by F. M. Parker
The last third of the men were near the river. Hundreds of buckets of water had been splashed upon the beams and planks of the dock. They would not burn easily.
Every man had found a hard cudgel of some sort and carried it in his belt. There would soon be many broken heads. Men could die.
Lew turned his gimlet eyes on Tim. “You once said that you could kill a man if the situation was right. Well, I think tonight is the right time. The Irishmen have no guns. Some of the Live Oak Boys will surely be carrying them. Those armed men must be shot, and you and I have to do the shooting.”
Tim breathed in and out. The sound was like a sigh, yet held an undertone of anger.
Lew’s voice came sharply, questioning, “Can you help me shoot every Swamp man that has a pistol? If we can’t, they will surely kill these men who are helping us.”
Tim could feel the wolf rising in his heart. The Texan was correct. There was a time to meet violence with violence, to kill your enemy if you could. “Yes, I can shoot them. I think my uncle would approve.”
“I’m certain of that,” Lew said.
Tim pulled his pistol from his belt and checked the set of the lead balls on the powder and the condition of the firing caps. He slid the weapon back into its place.
The two fell silent. The wind washed over them in hot, damp waves as they waited for the impending battle to begin.
Lew stiffened. He knew the enemy had come, was hidden just out there beyond the reach of the lantern light.
“They’re here, Tim,” Lew said quietly. “Take your club and walk down to the other end of the warehouse like we planned. Remember, don’t let our men get shot. Kill any Oak Boys that pull a gun. If they don’t use guns, then it’s only a fight with clubs. Maybe there’ll only be broken heads and nobody will die tonight.”
Tim walked among the piles of cargo. “Get ready. Get ready.” He repeated the words in a low voice again and again to the men until he came to the far wall of the warehouse.
* * *
Edward Tarboll felt his pulse pounding with the excitement of the imminent attack. Nine years had passed since he had last led his band of pirates. The Boston-bound merchantman had been overtaken just off the east coast of Cuba after a three-day chase. He and his band had stormed aboard the ship with pistols banging and cutlasses swinging. Once they had boarded the ship, the fight to clear the decks of resistance and rout the last holdout defenders from below had taken less than ten minutes.
Capturing Wollfolk’s docks and setting all afire would be little different from capturing the merchantman. Probably even less difficult because Wollfolk and his Irishmen were not expecting to be boarded.
“I see that Texas Ranger, Lew, there at the desk,” Loussat whispered.
“So do I. We’ll both go for him. Once he’s dead, the other men will run.”
“Remember I get the first shot at him.”
“Then don’t fall behind me. Soon as Custus attacks and Lew is fighting them, we’ll catch him from behind.”
Tarboll crouched with Loussat in the dark at the foot of the levee. They were beyond sight of Custus and his gang of Live Oak Boys, and he could hear nothing from them. But unless he was mistaken, he could smell coal oil. He liked that. Soon Wollfolk and his property would be no more.
“What’s Custus waiting for?” Loussat said in an aggravated voice.
“Have patience,” replied Tarboll. Old pirates had learned much patience.
* * *
The shrill, savage battle cries pierced the night like daggers. An instant later, a long line of running men armed with clubs broke from the darkness and charged up the sloping face of the levee. A group of the men veered off at ail angle and tore past the end of the warehouse toward the docks. The major portion charged directly at the long side of the building.
Lew grabbed up his club from the desk and sprang to meet the assault. A. tall man yelling in a wild voice rushed upon him.
Lew blocked a hard swing of the man’s club. Then, before the fellow could recover, he struck him on the side with a rib-cracking blow. Another whack of Lew’s weapon laid the man out cold on the dirt floor of the warehouse. Lew whirled, looking for another foe.
No one was close and he threw a look along the length of the warehouse. Men fought with clubs. And swords flashed, for the young Creoles were using their sharp blades to cut arms, legs, to cripple men and put them out of the fight. Clubs were no match for the swords. Lew was glad the Creoles were with him.
Shouts and the clash of weapons rose to fill the building with a great clamor. Men began to fall as their opponents overcame them. Moans rose to mix with the shouts of victory.
