Standing upright and taking a wobbly step forward, Binx expected to feel a soreness in his legs; after all, two years had passed since he’d straightened his knees. There was a profound dread associated with this moment, and the memory of seeing Harald collapse to the ground. Paradoxically, then, Binx experienced a lightness in his joints, minus the weight of the ladder, as if he might somehow float away. It was a ludicrous prospect, one that made him giggle nervously.
“Are you all right?” Miss Sarah asked, sounding concerned. Extending her arm to him, she proposed, “Do you need something to lean against?”
“No, actually, if you could just—”
Knowing she couldn’t reach as high as his shoulder, Binx placed her hand on his forearm. Miss Sarah frowned, but left it there regardless. The pressure of her palm, no bigger than a maple leaf, allowed him to feel grounded.
“Like that?”
“Yes,” he said, with a shaky sigh. “Like that. For now.”
He didn’t glance up at the ladder, or look behind him. For a short while, they made no effort to move. They just stood there, feeling the sun on their backs, as the smile on Binx’s face grew wider and wider.
Chapter 20
A tumultuous night had passed since Miss Josephine’s abduction. During that time, Gordy had stuck to the periphery of things, learning what he could from stray bits of conversation. No one had seen or heard from Miss Josephine since the Sergeant Major’s discovery, nor had the Deutschman made any demands. To a man, the soldiers were baffled as to how he’d managed to enter Fort Brogue. Meanwhile, Myers was calling for a military tribunal—for the Deutschman, the sentry, and anyone else who might’ve been remotely culpable. Despite all the calls to action, the state of affairs was largely unchanged.
Though he’d kept his own counsel, Gordy had suspected Froelich’s involvement from the start. First, there was the matter of the Deutschman’s nationality. Second, upon their arrival, he’d noticed the soggy wad of clouds clinging to Miss Josephine’s turret. If indeed his uncle had been poached by one, the wind would’ve blown it in this direction.
“I know a way to get him down,” Gordy helpfully suggested. He and the Sergeant Major were standing outside the fort, peering up at the turret through an overcast morning. When not barking orders at his men or consulting with Myers, the Sergeant Major could be found here, staring at the window and fingering his Remington. The pistol had been a constant accessory since the day before, always holstered at his hip.
“He can flap his wings, for all I care,” the Sergeant Major muttered, turning up his collar against the sea breeze.
“I mean safely.”
“No one wants him down safely. If the Deutschman can be apprehended without any harm to Miss Josephine, it’s not so he can live out his days.”
Though Gordy had suspected as much, it was another thing to hear it confirmed. Froelich (presuming it was Froelich up there) had little chance of surviving, should Fort Brogue’s mood remained the same. He had no means of escape, and no food to sustain him. Unless Gordy could effect a change on the ground, there was only one way for the situation to end.
“Why is Myers so hell-bent?” he asked. “He says we should have a trial. He said, show a man a noose and he’ll find it hard to breathe.”
“A trial? There won’t be any trial.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t have a military tribunal for a private civilian,” the Sergeant Major tut-tutted, his eyebrows raised. “If it’s justice Myers seeks, I can summon Judge Harper—not that Myers would suffer the insult. Still, unless he can find a suitable replacement, all of this”—here, he waved his good hand at the turret—“is mere pageantry.”
It wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but Gordy decided to drop the subject. There was another question he’d been harboring: why was Myers so distraught about his niece? You’d think she was his daughter, from how he carried on.
“Can I trouble you one last time?”
“You want to know about my hand?” Grunting, the Sergeant Major said, “It’s not like you think.”
“I don’t think anything,” Gordy promised.
“Of course you do—everyone does. It was the last night of the Vicksburg siege. Do you know where that is? We knew that Pemberton was going to surrender—he’d already written to General Grant, stating his terms. Between that and the next day being the Fourth of July, we were all giddy with anticipation.” Suddenly, the Sergeant Major glared at Gordy. “This ladder of yours—it’s not here, is it? He couldn’t have used it to climb up there?”
“Where do you think I’d hide it,” Gordy scoffed, “in my pants? Anyway, your hand—did it get exploded or shot off?”
