“Why, mister?” Binns croaked."
“He was about run out,” Steele replied easily. “This one's stronger.”
“You know I didn't mean that!” Binns screamed, on the verge of hysteria.
Steele ignored the question, as he lead the horse across the yard, checked the tension of the shrinking rope, then the aim of the rifle. He mounted.
“Why don't you just kill me?” Binns begged.
“Man ought to have time to make his peace with God,” Steele replied. “My father was a religious man. He'd have wanted even his murderers to have that much.”
He clucked to the horse and walked the animal out of the yard. Behind him, Binns whimpered pathetically, then ceased abruptly as the rope creaked.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FULLER'S Folly was constructed of roughcast stone and timber, designed in the shape of a European castle keep. It stood in the centre of a square area guarded by a twenty feet high wooden wall, thick enough for a sentry walkway to run along the top. There was a single gateway in the wall, wide enough to allow access to the largest wagon. Behind and to the sides of the fort, the terrain was a wasteland of jagged, sun-bleached rocks, scattered upon a vast area of unevenly convoluted ground - as if some gigantic explosion had ripped apart a mountain. At the front was a large, perfectly flat area, the furthest boundary marked by a flagpole from which flew the crossed and starred emblem of the, Confederacy. Beyond this, the ground fell away sharply, the texture as harsh and grotesque as that of the terrain in every other direction.
The flag of the Confederate States was not the only banner waving limply in the slight morning breeze. For from a pole erected in front of the gates, the British Union Jack was wafted by the same breeze.
In the shadow of the pole stood a man of about sixty, tall, straight and with iron grey hair. He was still handsome, even though his face showed the many lines of his age. And his pale blue eyes were alert and bright, seeming strangely younger than his years. He was attired in the full uniform of a British army colonel, complete with ceremonial sword in a scabbard and a baton tucked under his arm.
Before him, on the drill square between the two flagpoles, six dark-skinned men dressed only in white loin-cloths and red scarves marched in two lines of three. Their movements were perfectly synchronized as they made turns, wheels and changes of pace in an excellent exhibition of precision marching. The officer remained silent throughout; a slight upturning of the corners of his mouth showing his enjoyment of the perfect display.
“Colonel! Colonel Fuller!”
The Indian natives continued to move across the drill square, like automatons The colonel's reaction to the interruption showed as a slight tic in his left cheek.
“Colonel!”
The tic became more rapid. Fuller continued to stand rigid attention and his expression did not alter as he saw Carstairs far side of the square. The younger English was near exhaustion. He tried to break out into a run, but staggered and fell flat. He started to pick himself up.
“Detachment ... halt,” Fuller roared.”
The natives complied, standing stock still. Carstairs straightened, pulled back his shoulders and started off at a slow march. His steps faltered; but he struggled to retain some resemblance of military bearing.
“Detachment ... left … turn!”
Again the natives moved as one, bare feet slapping against the rock like a single rifle shot. Carstairs reeled to a halt in front of Fuller and attempted to hold himself as rigid as the colonel. Fuller ignored him.
“Detachment … stand … at … ease!” Bare feet cracked against rock once more. Fuller nodded his satisfaction, then swung his gaze towards the exhausted Carstairs. He swayed. The tic hi the colonel's cheek twitched uncontrollably.
“Captain Carstairs reporting, sir,” Carstairs gasped, executing a salute, which threatened to topple him again. “Washington mission accomplished. Enemy commander-in-chief mortally wounded. Union cavalry ... cavalry troop … close at hand … sir.”
He turned and raised a hand to point to the far side of the drill square. But fatigue overcame him and he crumpled to the ground as, the strength left his legs. The colonel stepped rapidly backwards, so that the unconscious man did not touch his highly polished boots. Then he swung towards the natives and bellowed at them in rapid Urdu, his tic coming under control as the excitement at the prospect of action superseded his rage at the interruption of the drill routine.
Four of the natives did an about-face and ran to the far side of the square, disappearing over the ridge! “The remaining two loped forward and hoisted the limp form of Cartairs between them. They carried him in the wake of Fuller, who marched through the gateway and across the area within the stockade towards the main door of the fort. A further, half dozen natives interrupted their fatigue duties and came to attention as Fuller came into sight.
Inside, the Indians carried their burden up a broad stairway, as Fuller turned into open-double doors and closed them behind him. He took off his sword and set down his baton, then poured himself a whisky from a decanter on the sideboard. He carried it to the side of the table which took up most of the floor-space in the room and sipped the liquor gratefully. His gleaming eyes, roved over a contour Map of the United States of America which had been built on the table. Countless small flags on pins were stuck into the map, a whole cluster of them on the spot marked WASHINGTON. Fuller removed four of these flags and set them down, then went to look out of a wide-window. From it, he could see the Union Jack atop the flagpole beyond the stockade gates. As he watched, the breeze freshened and the flag began to fly with greater vigor. Fuller broadened his smile and raised his glass in a toast.
After he had finished his drink, he returned to the map table, picked up one of the discarded flags and pressed it into the point marked FORT FULLER. Then leaned his rump against the table and waited patiently for a full half hour before knuckles rapped on the door.