At the foot of the levee, a second line of men, widely spaced and carrying metal cans, came out of the murky night. Part of the line peeled away, as had happened with the first wave, and ran toward the docks. The largest number of men climbed straight up the levee to the warehouse.
Lew barely had time to see the new threat before a man with an ax handle was flailing at him. They circled, darting in at each other, parrying and hammering, striving to find an opening, a weakness.
Tarboll slipped out of the darkness beside Loussat. Though his eyes were focused on Lew, he saw the strong resistance of Wollfolk’s armed Irishmen. How could they have been so well-prepared for the battle? Somehow they must have been warned. Still he could win, for fires were beginning to burn at half a dozen places on the side of the warehouse and one end wall.
Loussat raised his pistol to aim at Lew fighting a man swinging a club. The gun crashed. A jet flame lanced out at Lew’s back.
* * *
The man bore in, swinging his club mightly at Lew’s head. Lew dodged to the side. He bent forward and, reaching out to the limit, rammed his club into the man’s gut.
As Lew started to straighten, a bullet nicked him on the side of the head. He flinched and ducked. The second bullet whizzed over his head.
Lew pivoted to the rear and dropped to a knee. Two men with pistols were moving upon him. One held his gun leveled and was sighting down the barrel.
Lew dropped his club. His hand caught the butt of his pistol, lifted it, fired.
Loussat’s eyes opened wide in terrible surprise. He stumbled, his legs giving way. He fell with a thump.
Tarboll saw Loussat’s shot stagger Lew. But then, unbelievably fast, the Texan drew his revolver and killed Loussat. Tarboll jerked up his gun, aimed quickly.
Lew hurled himself from in front of Tarboll’s pistol. Even as he fell, he swung the barrel of his pistol, brought it into alignment with the man’s body. The gun roared and bucked in his hand.
Tarboll’s face twisted with the shock of the bullet ripping through him. He collapsed, slack and lifeless.
Lew leapt erect, his eyes searching for another man with a gun. He saw only men in hand-to-hand combat.
A pistol shot boomed in the far end of the warehouse. A second shot, from a different gun answered. Then a third shot rang out.
Lew broke into a streaking run, dodging swinging clubs and leaping over fallen, bloody men. A Live Oak Boy yelled a harsh cry and tried to hit Lew as he passed. Lew’s speed carried him safely beyond the reach of the club.
Lew slid to a stop at the opposite end of the building. Tim leaned against the wall. A redheaded man lay on the ground. Blood leaked steadily from a hole in his chest. He breathed once, then no more.
“Are you hurt?” Lew asked.
“No, I’m okay. That’s Custus, the man we had trouble with on the street. He tried to shoot me.”
“He’s done for. Go help the Irishmen. I’ll help the men on the docks.”
“The fire’s getting a good start.” Tim pointed at the oil-fed flames climbing the stanchions and sides of the warehouse and licking at the rafters.
“The fire can wait a few minutes longer. Help the men.” Lew snatched up a club from the floor and dashed down onto the docks.
“Now! Now,” Lew shouted as loud as he could above the screams and curses
of the fighting men.
As if in answer to his call, the deckhouse hatchways of the two ships tied at the dock were flung open. A mob of seamen swarmed out onto the decks and down the gangway. Their voices rang out savage as a pack of hunting dogs. Swinging belaying pins, the seamen sprang into the fray.
A Live Oak Boy, the first to be overrun by the sailors, screamed out in a harrowing voice as he was struck several times. A second Swamp man chased by two seamen raced full-speed into the darkness. Another man, badly hurt, tried to crawl away on hands and knees, but an Irishman spotted him and knocked him unconscious with a bone-breaking lick from his club.
More Live Oak Boys fell or fled. The front of the battle zone retreated toward the warehouse.
A sailor shouted out, “They’re running. Yahoo! Look at them run.”
Like a wave, the knowledge of which side was winning swept across the docks. Struggling groups of men broke apart. One side ran.
A great cheer swept across the docks. Men began to laugh. The Irishmen called out happily to the sailors who had come to their aid and helped defeat the bully boys from the Swamp.