“All I ever wanted was a scar, something to show the pretty girls. If that sounds idiotic—well, I suppose it is. Anyway, I got a good look right before she bit me. She fell right into my hand.”
“She?”
“A fiddleback spider,” the Sergeant Major said. “Not so nice to look at, but dainty. The color of an acorn, and not much bigger. She landed in my palm, and—oh, bloody hell!”
The wind had changed directions, delivering a minor squall to where they stood. As water blew at them sideways, like someone emptying a bucket, the two men found themselves drenched. Retreating back inside, they left the turret window to its lonely view. For his part, Gordy felt on the verge of articulating an idea—something about what the Sergeant Major was saying as it related to the current situation.
Eager that he not lose the thread, he implored, “So you lost your hand to a spider bite?”
“Fiddleback,” the Sergeant Major repeated, as if the distinction were paramount. Standing just inside the postern gate, he borrowed from a pile of horse blankets to dry himself off. “If you don’t believe me, go ask someone—they can kill a cow, and bigger things. When she bit me, it hurt worse than anything I’d ever experienced. Worse than getting burned, worse than being shot. The next morning, thirty thousand Rebels got paroled all at once, all of them hoofing it to Alabama. By the second day, I couldn’t extend my fingers. By the third day, when I finally found myself a doctor, it had turned black. There wasn’t any discussion—he just took it off. People tend not to ask how it happened, and I don’t say.”
“Isn’t that the same as lying?”
“A lie of omission?” The soldier smiled. “How about I answer your question with a question? Which hand do you use to pick your nose?”
Gordy frowned. “Pick my nose? My right hand, I guess.”
“But you had to think about it?”
He had, though it put him in a different mindset than the soldier had intended. Maybe Myers wasn’t bereft over the loss of his niece, Gordy realized; maybe he was grieving for his own right hand! All at once, Gordy saw a way out—for himself, for Froelich, and even for Miss Josephine, should she so desire. Not bothering to dry himself off, he made a hasty apology:
“Sorry, Sergeant Major—I gotta find Frank!”
Not waiting for a reply, he ran across the open parade ground, crossed to the opposite turret, and bounded up the stairs. Gordy expected to find Myers at Miss Josephine’s door, and so he did. The Scotsman made an indecorous sight, squatting and peeking through the keyhole. At the sound of Gordy’s approach, he stood abruptly, smoothing his shirt with an air of embarrassment.
“Yes?” he demanded. “What is it?”
“Miss Josephine was going to be your right-hand man!”
“Not so loud,” Myers hissed, casting an anxious glance at the door. “He may not know that.”
“But she was, wasn’t she? And now she can’t? That’s what the circuit judge was saying—she won’t be a U.S. citizen for another twenty years?”
“Nineteen years,” Myers automatically corrected him. But this exchange had the effect of focusing him, such that he stood a little taller. “You overheard all that?”
“I did,” Gordy nodded. “I’m always listening, hearing what other people have to say. And I’m c
reative, too—like at the bowling alley! You didn’t think I could win, did you? But I did, and not by changing the rules, either. Like you said, I mitigated expectations. Am I right?”
“Not entirely,” Myers frowned. “But you’ve got a keen ear, even if you failed to grasp my meaning. So what? What does any of this have to do with my Josie?”
“Me! Make me your right-hand man! I’m smart, I’m motivated—plus, I’m already an American citizen!”
The idea was still new to Gordy, but he was confident of its merit. For this reason, his was disheartened by Myers’s response. In the confines of the narrow stairwell, the Scotsman’s laughter bounced off the walls, almost like a trapped bird.
“Oh-ho, it’s a job you’re after? I should’ve guessed it, shouldn’t I? Well, Mister Right-hand Man, maybe you can answer me this, since you’re so motivated. If I were to employ you, how would you resolve the current situation? Surely you’ve got an answer, being as creative as you are.”
“Easy,” Gordy said. “Froelich’s my uncle.”
All the Scotsman’s good humor, no matter how fatuitous, promptly vanished. “Your uncle?” he croaked.