“Enter!” he called.
Carstairs came into the room, still weary, but looking better. He, had bathed, shaved and donned the uniform of a British army captain. He stood to attention and saluted. “I am now ready to make my report, sir.”
“At ease and easy, Captain,” Fuller instructed, “What happened to your three men?”
“Killed by the enemy, sir,” Carstairs replied. “They tracked us most of the way.” He shook his head as if seeking to clear it of the after-effects of his arduous trek on foot. “One of them - Logan – may have deserted under fire.”
Fuller waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Probably, did, captain. Some of the riff-raff we've been forced to accept can't be trusted out of sight of an officer. But we'll simply post the man missing until we have confirmation. What is your estimation of the time it will take the enemy unit to reach our position?”
“Difficult to say, Colonel Fuller,” Carstairs replied. “There's reason to believe they know of the existence of our position, but not the precise location.”
“Strength?”
“About a dozen.”
“Good. When they come, we'll be ready for them, eh? The more we can kill, the less there will be left to fight us in the big battle.”
“Yes, sir,” Carstairs acknowledged, able to conceal his relief. Although his mission had been successful, he had lost all his men and he had not been looking forward to seeing Fuller's reaction.
But there had been nothing to fear. Fuller was at a fever pitch of excitement as he turned to survey the map spread across the table. “You did an excellent job, captain,” he congratulated, his back to Carstairs. “With Lincoln dead and the country still reeling under the impact of this stupid civil war, the United States can be ours within a month. We'll show these people that they cannot stage mass revolution against the British Crown and live to enjoy what they term freedom. They may have stolen this land from George, but we will win it back for Victoria, eh what?”
Fuller whirled and stared at Carstairs, his eyes blazing with almost sex
ual enjoyment. Carstairs came smartly to attention and saluted. “God bless her!” he snapped.
“Amen to that,” Fuller agreed. “Now go and rest, captain. You will be roused when the enemy are sighted. It will be good to fight in a skirmish again, eh ?”
“Even better when the counter-revolution begins, sir.”
Fuller nodded gleefully. “Quite right, captain. We'll show the old country how wrong it was about us.”
When Carstairs had about-faced and marched from the room, Fuller poured himself another whiskey and returned to the vantage point of the window. Because of the sudden falling away of the ground beyond the drill square, he was unable to see anything but blue sky on the other side of the pole flying the flag of the Confederacy.
And, in his turn, Adam Steele could see only the pole and pennant at the top of the rugged slope he was climbing. His progress was slow, because his horse was almost spent and he proceeded on foot, leading the lathered animal by the bridle. There was no marked trail and he followed the easiest route, around monolithic rock formations and skirting treacherous, deep slashes in the ground.
It was as he rounded a massive boulder that one of the natives leapt into his path, drawing a knife from his loincloth. Steele froze for a second, ready to fling himself to the side if the Indian hurled the knife. The man merely brandished the weapon, a sly grin decorating-his dark-skinned features. Steele swept the presentation rifle from the saddle boot and leveled it. “Drop it, feller,” he said softly.
A swishing sound distracted him and his eyes swiveled. In the next instant, a silk scarf, weighted at the ends, looped around his throat and was pulled tight. He felt hot breath against his ear.
“You drop gun,” a voice whispered, speaking English with a strange accent. “You struggle, me pull tighter. You understand, damn Yankee.
Two more Indians moved out into the open, flanking the one with the knife. They wore the same kind of grins. One of them beckoned. The scarf around Steele's neck was threatening to choke him. He contemplated swinging around, placing the man at his back between himself and the three black men. But he decided the one with the knife would be too fast for him. He held the rifle across his chest, then tossed it to the man who had beckoned. It was caught, expertly checked, then aimed at him. The scarf was pulled clear of Steele's neck and he rubbed the red mark it had left on his skin. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a fourth Indian grinning at him.
“Where's the cooking pot?” he asked wryly.
The man back of him was replacing the scarf around his own neck, crossing the weighted ends to keep it in place. He looked up at Steele with shocked eyes. “Goodness gracious, we no eat white man,” he exclaimed. “We Christian British subjects. You come with us - not escape?”
“What if I try?” Steele suggested, fingering the ornate head of the tiepin in his neckerchief and making an effort to keep his legs straight so that the slit in the seam would not show.
“Then, you die,” the spokesman for the natives replied simply.
“There's a lot of that about,” Steele commented sardonically, and started to walk in the direction indicated by the man with his rifle.
The gates in the stockade wall had been closed by the time the prisoner and escort had reached the top of the slope. But they were swung wide as the group crossed the drill square. Steele's features were as impassive as usual as he surveyed the scene in front of the incongruous castle keep. A table had been set up a few yards in front of the main doorway and Colonel Fuller sat on a chair to one side, drinking tea from a bone china cup. Cool shadow was provided by a multi-colored sunshade held, over him by an Indian. A second Indian was unloading a plate of daintily cut sandwiches from a silver salver on to the table.
The British officer's reaction was as low-keyed as that of Steele as he watched the prisoner and escort approach, then halt before him.