The captain of one of the ships saw Lew and raised his hand in salute as he approached.
Lew, smiling broadly, called out, “Damn glad to see your seamen come tearing off the ship, captain.”
“I couldn’t let them destroy my cargo or endanger my ships,” said the captain. “It was a good plan to draw them all into the open and then beat the hell out of them.”
“It worked just like we hoped,” Lew replied. “Now, if you’ll have your medico look at the wounded, I’ll take the rest of the men and put out the fires those fellow started.”
“Can’t be much damage done by the fire in such a short time. Some charred timber, but not enough structural damage to put you out of business. I want you to start loading cargo again just as quickly as you can. When daylight comes, I want to see the last of New Orleans and be on my way with military supplies for General Scott.”
“You’ll be loaded by then.” Lew began to shout orders at the men around him.
27
Tim stretched his aching muscles and watched the orb of the sun crest the curve of the earth and a bright, clear morning rise from the swamp on the flat eastern horizon. The lingering purple shadows of the night began to burn quickly away.
He felt his impatience. The battle had been won, the fires quenched, and the ships loaded. Now he wanted only to hurry to Marie, hold her in his arms, and comfort her for her father’s death.
He looked at Lew standing near the river. The last ship was pulling away from the dock with a throb of its steam engine. Lew turned and walked toward Tim.
“Is your pistol loaded?” Lew asked.
“Yes. Why?” Tim was afraid he knew the answer to the question as he looked into Lew’s taut face and eyes cold as a panther’s.
“Tarboll and Loussat are dead. That leaves us with two enemies, Shattuck and Rawlins. Those men are most likely the toughest of the Ring. Surely the smartest, for they are still alive and their friends dead. The failure to burn the warehouse and docks and to kill us last night won’t stop them from trying again.” Lew pointed up at the yellow disk of the morning sun. “Daylight is here. Now it’s time we killed some men.”
Tim saw the pitiless anger in Lew. Nothing would prevent him from hunting the men. He made an excellent friend, but an implacable and terrible foe.
Lew’s hand touched the butt of his pistol. The fingers seemed to caress the wood and iron. To Tim that understated threat lent an eerie emphasis to what Lew was thinking. Tim felt his own sharp edge of hate. Never until now had he thought of searching for a man with one single purpose in mind: to deliberately slay him.
“They may have left town.”
“Maybe, but I believe they are still in New Orleans. They’ve started a war and now can’t leave until we are dead. My guess is that they’ll be at one of their warehouses waiting for us.”
* * *
With the warming of the morning, the heavy tar smoke that had lain in the streets all night began to rise in writhing black plumes. Some of the wooden barrels had given way under the charring fingers of the fire, and the bubbling tar had spread in a flaming blanket, nearly blocking some of the streets.
Lew led, avoiding as much of the lung-searing smoke as possible and setting a fast pace along Front Street. Now that the search for Shattuck and Rawlins had begun, he wanted the final battle to end quickly.
The avenues seemed foreign without the cries of the street vendors, the cake sellers, knife sharpeners, and fish peddlers. The merchant shops were closed. Lew had seen a few scurrying figures dart along the street and vanish into the houses. New Orleans was a desolate, frightened city. It was a fitting time for killing an enemy.
Lew and Tim came upon a large fire burning in the middle of the avenue. Pieces of wood, tables, chairs, a door ripped loose from somewhere, and other burnable odds and ends were used as fuel. In the center of the flaming, crackling mass, a human corpse was being consumed.
They had traversed but a short distance beyond the funeral pyre when a piercing, tortured screech came from behind them. They whirled.
A yellow buggy with the top laid back came hurtling along the street toward them. The driver, a woman with her hair blowing out behind in a wild, whipping tangle, stood spraddle-legged in the vehicle and viciously lashed the running horse with a whip. The wheels of the speeding vehicle struck the edge of the funeral pyre and sent sparks and burning embers flying. The buggy bounced and swayed violently, on the verge of overturning. But the woman maintained her footing with an inhuman agility, and the conveyance settled back into its original wild ride.
