Relying on a certain security in the midst of noisy confusion, Steward looked once more toward the door and discovered Bonner in the act of slipping out. Good man. Whatever else might be said in the brief remainder of the evening, Bonner had the target speech and was getting his wire to safety.
He, too, fidgeted impatiently and wished to be away, but there was no leaving yet. The audience was wildly excited and would not go. Steward knew what they did not; none of them would vacate the hall until a Judge Cook made still another speech, calming them and offering a verbal nightcap to the activities.
After a while the chairman was able to make himself heard. He had two announcements, One, that the Honorable Governor Reeder would speak later that evening on the courthouse square, and two, Judge Burton C. Cook, of Ottawa, now wished to offer the convention a few words.
Judge Cook was not capable of confining himself to a few words, and proceeded to prove it, but he served his purpose at whatever expense to his ego. The delegates cooled and soon tired of his windy rhetoric (which included scores of political clichés Steward had already heard for hundreds of years in either direction) and made their preparations to vacate the hall. Many of them followed Bonner’s example and slipped down the stairway.
The Character waited until the final syllable was uttered and the chairman rapped the closing gavel; waited until the political group on the stage began to break up. He shut off his recording device, fingered the spool of wire reassuringly and permitted the yammering, pushing crowd to move him toward the exit. On an impulse-or because someone was staring with a burning intensity at the back of his neck—he turned to favor Lincoln with a last fleeting scrutiny.
He had not imagined the burn on his neck.
Lincoln stood in a chattering circle of admirers, looking over their heads, looking warmly and curiously at him. Owen Lovejoy hovered at Lincoln’s elbow, also staring at him. There was an equal curiosity but no warmth in Lovejoy’s glare.
Steward was instantly flooded with the earlier and urgent sense of alarm. He wondered what could be wrong. Twice in the same evening—actually twice in the same hour—he had drawn the target’s attention to himself, and that was not the wisest thing to do. It just wasn’t cricket. Was this the beginning of the misfortune? He had aroused curiosity about himself, and perhaps animosity as well.
Fighting panic, he diligently maintained character.
Steward broke the silent exchange of cross-observation by smiling thinly, nodding, and deliberately turning away. Thereafter he moved toward the door as quickly as the crowd would allow and descended the stairway.
He was sweating.
Doc Bonner was awaiting him on the sidewalk.
Steward revealed his surprise at finding him there.
“You should be jumping, man! Is anything wrong?”
“There’s no hurry, and nothing wrong,” Bonner replied. “Just wanted to get out of that crowd. It’s cooler down here.”
“The wire okay? Have you seen that Shakespearean ham?”
“Yes, it’s okay, and no, I haven’t seen him. Not for hours, come to think of it. He hasn’t come down past me-but he could still be milling around up there.”
“We’ll wait.”
“Hey, some speech, wasn’t it? that man was powerfully mad at somebody.”
“That makes two of us.”
Bonner was suddenly solemn. “I think he’s goofed, Stew. One time too many.”
“We’ll wait and see.”
They lingered at the mouth of the wide stairway, searching the faces of the delegates and visitors as they erupted from the auditorium. A few hundred people and several minutes had streamed by when Karl Dobbs appeared.
Bonner said hastily, “We’ve lost Bloch—or he’s lost us.”
“Have you heard Disraeli?” Dobbs demanded.
Bonner blinked. “No. But I’ve heard a coyote howl and a lion cough. And once upon a time I listened as a bomb exploded. Have you heard Disraeli?”
“This man is another Disraeli,” Dobbs declared. “A rough and unsophisticated Disraeli; his grammar is nothing and his syntax is suspect, but . . . You heard him upstairs; you know his power. He’s a master of the spoken word. I think he knows his destination, and he’s driving hard for it.”
“Evelyn said something about his destination.”
“I’m aware . . .” Dobbs paused for a double take. “What about Bloch?”
“Among the missing. Vamoosed. Over the hill.”
“Hell and damnation!”
“Oh, quite.”
“Drunk again?”
“Very possible; I’m told it is a weakness of his. He could be strutting about in some saloon, spouting Shakespeare at the top of his lungs. Another weakness.”
Dobbs sighed his supreme disgust. “And you try to do a favor for the man!” He studied Steward for a moment and said, “I’ll go back up there and look around.” When the crew leader did not answer, Dobbs turned away, slipped around a group of men on the stairs and went up.
Benjamin Steward unexpectedly stiffened and Bonner whirled around seeking the threat.
