by Paddy Hirsch
Justy shook his head. He had gambled that they would drive into the center of the compound, or at least to a place where there would be some foot traffic. He had planned to snatch someone up and question them about where Kerry was. But no one would be out in this rain.
Unless they had to be.
“The sentry,” he said.
Lars stared at him. “You’re cracked. You can’t just snag the man in broad daylight.”
“Well, it may as well be the middle of the night. Everyone’s indoors, trying to keep warm and dry, and they’ll stay that way until this stops. Which doesn’t give us long.”
He stepped out of the carriage. The four walls of the box were about ten feet high, with the wide entrance behind them, and the narrow exit in front. A neat trap.
“Which hand did he wave you in with, Hardluck?”
The jarvie thought for a moment. “His right.”
“So we go at him together. Hard and fast. You’ll be slightly ahead of me, and slightly to the right, so you’ll be a bigger target, and the first in line. He’ll go for you, and I’ll come at him from the flank with this.”
He had taken the knife out of his pocket, and he snapped it open. Hardluck’s eyes opened wide at the sight of the sprung steel appearing like magic in the air.
Justy grinned at the expression on the driver’s face. The blood was powering through him now, thumping in his temples and his chest, making his legs tremble. “Take your whip. Make it look like a staff. He’ll come at you hard, but don’t worry. I’ll stop him.”
They moved off, Hardluck in the lead, his cloak billowing slightly. As they rounded the back of the carriage and moved down the narrow passage of the entrance chicane, the rain slackened. Justy was about to urge Hardluck on, but the driver was already running, the cloak on his back like the wings of a huge raven taking off into the rain, obscuring Justy’s view.
And then he stopped.
Justy thrust past him, but there was nothing to do. The sentry was already on his knees in the mud, his hands clawing at his face, blood running down his cheeks.
Hardluck coiled his whip and tucked it back into his belt. He and Justy picked the man up and hurried him back along the passageway. They tumbled him inside the cab. Lars stared.
“Not me,” Justy said. He jerked his head at Hardluck. “This one. With his switch.”
The man was whimpering. Justy held his wrists and pulled them away from his face. For a moment, he thought the man might have lost an eye, perhaps even both of them. But then he saw how truly skilled Hardluck was. The end of the whip had slashed across the man’s forehead, so that the blood had come down in a sheet into the man’s eyes, blinding him.
Lars grunted his appreciation. “Makes you wonder what he’d be like with a blade.”
Justy sat beside him, facing the man, the three of them in a tight triangle, the sound of breathing loud in the cab, rainwater dripping onto the floor and soaking into the upholstery.
Lars pulled a grubby strip of linen out of his coat pocket and used it to wipe away the blood.
“See now?” His voice was a low rumble. “You’re not blinded. Just a wee bit cut, is all. Nothing a soft bandage and a good rest won’t see to.”
The man’s shoulders slumped with relief. And then he tensed up again, as Justy produced his knife and pressed the catch in the handle, and the blade snapped up, like a long, pale flame in the gloom of the carriage. He pressed a finger to his lips. “Not a word, cully. Not a sound, unless you want me to take your eyes for sure.”
The sentry was a big man, about six feet tall, swarthy, with a shaved head and face that had about a week’s growth of stubble all over it. He swallowed, his eyes on the dancing blade, and Lars leaned forward. “He’s not playing with you, pal. I’ve seen him do things with yon chive. Terrible things. Don’t make me leave him alone with you.”
The man swallowed again, and then his face hardened, and he spat on the floor of the cab. He stared at Lars, his chin tilted upwards. Defiant eyes.
Lars sighed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, man. You don’t even know what I want yet.”
“It does not matter what you want.” The man’s voice was hoarse, sharp with an accent that Justy did not recognize. “You will know nothing from me.”
“All right, then.” Lars leaned back in his seat. “Cut him.”
