said. “Captain Mitchell’s gone to find out.”

  Ruth turned around. On the grounds that if she didn’t see the Marine leaving the train to buy food she wouldn’t have to do something about it, she kept her eyes studiously forward as she walked toward the locomotive. To the north, the depot stretched even further. A hundred yards beyond the engine, the tracks branched, with the easterly set leading to a loading yard, the westerly to a mountain of coal. Using the train’s tender as a guide, she tried to estimate how much fuel was there, but soon gave up. It was a lot, yet the coal heap was dwarfed by the steel walls surrounding the depot.

  Beyond the platform was an open-air market with a dozen stalls. A trapper was holding up a squirming piglet. Ruth was too far away to tell if he was buying or selling. Opposite him, two women held a dead deer, strung on a pole by its tied feet. A third woman was arguing over the price it should receive. Beyond the stalls was a row of old cottages converted into businesses. She identified the pub by the tables outside, and the blacksmith next door by the furnace visible through the open door. Next to that was the familiar green cross of the apothecary, and then a shop with no sign, but an ornate candlestick hanging outside. Above and behind those were rooftops with chimneys pouring smoke. Surrounding it all was a sea of noise. No, it wasn’t a depot but a town.

  “The Mail train got through here on schedule,” Mitchell said, when he returned. “But about an hour before we reached that bridge in Leicester, the talks between Albion and our government broke down. They’re being held in the hall behind St Mathew’s.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of a spire. “Albion threatened to cut off the railway unless they get to appoint their own tax collectors.”

  “Is that a real issue?”

  “If their king gets to appoint them, you can be sure they won’t collect much tax. But the timing is a little too coincidental for my taste. I wonder if Emmitt was behind it.”

  “You think he could be?” she asked.

  “Theoretically? Perhaps. He would have had to send them a message by telegram. And it would mean he had some sway with Albion. Maybe he was originally from here, but…” He trailed off, the sentence unfinished, as Lieutenant Lewis came running onto the platform.

  “The telegraph’s been cut,” Lewis said.

  “Where?” Mitchell asked.

  “Around Twynham. The city’s cut off.”

  “It’s the fifth of October tomorrow,” Ruth said. “Maybe that’s what Ned Ludd meant, that the attack would be in October, not November.”

  “Then wouldn’t they cut the lines tomorrow?” Mitchell said. “Has Emmitt brought his plans forward, or changed them in the hope he can kill Fairmont? Or…” He took a pace away from the train, looking at the town. “Or capture him? Taking hostages for ransom is something the people of Albion are familiar with,” he murmured. “Maybe,” he said, speaking more normally. “Stay here, go back, or go on; those are our choices. Whether or not Emmitt bribed Albion, we can’t go back. At least, we can’t go through Leicester.”

  “And if he bribed them, is it safe to stay here?” Ruth asked, turning to look in the direction of the ruined city, currently hidden by the town’s high walls.

  “I say yes,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “We can seal the town off, kick out anyone who doesn’t live here, institute a curfew, and—”

  “And that’s the logical response, isn’t it?” Mitchell said. “It’s what he’d expect us to do. It’s what he’s planned for. If we stay, there is a high likelihood innocent people will die. If people come for Fairmont, it will be in the middle of the night. We’ll fire back and there’s no telling where the stray bullets will go. No, Fairmont’s not worth that. Was there any news from north of here?”

  “The Mail train left here safely,” Lewis said. “But it’ll be another hour before it arrives at the next depot.”

  “But the telegraph is working north of here?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then perhaps we’re being paranoid. If we wait for the mail train to reach the next depot, it’ll be too late for us to leave. So we’ll go on, and we’ll go now. First, though, I want a word with Fairmont.”

  “We want the other four addresses,” Mitchell said.

  “Not until I’m safe, and this place doesn’t look that,” Fairmont said. “The fact you’re wanting to change our deal confirms it.”

  “Don’t be smug, Fairmont. You’re the one they’re after.”

  He blanched. “You’re serious? They’re coming for me?”

  “Didn’t you hear the rocks rattling on the roof? They tried to stop us in Leicester. The telegraph has been cut. We can’t get word back to Twynham.”

  “I… I see. Well, what are you going to do about it? You’re meant to protect me. That was the deal!” His voice rose to an almost comical squeak.

  “And the best way of doing that is if you tell me everything,” Mitchell said.

  “No. Because if the telegraph has been cut then you’ve no way of getting the information back to Twynham. It won’t do you any good, and you’ll use it as an excuse to leave me in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Don’t tempt me. You said that you regretted what you’ve done. Prove it. Tell me what you know.”