The group of men descending the staircase had stopped on the wooden sidewalk, while two of their number looked—and one smiled—at Steward. The man towered over his companions, as he had done on the stage, and now he was wearing a tall black hat which exaggerated his height.
“Good evening, sir,” the man said in greeting.
“Evening, Mr. Lincoln.”
Steward felt ice in his veins. This was pushing his luck too far.
“I admit to some curiosity about you, sir. I would like to know your name and shake your hand.”
“Steward, Benjamin Steward.” And the Character put out his hand awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to be rude, Mr. Lincoln.”
“Pshaw, I didn’t consider it rudeness, Mr. Steward. I believe you did our splendid company a favor.” He grinned with high humor and clasped Steward’s hand in a powerful grip. “I fear I was talking too much, and you reminded me of that.”
Steward squirmed with embarrassment.
“I’m right sorry to have made that impression, Mr. Lincoln. In truth, I was interested in another thing.”
Owen Lovejoy was instantly alert.
“Yes?” Lincoln prompted.
“I reckon that speech was a real stem-winder. It held me like a magnet.” Steward spoke guardedly, seeking a quick but polite end to the conversation. “And when it occurred to me what was happening—what you were doing to me—I turned around to study the others. I wanted to see if they felt the same thing, if they were affected in the same way. They were.”
“That is a most pleasing compliment.”
“A sincere one, Mr. Lincoln. I’m something of a judge of men, and you could charm an Indian in a medicine show.”
Lincoln laughed pleasantly.
Lovejoy seized the opening. “You are one of our distinguished visitors, Mr. Steward? Your accent eludes me. From back East, I’ll wager.”
“And win the wager, Mr. Lovejoy. Cleveland.”
“Cleveland? A fine city. But did you come all the way out here just to witness our meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Humph. Quite flattering.”
“I am a journalist, Mr. Lovejoy. And the people of Cleveland are keenly interested in the West. Interested in everything happening west of Cleveland. I was asked to observe, to study, and to transmit my findings to my employer. Looking, and thinking, is my stock in trade.”
“And are you also interested in politics, sir?”
“I have been, without much success.”
“Humph.”
Lincoln interrupted to ask, “Will you be in town a spell, Mr. Steward?”
“A short time, I expect,” Steward said noncommittally. “My plans aren’t complete.”
“Well, now, we won’t hold up your supper. But if you will be in town over the next day or so, Mr. Steward, I’d be happy to sit down and talk with you. I’d like to repay that favor. I expect
you will find me around the courthouse, or in David’s law office. Most days, anyway.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lincoln. My pleasure.”
Lincoln nodded amiably and the group moved away.
When they were a safe distance out of earshot, Bonner turned on Steward teasingly.
“For shame-you’ve changed history. Whittle will be furious.”
“Whittle can take a flying jump at a lame How did I change history?”
“Well, you cut Lincoln off short with your twisting and squirming—studying the masses. I was watching you. He might have talked half an hour longer, maybe.” Bonner squinted after the retreating figures. “No telling what else he would have said. A thousand things can happen in thirty minutes.”
“And nothing can happen,” Steward retorted. “I think we’d better skedaddle. I don’t want to meet him again.”
“Lovejoy is the man you don’t want to meet again. You riled that man. You know what?” Bonner continued musingly. “I met Tamburlaine once. In 1390 or thereabouts. He wasn’t pleased to see me—he thought I was somebody’s tax collector.”
They turned as Dobbs appeared on the stairs, alone.
“No,” he said in answer to their unasked questions. “And he wasn’t sleeping in the boojum, either. There aren’t any up there.”
Bonner craned his neck. “Where do you suppose they keep them? Out back?”
Steward continued to eye Dobbs.
“No,” Dobbs said again. Bonner accepted the second reply as an answer to his question, but Steward had been concerned about the length of recording wire which would be found in the trash tomorrow. Dobbs had not seen the wire in the auditorium.
Steward walked away from the hall. His depleted crew followed him.
10
MISSING
BENJAMIN STEWARD led them on a circuitous route through the noisy, brawling town, well away from the courthouse square and the crowd already forming there. Dusk was falling, and with it the air was becoming appreciably cooler. Townspeople were beginning to appear in the streets with fiery torches, lending an eerie crimson glow to the deeper hues of the fading sun. The convention was entering its final stages.
Gaining the wide, dusty street leading to the water tower and the tavern, Steward turned his steps toward the rendezvous. He plodded along with drooping spirits, feeling the weight of Sam Wendy’s ghost riding his shoulder.