Justy gritted his teeth. He had hoped that he would sit, silently intimidating their captive, while Lars persuaded him to talk. But he could see that Lars understood that they had no time for finesse. The sentry’s absence would be noticed soon enough, and someone would surely spot the carriage before long. They had minutes, at most.
Justy flicked the blade. The man shuddered and closed his eyes, but the tip of the blade dropped and sliced through the string that held his cape in place. The sodden material fell away, revealing a kind of long, loose smock worn over a pair of loose trousers. The man exhaled heavily, and the carriage was filled with the stench of garlic and onions.
“In the storehouse, behind the workroom,” he said.
Justy was repelled by the vague sense of disappointment he felt. “What’s there?”
“The woman. The prisoner.”
Silence in the cab. The rain had all but stopped. The sentry stared. Lars raised his eyebrows.
Justy watched the man, his thumb stroking the blade of his knife. He knew how persuasive the promise of pain could be, but the sentry had given up the goods too fast. Which meant he had been primed. Which meant that Umar had expected some kind of attack, and anticipated the man would be snatched up and interrogated.
It was a trap. The fact the man had immediately told them about a woman prisoner suggested that Umar knew who she was. And the fact that he told them she would be in a storeroom behind a workhouse suggested Umar knew who would come to find her. Someone who knew where both workhouse and storeroom were located. As Justy did.
He felt a cold anger spill through him. His eyes focused on the sentry’s. He felt his throat close, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. A sharp pain in his hand made him look down. Blood dripped from a wound on his thumb. He stuck his thumb in his mouth. Felt for the cut. Let the coppery taste of his own blood slide over his tongue. He looked the sentry in the eye again.
“Lars?”
“Aye.”
“Get out.”
A pause. “I will not.”
“You will, Lars. And you’ll do it now. This fellow has a good deal more to tell us. And we’ve no time to waste. So you’ll step out, like a good man. And let me go to work.”
He was cool now, the sweat like a band of ice on his forehead. He could feel the grain in the handle of the knife.
“Don’t, Justy.”
“Get out. Now.”
The sentry’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a fishing float. His eyes flickered back and forth between Justy and Lars.
Lars shrugged and turned to reach for the door handle.
“No!” The man’s voice was hoarse. “Don’t leave me with him.”
Lars waited. “Give me a good reason.”
The man’s eyes were oscillating between the tip of the knife and Justy’s eyes. “Abu Umar is waiting. He knows you have been planning an attack.”
“How does he know?” Lars’ voice was sharp.
“He has spies.”
“And where is the woman?”
“Where I said. In the storehouse. With the others.”
“Which others?”
The man looked confused. “The other women.”
Justy forced himself not to look at Lars, to keep his eyes on the sentry.
Lars said, “How many men? What weapons?”
The man said nothing.
“Very well, then.” Lars opened the door, and a rush of cool air swept into the cab. Justy took a deep breath, and readied himself.
“Fifty men.” The man’s eyes were shut tight. “Knives, swords, and firearms.” His eyes snapped open. He stared at Lars. “Please!”
“Fift
y firearms?” Lars sounded skeptical.
“I am not lying, I swear!”
“What’s the plan?”
“To wait out of sight until all your men are in the square. And then to attack from above, and from the sides.”
“Nothing between here and there?”
The man shook his head, his eyes pleading. “Some lookouts. Children. But that is all.”
Lars twisted hard in his seat. His elbow cracked the sentry on the temple, and the man slumped like a sack of rice.
He glanced at Justy, a somber look. “Well?”
Justy avoided his eye. His face burned. “They’re expecting a bigger force.”
“Aye.” Lars chewed over what the sentry had told them. “You think he’s telling the truth about where Kerry is?”
“Why keep her anywhere else? It would only take more men to guard her. She’s a lure.”
“We’re stroked, then. The three of us against fifty armed hackums? We’ve no chance.”