  “I can’t trust you,” Fairmont said.

  “You’ve got it the wrong way round,” Mitchell said. “It’s me who has to trust you. Right now I don’t. In fact, you know what?” He reached into his coat, took out a set of keys, and opened the cage. “Stand up.”

 
“What? Why?”

  Mitchell hauled the man to his feet. “I’m going to let you go, here and now. Not in this depot, but outside of it.”

  “They’ll kill me!”

  “You know how to save your life,” Mitchell said. He uncuffed the man’s wrist.

  “Number fifteen Marchemont Place. Forty-eight Harrington Street. Number nine Trafalgar Road. Seven Harbour Rise,” Fairmont said.

  “Thank you,” Mitchell said. He re-cuffed the man and locked the cage. He turned to Ruth. “I’m going to see if I can find someone to whom I can entrust that information,” Mitchell said. “Watch him.”

  It was twenty minutes before he returned.

  “We’re stopping,” Ruth said, an hour later, speaking at the same time as Mitchell stood up. Ruth followed him out of the carriage, and up the narrow ladder that led to the roof of the tender. As Mitchell ran, using his hands as much as his feet, across the tender and down the other side, Ruth paused. She stared ahead. There was a train stalled on the tracks in front of them.

  “Deering!”

  Ruth hurried after the captain, reaching the locomotive just as a last whoosh of steam heralded its final halt.

  “It’s the Mail train,” Mitchell said.

  “Can we reverse?” Ruth asked.

  “Not if we want to get to shelter before nightfall,” the driver said.

  “Where’s the nearest branch line?” Mitchell asked.

  “About four miles ahead, there’s a line that runs east to west.”

  “And behind us?”

  “We’d almost be back at Leicester,” the driver said.

  “What does he want us to do?” Mitchell muttered. “What does he expect?”

  “Where are the people?” Ruth asked. “Why’s no one coming to ask for our help?” The driver’s expression gave her the answer. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

  “Or being held for ransom,” Higgins said. “That’s happened before, though not this far north.” There was a desperately hopeful edge to the driver’s voice. He would know the train’s crew, she supposed.

  “We can’t worry about that now,” Mitchell said. “The easiest thing, the logical thing, for us to do is retreat, so we won’t. Can we push that train four miles?”

  “If the track’s intact,” Higgins said.

  “Then we need to check. After four miles where does the branch line lead?”

  “Toward the west coast.”

  “Is that section of railway passable?” Mitchell asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know the last time anyone used it.”

  “That’s the way we’ll go,” Mitchell said. “We’ll assume Emmitt has learned where we’re heading. We’ll go west and try to get forty miles from here. That will put us beyond riding distance, and safe until dawn, at least from whoever did this. Tomorrow… well, we’ll worry about that tonight.” He turned to the stoker. “Can you drive that train?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’re coming with me. You can check the engine and I’ll check the track.” He turned back to Higgins. “If anything happens, go back to the depot.”

  Mitchell jumped down from the cab and ran back to the passenger cars. Ruth thought of following, but changed her mind. Whatever danger they were now facing, she’d rather be out in the open where she could see it. She walked along the railroad until she was in front of the locomotive.

  The stalled train was five hundred yards ahead. Either side of the tracks, ferns jutted up from thick bracken. Beyond that was a forest of pines, spaced eight feet or more apart. Decades of fallen needles had kept the undergrowth sparse. Ruth couldn’t see any danger in the trees. There was no sign of life ahead of them. No birds either, she realised. The only sound came from the engine behind. She drew her revolver, but found little comfort in the weapon.

  She heard footsteps. She turned around to see Mitchell with Hamish Boyd the stoker, Corporal Lin, and two Marines.

  Mitchell looked at her uncertainly before reaching some internal decision. “If you’re coming, stay with the stoker. Keep your gun out, but don’t fire unless I signal.”

  “Right. Yes. Um… what’s the signal?” she asked.

  “When I start shooting,” he said and jogged off along the tracks. The corporal went with him, the two privates fell in behind. A hundred yards from the rear of the stalled train, Mitchell stopped. From the way he clutched one hand to his side, Ruth thought he must be winded. Then she saw him point ahead and crouch down. She ran to catch up, the stoker following.

  “You see the body?” Mitchell asked.

  It was lying on the southbound set of tracks, ten yards from the rear-most carriage.

  “Maybe this was just a robbery,” the stoker said, a slight tremor in his voice. “They got what they came for and went.”

  “No,” Mitchell said. “This is because of us. Slow and cautious from now on. When we reach the train, stay close to it. Only stop when you’ve got a wheel shielding your legs. Boyd, Deering, you stay ten yards behind Lin and I. Khan, Conner, you stay ten yards behind them. Be prepared for a trap. Get ready to run in whichever direction the bullets aren’t coming from.”