“I’m pretty sure—mostly sure. Anyway, it’s not like I lied.” Borrowing from the Sergeant Major, Gordy qualified, “Or if I did, it was a lie of omission. I’ll just knock on the door and tell him to let her go. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“No.”
Frowning, Gordy peeled his shirt from his chest. It was becoming unpleasantly stuffy in the stairwell, and his clothes, still wet from the recent downpour, smelled altogether brackish.
“No? What do you mean, no?”
Shaking his head, Myers muttered, “The man’s demented—he’s naked and ranting, locked away in a tiny space. What if you knock on the door and he doesn’t believe you? I can hardly believe you, and I’ve still got my wits about me. It’s too easy.”
Desperate to press his advantage, Gordy blurted out, “I have a ladder.”
The idea was so tailor-made that it actually made him smile. Myers, however, seemed unconvinced.
“A ladder?” he echoed, cocking his head to one side. “You’re saying you’ve got a ladder tall enough to reach that window?”
“The fourth tallest in history—seventy meters, at least. It’ll reach Miss Josephine’s window and keep on going. It’s not here, obviously—I’ll have to send word to my brother to bring it, and he’ll need help, but we can have it here in a day or two. If Froelich won’t walk through that door, you can go in the other way.”
“A ladder,” Myers said a second time, clearly at a loss for what to think. “And you’d be prepared to give it to me?”
“I’d sell it to you.”
“Sell it?”
“Well, I don’t work for you yet, now do I? You said if I had to choose between money and fame that I should always choose money. This ladder could make me famous. There’s a reporter from Philadelphia who wants to write about it. But you,” Gordy added, looking the Scotsman in the eye, “can do better than a newspaper story. You can make me your right-hand man. It’s an easy decision.”
A moment of silence passed between them. In the distance, the sound of the surf rose and fell, and beyond that came an ethereal disturbance, like the tinkle of wind chimes. While waiting for his answer, it suddenly occurred to Gordy that Myers would research his history—that he’d hire someone like cousin Hiram to investigate his past. Indeed, why would a magnate trust his affairs to a total stranger?
Finally, the Scotsman thrust out his hand. Staring at it, Gordy expected to feel elation. But instead of sealing the pact, he remained with his arms pressed against his sides. His mind had returned to that country lane, littered with mail, and the victim he’d left by the side of the road.
“Do you not see my hand?” Myers barked, seemingly oblivious to his duress. “Take it, man! Don’t let an offer wither on the vine!”
Shaking his head, Gordy said, “Frank, there’s something I have to tell you before I can shake. Something I’ve done.”
In his mind, he was furiously unspooling the narrative, trying to find its natural starting point. Not riding on the mail jitney with Gak. Earlier, then—as far back as Carmichael and Nantz? Or further still, when he was falling through the trees? All his thoughts, Gordy discovered, terminated with the ladder.
Myers’s outstretched hand had flagged a little, but he’d managed to keep it extended. Perhaps to ease the strain on his shoulder, he now took a step toward Gordy and reached out, seizing his palm in a firm grip.
“I can see it weighing on you,” Myers said, holding Gordy’s gaze. “This terrible thing that you’ve done? Take it from me, lad—we’ve all done terrible things. All of us, without exception. But the only alternative is not doing bad things when the moment requires it, and that has consequences too, does it not?”
Gordy was picturing the jitney driver, his pants pulled down around his ankles, sprawled over Gak. Up until this moment, he hadn’t allowed himself to consider what might’ve happened next, had he failed to intervene. It might’ve been Gak lying dead in the road if Gordy hadn’t swung his bludgeon.
“Let the one-tenth men debate the finer points,” Myers continued, as if he were privy to Gordy’s innermost thoughts. “In that way, they’re trapped in the moment of indecision. We made our play, you and I—we did what needed to be done. So no more talk of deeds or misdeeds, yes? I won’t hear another word. Now could you please rid my turret of your blasted uncle?”
Pumping Gordy’s arm, Myers jarred him from his revelry. Although he’d promised to deliver his uncle, Gordy wouldn’t sacrifice Froelich’s safety.