“Maybe.” Justy folded his knife away carefully. “But Umar’s braced for a company attack. He won’t attack one man.”
Lars laughed, drily. “You’re willing to take that risk? To just stroll out of here and into the killing ground?”
“I’d say I’d be safe enough. He won’t want to show his hand.”
“And what then?”
“And then we ask him to hand Kerry over. Convince him it’s in his interests to avoid a tilt with Owens and the Bull.”
“Convince him.”
“I don’t see why not. A firefight’s in no one’s best interest.”
Lars acknowledged the point with a grunt. “Right then. But you’re not going alone. Hardluck and me’ll be behind you.”
Justy shook his head. “I can’t ask Hardluck to risk his neck more than he has already. And you can’t come either. Not with that wound of yours.”
Lars reached forward and took the knife from Justy’s hand. “I can’t see Hardluck staying put back here,” he said. The blade flicked up, and he used it to cut the bandage that bound his right arm right against his chest. The arm came free and he flexed his fingers. He handed the knife back to Justy, hilt first.
“As for me, I suppose I’ll just have to bleed.”
THIRTY-FOUR
The rain had stopped. Justy led the way out of the turning box and into the alley. Lars and Hardluck walked a yard behind him, one on each shoulder. The high walls hemmed them in, and it was an effort to resist cringing over, bracing for an assault from above. Justy could feel the eyes on him. Men watching from high on the walls, doubtless armed and equipped with stones and brickbats, ready to hurl them down on an invader.
Except that a disciplined defender would not attack the vanguard of an invading force. And Justy had no doubt that Umar was a disciplined man. He would have instructed his people to wait until as many invaders as possible were concentrated in a killing ground, to inflict maximum damage. The men on the walls above the turning box were there not to stop men coming in, but to prevent them from getting out again.
The passage opened out onto the wide-open area that Justy had walked around with Umar. He noted the small accommodation building, the kitchen, and the building where he had seen the silent women in their colored shawls.
His hands were shaking. Lars was right. What he was doing was insane. But sometimes it was the madmen that seemed to have it right. He had seen men, crazed with drink and fear, run alone at a line of redcoats. They had disappeared into the cloud of gun smoke and somehow emerged unscathed.
But then what?
He stopped. “This is as far as you go, boys. Stay here and keep your glimms wide for me. Squeak beef if you see anything peery.”
Lars shifted in the shadows behind him. “There’s nothing I can say to stop this windmill in your head, I suppose.”
“I’ll be all right, so long as I’m on my sneak. A man on his own is no threat to anyone. But two or three of us in a clutch might draw fire from some nervous cully.”
Lars grunted. “And what if you go in and don’t come out?”
“Wait until the five o’clock bell. Then you know what to do.” He squared his shoulders and stepped into the empty space. His shoes were loud on the loose, gravelly surface of the yard. He could feel the stones through the thin soles. He wondered if his boots had been mended yet. Then he wondered if he would ever get to wear them again.
It was only a few yards to the door of the workhouse, but it felt like a quarter mile. He imagined thumbs pushing down on hammers up on the ramparts of the walls around him. Fifty men. Fifty muskets. He wondered how well Umar’s men could shoot.
The Bull and Owens might field a hundred men. Fifty musket balls fired into a crowd that large, crammed into a space this small, would create havoc. Many would miss. Some of the muskets might not even fire, thanks to the wet weather. But the shock would be enough to create panic in the invader’s ranks. Some would hold, but the rest would be fighting with each other to get out. Then Umar’s men could close in with edged weapons, and cut them to pieces.
The door to the workhouse was made of two wide planks of heavy, dark wood that had been sanded and oiled, then caulked together and painted with resin. The glossy surface was beaded with rainwater. He could see his face in the varnish, and, behind him, the late afternoon sun struggling to break through the clouds.
For a moment, he considered knocking. But then he grasped the handle of the door, the iron cold and wet on his palm. He pressed down on the smooth surface of the latch and felt the bolt snap out of its housing. He pulled the door open.