Clots of sweat foam flew from the laboring flanks of the straining horse. Its head was outthrust, the nostrils flairing as they sucked at the air. The beast’s back was cut in scores of places, and blood welled out to mix and thicken with the sweat. Still the woman struck with the whip again and again, driving the horse at the top of its speed.
The woman threw back her head and shrieked, an animal sound that peaked at an intensity of madness that made Lew’s spine tingle.
Annette Grivot saw Lew and reined the carriage directly at him. She brought the horse to a halt, the bridle bit cruelly cutting its mouth. The whites of her eyes showed and the pupils narrowed as she locked her sight with an insane light on Lew.
“You bastard,” the woman screamed, foam and spittle spraying from her mouth. Her whip snaked out amazingly fast. A piece of skin was jerked from the side of Lew’s face, torn loose by the metal tip of the whip.
Annette struck again. Lew dodged and threw up a hand to protect his eyes. The whip tip peeled away a piece of the back of his hand.
“You killed my husband for me. Then you rejected me for a nigger when I came to you with my love. I’ll cut out your eyes for that.” The long whip snaked out again.
Lew was backing swiftly out of reach. The metal tip, traveling at tremendous speed, missed his face and cracked like a small-caliber pistol just in front of his eyes. Even as Lew retreated from the hurtful whip, he knew sorrow for the woman. Her half-madness before had now been driven to complete lunacy by the death of her husband and the horror of the epidemic, the booming cannon, and the pall of smoke.
The woman cast a feral glance at Tim, then suddenly she was looking past both men. “It’s Enos! See him there on the street!” She stared, bending forward as if peering through a fog. “My husband is not dead. It’s all a lie. I’ll catch him. He’ll always love me.”
Lew looked in the same direction. He saw only an eddy of tar smoke trapped between the buildings and drifting along the street. The deranged mind of the woman saw something that could not exist.
The woman slashed the horse. It bolted down the abandoned avenue.
Lew heard the sobbing cry of the tormented woman. “Enos, wait for me! Oh, please wait for me!”
“Who in God’s good name was that?” Tim asked in shocked surprise.
; “Just a madwoman,” Lew replied, staring sadly along the street.
The yellow buggy, and the woman standing upright with inhuman agility, raced on and on.
* * *
“It’s Shattuck,” Lew said, gesturing at the tall man standing in the open doorway of the big warehouse on top of the levee. “I thought he’d be the kind of man who would fight and not run.”
“Rawlins is there too, farther back inside,” Tim said.
“I see him. They’re ready for us, Tim. How do you feel?”
“You name the game. I’ll play it out to the end with you.”
Lew looked at Tim, so ready to follow him into battle. He did not want to lead him to his death. But one man could protect another just so far. Then each man must fight his own fight, and die if his luck was bad.
“Fannin, we’ve been waiting for you,” Shattuck shouted. “You took your damn good time getting here.”
“You’ll be dead soon enough without rushing it,” Lew shouted back.
Shattuck laughed. “You got your story ass-backward. But I’m glad you got Wollfolk with you. Rawlins and I want to get this over with.”
“How many other men do you have with you?” Lew called, walking slowly forward.
“Just Rawlins and me, and no more. Hell, that’s all we need.”
“Come outside where we can see both of you,” Lew said.
“No. I’ve got a better idea. You come into the warehouse. Then we’ll shut all the doors. You and I’ll fight in one end and Rawlins and Wollfolk in the other end. Only the men who are left alive will see the daylight again.”
“What do you say, Tim? Rawlins will be hard to kill.”
“Those two had my uncle murdered. They’ve tried to kill you and me. We have no choice but to fight them. Their way is as good as any.”
Lew watched the warehouse as he mulled what Shattuck had suggested. He smelled the air heavy with the odor of burning tar. The cannon were still banging away in a desultory manner, the gunners weary after so many hours of loading the noisy weapons. The awful smoke and the loud booms might drive away whatever caused the fever and thus stave off more deaths from that cause. But there was nothing that would prevent death from finding Tim and Lew in the darkness of the warehouse.