“Rid him, sure,” he repeated. “But do you promise not to hurt him? No tribunal or firing squad—nothing like you said?”
Shrugging, Myers groused, “Of course—you have my word. So long as my Josie is returned safely.”
Then, as if amused by a clever turn of phrase, a smile graced the Scotsman’s face. “By golly,” he said, tousling Gordy’s hair. “I always imagined myself having a son!”
Chapter 21
After witnessing Danny’s death, Josie spent hours wandering among the caravans. Carmichael and Nantz saw fit to let her go—or perhaps they made threats to ensure her silence; Josie was too distracted to notice, ever conscious of the hole in her boot. Whenever her thoughts drifted toward that awful memory, she stuck her toe in the breach, as if she were a dinghy taking on water. Finally, when the daylight failed her and it started to rain, she was forced to consider her sleeping accommodations.
Surely, she thought to herself, the Logging Camp must employ a prostitute, if not two or three. She didn’t trust any man to offer her lodging without demanding something in return, not even one of the camp’s missionaries. The brothel itself was easy to find. She spotted the hutch at the center of things, with Harmony loitering in front, even despite the presence of a steady downpour.
“You with squirrel?” she asked, before Josie could introduce herself. Up close, the madam’s lips were painted the color of pomegranates.
“Am I what?”
“With squirrel. I can fix that.” Her eyes drifted to Josie’s midsection, giving meaning to the expression.
“Oh, no!” Josie exclaimed, horrified. “Not that! I just need a place to stay. I haven’t got any money. I’ve made a terrible mistake, really, and I just—”
“Your shoes.” Harmony’s eyes flitted to Josie’s feet.
“Pardon?”
“You can stay till morning, but only for your shoes.”
“They’ve got a hole in them,” Josie confessed. Inexplicably, tears filled her eyes and she suffered a bout of nausea.
The madam shrugged her shoulders. “There’s worse things. If a caller comes during the night, you’ve got to wait outside. Understood? Unless you want to put some money in your pocket.”
Rather than answer, Josie promptly removed her shoes—hoping the blush would quit her cheeks by the time she had them off.
&
nbsp; Luckily, the eventuality of a customer never came to bear. Josie survived the night, albeit on little sleep, and in the morning the rain was slightly improved. She was eager to return to Fort Brogue; she only wanted to fill her stomach before quitting the camp. How hard could it be, she thought, to find a warm meal?
But now, guided by the clarion call of the dinner bell, she was all turned around. The last time she’d heard it, it had been at her back, meaning she’d either passed the smokehouse or her ears were playing tricks on her. Her eyes, too: in a place with more head lice than walls (not counting the tarpaulin), it was ridiculous she couldn’t see the cookfire! She could’ve asked for directions, but even a whiff of helplessness might’ve been construed as something different. Frankly, she would’ve rather climbed a tall tree than submit herself to another wink, overture, or lewd grin.
Having lost all sense of direction, she decided to follow her nose, and finally she discovered what she’d been looking for. An uninspiring feat of carpentry, the smokehouse reminded her of a stable, save for the enticing aroma. Harmony had praised the brisket; and while Josie might’ve expressed misgivings, her way of thinking had changed.
“Hey!”
The voice came from behind her. Walk on, she thought to herself, determined to ignore it. It’s just a vagabond, trying to provoke a response. Or another cobbler who’s not a cobbler.
“Hey, red—over here!”
Spinning on her bare heel, she turned to face her aggressor—this vile little creature who would seek to rile and intimidate her. But when she looked, there was nobody there. Instead, she was presented with the broad side of the smokehouse, where the proprietor (busy at the moment, catering to a handful of diners) could enter and exit through a latched door. Frowning, Josie continued on her way. But almost immediately the voice sounded again.
“Here! Over here!”
From behind the door, a disembodied hand emerged, waved, and was swiftly withdrawn. That it appeared to be uncallused and possessing all of its digits confounded her expectations. With a sigh, Josie trudged over—peeking through the doorjamb, while being sure to keep her distance.
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