“Beg the colonel's pardon. No soldiers come. But this one civilian. He act like he up to no good, sir.”
Fuller finished drinking his tea, placed the cup down carefully in its matching saucer, then regarded Steele with a steady gaze. “Name, rank and serial number?” he demanded.
The natives were standing to rigid attention. Steele's slouching stance was in keeping with his disheveled appearance. “Name's Steele,” he answered easily. “Used to be a lieutenant.”
The tic became a twitch in the colonel's cheek. “You're with Union intelligence!” he accused.
Steele shook his head. “I'm with me.”
“And he's come to see me, sir.”
The natives continued to stare directly ahead. Fuller and Steele both looked towards the deep shadows within the doorway. The American's mouthline tightened almost imperceptibly as he recognized the uniformed figure who stepped through into the sunlight.
“You know this man, Captain Carstairs?” Fuller snapped.
“I think I may have met somebody related to him, sir,” Carstairs replied, fixing Steele with a triumphant stare.
“I'd be obliged if you would stop talking in riddles, captain!”
Steele saw the muscular spasms in the older man's face begin to get agitated and recognized it as a sign of rising temper. “Don't burst your breeches, colonel,” he said coolly. “The captain and three of his buddies lynched my father for the sheer hell of it. The others have already paid. I don't figure to let this guy get away with it.”
Fuller continued to stare angrily at Carstairs for several moments, then turned his fury towards Steele. “The three men under Captain Carstairs’ command were killed in action with Union cavalry,” he rasped.
Steele shrugged. “I'm not calling him a liar if he told you that, colonel. But maybe the captain was running so hard he didn't have the time to look back and see what was really happening.”
“Sir, I—”
Fuller whirled towards Carstairs so fast he almost toppled his chair. “Silence!” he roared. He struggled to calm himself. “Tiffin is no time for afguments.” He nodded to the native holding the tray and the man stepped forward and poured fresh tea from it silver pot. Fuller picked up a quarter sandwich and nibbled at it. His voice became calm. “Captain Carstairs and the three brave men who died serving the cause carried out a faultless operation. They are to be congratulated on the manner in which they stirred up an element anxious to overthrow the Washington administration but lacking that final spur of action.
“But now we can disassociate ourselves from such people. They were merely undisciplined civilians who saw no further than the single act which satisfied their spiteful intent.”
He sipped his tea and seemed to expect a comment from Steele. When the American failed to break his silence, Fuller continued.
“In a war, it is inevitable that some innocent people will suffer, others will die. But, in the end, all sacrifices will be justified.” He raised his teacup, as if it were a wine glass, in an informal toast. “I drink to Captain Carstairs; to the Confederacy for their great struggle over five long years to weaken and demoralize those who held power in Washington; and to the many thousands of men throughout the country who answered my call to partake in a victory that was denied them in the secessionist cause – but which will undoubtedly be fulfilled as part of the British Army of Liberation.”
Under normal circumstances, Steele might have given consideration to the sanity of the colonel, with his bellowing voice and the blazing eyes. He might have wondered if the man's words were the ravings of a megalomaniac or a declaration of intent with valid support. But everything Fuller said washed over and around Steele as the American fixed Carstairs with a level stare, heavily menacing in its complete lack of emotion.
Fuller seemed about to launch into a further discourse on his plans to win back the United States for the British crown. But a shout from the walkway above the gate halted him. Fuller looked through, and across the drill square, his excitement dying; to be replaced by a gentle smile of quiet pleasure.
“Ah, visitors,” he said, then used his rapid Urdu to g
ive orders to the natives, who all broke away and ran, some into the castle, others across the compound to climb the stockade walls.
Steele glanced over his shoulder and saw the much depleted cavalry troop crossing the drill square. Only the lieutenant, sergeant, and three superficially wounded troopers were mounted. The rest - numbering six - marched in a column.
“Take the prisoner downstairs, Captain,” Fuller instructed. “We have more pressing business to attend to at the moment.”
When Steele turned around, he found himself looking down the barrel of a Colt revolver clutched in Carstairs' well-manicured right hand. The young Englishman was smiling in triumph.
“But don't harm him,” Fuller instructed. Carstairs' expression darkened, but then showed approval at the colonel's next comment. “The thuggees need some strenuous exercise, and we have not had a hunt for such a long time.”
Carstairs gestured with the revolver and Steele stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the dark coolness of the castle keep. As Steele went from sight, Carey led his unit in through the open gateway and halted his horse, his tired eyes growing wide with amazement as he saw the British officer calmly sipping tea, and eating sandwiches at the now unshaded table.
“What the hell…” the sergeant exclaimed softly.
“Welcome, lieutenant!” Fuller called warmly. “Please bring your men inside and join me for tiffin.”
Carey struggled to overcome his surprise. He cleared his throat and tried to inject a note of authority into his voice. “I must ask you to strike the Confederate colors, sir,” he called.
“At sunset,” Fuller acknowledged, then raised his voice and emitted a gutteral sound.
This was, in fact, an order for the thuggees. There was a strange rumbling sound which seemed to come from the sky. Several of the troopers glanced curiously up at the blue void, expecting to see suddenly formed thunder clouds.
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