by F. M. Parker
Lew spoke to Tim. “Once we are inside, quickly find a spot and don’t move until your eyes get adjusted to the little light in there. Make Rawlins come to you. Out wait him. The man who moves can be seen easiest.” He raised his voice and called to Shattuck, “We agree. Wollfolk and Rawlins will close the doors while you and I watch to see that there’s no tricks played.”
“Right. Rawlins will close them on the river side and Wollfolk the opposite side.”
Lew walked inside, his eyes scouring the half-empty warehouse. He saw nothing suspicious. He focused his attention on Shattuck and Rawlins.
Tim and Rawlins began to move from one big door to the next, sliding them tightly shut. Shattuck, his sight hard on Lew, backed toward one far end. Lew trailed, angling off to the side. The last door banged shut.
Lew sprinted straight ahead through the half-darkness. A dozen long strides took him in between piles of freight. He turned abruptly left down an aisle, then angled to the right into another aisle. He halted, pressed tightly against some wooden crates, and stood stone-still.
He felt the sweat beads as he remained motionless, waiting for the foe to come stalking. He recalled other battles he had fought as a Texas Ranger, his pistol against another man’s. He had learned much from those times. He wished he had given Tim more guidance on how the fight should be waged. Let him not become impatient and walk into the sights of Rawlins’ gun.
He counted, marking off the minutes with his fingers. Five, and then five more. The outlines of the mounds of cargo were visible now in the light coming from the open door and the cracks up high near the eaves. The black depths of the warehouse were merely murky shadows.
At fifteen minutes, Lew knew something was wrong. He was playing a game that Shattuck had devised. That was bad. No attack had been made on Lew. That left only Tim. He was in deadly danger. Rawlins could draw Tim’s attention while Shattuck crept upon him from behind. Once Tim was dead, both men would come for Lew.
Crouched low, Lew ran on cat’s feet. He passed the middle of the warehouse.
A shot rang out among the freight some distance away on Lew’s right. Then silence for a few heartbeats. Abruptly two shots boomed, the concussions coming so close together that they blended into one prolonged explosion. The loud sound bounced off the walls, became distorted among the piles of freight, and died in eerie echoes in the gloom in the far distant corners of the building.
Tim shouted out in a high, excited voice. “Lew, I killed Rawlins.”
Lew screamed out in fear for his friend. “Tim, run! Hide! Shattuck is there. He’s close.”
A crate fell with a loud thump. Lew heard men struggling. A sharp cry of pain came.
“Fannin, I got Wollfolk,” Shattuck called in a gloating voice. “I got his head bent back to the limit. One tiny pull and his spine will break.”
“What do you want from me?” Lew asked.
“Rawlins is dead, Fannin. That leaves just me. I think you are a vengeful man and would hunt me until we fought. You may be better with a pistol than I am. I’ll let your friend go if you fight me with fists.”
“You are a professional boxer, so I’ve been told,” Lew said.
“Well, you’re a Texas Ranger, and a professional with pistols. So we’re both professionals. But I’ve got Wollfolk. Do we fight without guns, or do I break this fellow’s neck?”
“We fight.”
“Good.”
Lew came warily into the gloom-filled aisle between two long rows of piled cargo. Shattuck held Tim’s half-unconscious body in front of him. Tim’s head was pried back to such a degree that Lew thought the neck must surely be broken.
“Let him loose,” Lew said. “I want to see if he’s all right.” He moved three steps closer as he spoke.
Shattuck released his hold on Tim’s hair. Tim straightened his neck and shook his head, flinging out a spray of red droplets from his broken nose and mouth.
“He’s not hurt much,” Shattuck said. “I just hit him a few times to soften him. Now, throw your gun away and let’s finish this with fists.”
Lew knew Shattuck would never let Tim live. Once Lew was unarmed, both he and Tim would die. He took another step closer, peering intently through the murk of the warehouse.
Shattuck remained hidden behind Tim. Only the side of his face and one wicked, staring eye was visible.
“Do as I say,” Shattuck warned. “I can snap Wollfolk’s neck before you can reach me.” He again took hold of Tim’s hair and jerked his head back.