* * *
The room looked smaller in the dim light. It was empty, filled with bolts of colored cloth that lined the walls and were stacked to the ceiling. Justy walked across the room to the storeroom door and pulled it open. The room inside was small and square.
Umar sat at a small table, dressed in his white robe. The bodyguard with the scarred face stood behind him. A weapon dangled from a strap around his wrist, a long, straight piece of sharpened metal, crude and brutal, like a cross between a large knife and a short sword. There was a single candle on the table, and a strong smell of incense in the room.
Umar was eating an apple, cutting slices with a sharp, narrow table knife, and spearing them with an old-fashioned, long-tined fork. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he chewed. “You are a brave man, Marshal.”
“I was counting on your ability to control your people.”
Umar acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “They will do nothing until they are told.”
“Until you have all of Owens’ and the Bull’s men in your trap.”
“If they are unwise enough to fall into it. But your uncle is a cautious man. And Owens is no fool.”
Justy stepped into the room and let the door swing closed behind him. “You can stop this.”
“I can? How?” Umar sounded amused.
“Let me take Kerry out of here. When I show them I have her, that she’s safe, they’ll have no excuse to attack you.”
Umar chuckled. “They don’t need an excuse. The O’Toole girl is a convenience for them both. A rallying cry. But she is beside the point.”
“And the point is?”
Umar spread his arms. “This. Us. Our land. Our people. Our religion.” His eyes glittered. “It is remarkable, is it not, that Negroes and Irishmen, two peoples that have themselves been so brutally oppressed, can behave the same way to a third people.”
“You think they want to kill you just because you’re Mohammedan? That’s madness.”
“Is it?” Umar shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it’s merely because they want this land. Or perhaps because they fear that I might lead their people astray, as they see it. Or perhaps they just fear what they do not understand.”
“In that case, why provoke them? Why take Kerry O’Toole?”
Umar sat silently for a moment. “Would you like to see her?”
“She’s alive, then?”
; “Of course. She’s no use to me dead.”
“I don’t see what use to you she is at all.”
Umar smiled. He turned and opened the door behind him. Justy followed him into a short passageway with a hard-packed earth floor. The only light came from the storeroom behind them. Umar turned left, and the light all but disappeared. It was like walking into a dark tunnel. The smell of incense was much stronger, mixed with the heavy stench of damp. Justy was vaguely aware of a line of doors on his right, but they were an impression, and nothing more. Umar’s bulk was a vague shape in the blackness in front of him. He could feel the bodyguard somewhere behind him. His eyes and ears strained. The roof of the passage pressed down on him. The fear he had felt in the yard returned, scrabbling at his guts.
The shuffling of Umar’s slippers on the dirt floor ceased. Justy stopped dead. He realized he was crouching slightly, braced for some kind of attack.
Umar pulled a door open, and a triangle of soft light fell into the passageway. Kerry sat on a low cot inside a cell, straight-backed, her legs crossed. Light came from a pair of thick candles, set in sconces on the low walls either side of the tiny room. A man sat on a small bench, close to the door. The candlelight shone on the tattoos on his face. He carried the same weapon as Umar’s guard, a brutal, ugly strip of hammered, sharpened steel.
“Inside, Marshal,” Umar said.
Justy weighed his options. Umar and the man behind him in the tunnel had trapped him. He could stab Umar and run, but he had no idea where the tunnel led, and the two hackums would be on him faster than rats on a dying dog. Three against one in a dark, unfamiliar place were no odds at all, really.
He stepped into the room. The bodyguard stood up quickly and patted down his pockets. He took out the knife and handed it wordlessly to Umar. Umar weighed it for a moment, and tucked it into the folds of his robe.
“What now?” Justy asked.
“Now we wait.” And Umar let the door swing closed in his face.
THIRTY-FIVE