  All of sudden, what they were doing seemed very real. Ruth waited until Mitchell had started moving and anxiously gauged the distance before following. As she got nearer to the train she saw the bullet holes. There were dozens of them in the rear door of the carriage. When she moved off the tracks and onto the verge, she saw the train’s sides. There were more bullet holes. Hundreds of them. An image of those rifles they’d found in Windward Square came to her, and she stopped trying to estimate how many shots had been fired.

  Bullets had torn through both walls of the train, breaking most of the windows. As to the fate of the passengers, the blood dripping from an open doorway down to the track spoke to that. Inside were bodies. One wore the uniform of the Railway Company, the others were dressed in ordinary clothes. They were local commuters, perhaps visiting family in the next town, or travelling for business, or— There was a tap on her arm.

  “Don’t stop,” the stoker said. His face was pale, twisted with shock.

  The next carriage was the same. The bulkier tender was scratched from where bullets had gouged lines through the paintwork. Ruth reached the locomotive. Mitchell pulled himself up to the cab. Ruth stood with her back against one of the wide wheels, staring at the pine forest. There was no sign of life. She looked to the Marines for reassurance, but they appeared as agitated as she felt.

  “There’s no driver. Some blood,” Mitchell said. “Come up here and see if you can get it moving. Do it!” he barked when the stoker froze for a second too long.

  “No. No. It’s no good,” the stoker said after less than ten seconds in the cab. “They’ve smashed the valve.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “No.”

  “Can you get the train moving?” Mitchell asked.

  “By shunting it. But we need to check the tracks ahead.”

  “Fine. Do what you need so the train will move. Private Conner, stay here, protect the stoker. Corporal, I want—” He was interrupted by a sudden barrage of gunfire.

  Private Khan pulled Ruth to the ground. The firing stopped for a heartbeat, then it began again, this time continuing without a pause.

  “Too late!” Mitchell hissed, dragging the stoker out of the cab. “Did you pull the brake?”

  “You don’t pull it,” the stoker babbled.

  “Is it off? Can we push the train?” Mitchell yelled.

  The gunfire suddenly got louder. No, she realised. It wasn’t the gunfire, but the sound of bullets ricocheting off metal. The first shots had been aimed at the other train. Now, the shooters were firing at them.

  “They’re on the eastern side,” Mitchell said. “Keep the train between us and them.”

  “And if they’re in the woods to the west?” the stoker asked.

  “We hope they aren’t.” Mitchell said. “Move. Back along the train.
We need to signal to Higgins, and get him to move his train forward.”

  Ruth didn’t need the explanation. One word would have summed it up: crawl, and that’s what she did. That hellish cacophony faded as the shooters shifted their aim again. All she could see was grass and gravel, and beyond that Corporal Lin’s boots. The boots were getting further ahead. She crawled faster.

  The shooting abruptly stopped.

  Boyd stood up. “Run. Now,” he said, sprinting along the tracks.

  “Get down!” Mitchell yelled.

  The stoker didn’t.

  “Keep crawling,” Mitchell hissed at Ruth.

  She didn’t. She stayed unmoving, watching the stoker. He reached the end of the Mail train and kept running, his head down, his arms pumping, sprinting toward their locomotive. He would make it, Ruth thought. Whoever was shooting at them had gone.

  A single shot, somehow louder than the cacophony that had gone before, cut through the silence. The stoker collapsed.

  “Sniper,” Corporal Lin said.

  “It must be Emmitt,” Mitchell said.

  “It can’t be,” Ruth said. “I broke his arm. I’m sure of it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mitchell said. “Keep going.”

  Just before they reached the end of the first carriage, the gunfire started again. It changed pitch, slowed, and sounded more measured. Was that the Marines, returning fire?

  They were at the rear of the last carriage. Ruth could see the locomotive, and figures on the tracks to either side. She straightened, about to wave when Mitchell dragged her back down.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “But…” Then she saw it. The clothing. Those people weren’t Marines.

  “Sir, we’ve got to help them,” Lin said.

  “I know,” Mitchell said. “I count four by the train.”

  “The same,” the corporal said.

  “What about the sniper?” Mitchell asked.

  “I’ve got a bead on him,” Private Conner said.

  “You sure?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take him out,” Mitchell said.

  Time stretched. Ruth looked at the train. One of the four figures had already disappeared. A second vanished, going inside. She wanted to scream at the Marine, to yell at him to fire and be done with it. The man waited. The last two figures started running away from the train.