The Violent Peace (13 page)

He awoke at first light, and discovered that Binns had slipped into unconsciousness. The wound in the man's shoulder had festered. It looked ugly and it smelled of decay. There was water in a pool behind the stable and Steele scooped some up and saturated the rope.

Binns returned to awareness as the sun crested the horizon and struck him slantwise in the eyes. His shoulder seemed to be on fire. But he was able to forget his pain as he saw the first wisps of steam rising from the damp rope. He heard a sound at the side and snapped his head around, to see the impassive Steele leading the two horses from the stable. One was saddled. The other bolted when Steele slapped him hard on his flank.

“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.

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 sexual 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.