Lew lifted his pistol and fired. Shattuck and Tim tumbled backward in a tangle of arms and legs.
Lew breathed deeply in and out. Was Tim still alive? Lew knew with the certainty that only truly competent men have that his bullet had gone exactly to his point of aim. But had Shattuck, in being slammed by the bullet, broken Tim’s neck?
A moan came from the pile of bodies. Tim rolled to his knees. He halted in that position and stared down at Shattuck.
“My God, Lew. You shot out his eye.”
“Having just one eye might be a blessing in hell. For sure that’s where he’s going.”
Tim chuckled happily. “Damnation, I’m glad I never had to fight you.” He climbed erect and stood swaying in his feet.
Lew hastened to Tim and caught him by the shoulders. “How are you, partner?”
“I’ll live.”
“That’s good to hear. You are one bloody mess.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing now. We’re both alive.” He pointed a finger at Shattuck’s still form. “Our last enemy is dead. Maybe now we can have some peace.”
“I’ll give both of them a fiery journey to their destination,” Lew said. He began to gather boards, broken crates, and other burnable items from the warehouse and pile them on the levee. After he had accumulated a large mound, he carried the corpses of Shattuck and Rawlins outside and placed them on top of the wood. He found a can of coal oil and liberally doused everything with the flammable liquid.
Lew lit the fire with a lucifer and backed hurriedly away. The flames ignited with a loud swoosh. In a handful of seconds, the crackling fire was a raging flaming mass.
“Let’s go,” Lew said.
“Tim, do you know what will make you feel better?” Lew said as he walked down the side of the levee.
“What?”
“Some loving care from a beautiful woman.”
“You’re totally right,” Tim said. “I’ll head home and find one who’ll give me some. I suggest you go find one too.”
* * *
Dr. Carstensen left the hospital ward jammed with the beds of yellow-fever victims and went out onto the balcony. The space there was equally crowded with the ill. He threaded a path among the beds to the railing.
The gunners at the cannon positioned a block to the east of the Marine Hospital were taking a rest. Thank God for a respite from the thundering, ear-bursting noise. The smoke from the burning tar rose directly upward and no longer suffocated the patients.
Below Dr. Carstensen, on the sidewalk, a young man hurried past, a big smile on his smashed and bloody face. What did he have to smile about? Damn strange.
Carstensen started to return to his work, then halted. Something was different. Then he recognized what that difference was. The damp, sultry air was gone. A hot, dry wind was blowing strongly in from the West. Overhead, there was not one cloud, the yellow sun hanging in a clear blue sky. And there were no mosquitoes.
He had seen this type of weather come to New Orleans before, just as an epidemic of yellow fever reached its peak. Thereafter, as the hot, dry wind continued to blow, the number of fever deaths declined rapidly.
Carstensen realized that in some manner the change of weather halted the spread of the disease. He did not know why or how, only that it did.
Author’s Notes
The soldiers at Fort Jesup, located just outside New Orleans, had a saying: “Mud and water reach to the boot tops, mosquitoes cover everything above.” The fact t
hat yellow fever was transmitted by the bite of a mosquito was unknown in 1847 and remained so for another fifty years.
Epidemics raged off and on in New Orleans for more than one hundred and fifty years. Yellow fever was joined by cholera in an epidemic in 1832-33. Ten thousand people were known to have died, one in every eight inhabitants. Five hundred died in one day at the peak of the dual epidemics.
The peak of dying during the 1847 epidemic was reached in August, when twenty-two hundred people died. By the first of October, the number of deaths had decreased to a rate of eighty per month. In total some eight thousand people died.
The year of 1853 saw a resurgence of the yellow fever, and seven thousand two hundred citizens died.
Even with all the dying, the population of New Orleans swelled rapidly. At times it grew by more than a thousand a week as shipload after shipload of new immigrants arrived from a score of foreign lands.
Table of Contents
THE ASSASSINS
About the Author
Also by F.M. Parker
Prologue: The Making of the River
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Author’s Notes
Copyright
The Assassins
Copyright © FM. Parker, 1989 and 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
This digital edition published in 2011 by F.M. Parker
ISBN 978-1-908400-33-8
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