“What in hell got into the man?” Dobbs complained. “We were doing all right.”
“Whiskey,” Doc Bonner said. “The whiskey those Chinamen served with the lunch this afternoon. Pure corn lightning!” He licked his lips in memory of the powerful drink. “I guess we should have left Bloch at home. Why did you pick him, Stew? There are plenty of other guys.”
Dobbs growled, “We can do without that.”
“Oh, never mind,” Steward said patiently. He walked with his head down and his thumbs hanging in his pockets. “I pulled Bloch for the same reasons the two of you agreed to carry him. Bobby didn’t know it, but this was his last chance-the very last chance.”
“Inside talk?” Dobbs asked quickly.
“Evelyn tipped me a couple of weeks ago,” Steward confirmed. “Bobby was on the skids. The executive office had soured on him because of that Egyptian thing. Bobby horsed around and nearly lost them money—they could never forgive that. Cardinal sin. His fondness for liquor only made matters worse. Evelyn worried about that when I first pulled him.”
“Well, there’s his brother.”
“Yes, there’s his brother. And where is he now? You can bet that the brother’s detention in a labor camp has been noted on Bobby’s record. The taint spills over. Those jokers in the office believe heredity works in all ways and all directions. The brother is a slave laborer, ergo, Bobby should be—or will be-a slave laborer. I pulled him because I like him, and wanted to help him. The fact that he belongs to the guild is secondary.”
“I’m sorry, Stew,” Doc Bonner apologized. “I lack patience. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”
“Never mind. We’ll carry Bobby, and that’s that.”
Karl Dobbs steered the conversation into a new channel, working obliquely toward a scheme in the back of his mind.
“I am minded of my first shoot,” he said ruminatively. “Away back when. And there never was a greener hand put into the field. A bumbling puppy. But I learned fast; that first shoot was an education.
“It was a double-pronged assignment, a banker’s vacation and cost was no object. Our client was the Emperor’s Museum and the government was paying the bill. Do you remember Solly Blaisdell? Solly was our new crew leader. There were four or five men in the crew because of the sheer size and scope of the job, but like I said, cost is no object when the taxpayers must foot the bill.
“Our target was war chariots; light, two-wheeled battle chariots. The Emperor, or someone in the Museum, wanted to know their point of origin and the originator. We made the first jump into a country the ancients called Sumer, better than five thousand years back. There we found a king named Gilgamesh who had equipped his troops with chariots, but they weren’t what we were seeking. This Gilgamesh used four-wheel carts, or abbreviated wagons, for his supply train.
“So we began jumping forward in easy stages, looking for the real target.
“We found them in a land called Hatti, or Hittui, and that is where my education began. The Hittites had the chariots; clean, fast and maneuverable spoked-wheel jobs that were real beauties. What’s more, they used them to distinct advantage. We never found out who actually originated the idea, who reduced the four wheels to two and placed armed men in them, but the Hittites were the people who brought them to perfection. Because of the chariots they were a major power in the ancient world, and for a time they took on and whipped all corners. No kingdom’s infantry could or would stand up to them.”
Dobbs peered from the corners of his eyes to see if Steward was paying close attention.
“These Hittites had something else which surprised me, something that contributed to my political awareness. They practiced a form of government almost identical to our own. There were several city-states scattered over the countryside, and a federal power binding them all together. Strong kings brought more city-states into the fold, and weak kings lost them. And also like our present government, the king ruled in collaboration with a council of nobles. A seesaw affair. A strong king bossed the council and was absolute ruler of the federal domain, whereas a weak king was bossed by the council and functioned only as a figurehead.
“That was when I first discovered that our Emperor, and his Senate, was not a brand-new product of the Second Revolution; not a wonderfully democratic form of government worth the terrible cost.”
Dobbs waggled an admonishing finger. “Mind you, the schoolbooks have never claimed we thought of it first, but neither do they teach that it was practiced before, many times before. They merely give youngsters the idea that it is a priceless jewel, won with the spilled blood of their grandfathers, and drop the matter.”
“So it turns out to be nothing more than a stale idea borrowed from prehistoric kings?” Steward mused.
Dobbs pursed his lips judiciously. “I will admit the concept has been refined since then. We haven’t had an assassination lately.”
Steward continued plodding along the street. “I always figured the Senate held the whip hand.”
“Maybe-maybe not,” Dobbs said thoughtfully. “A moot point, at best. Keep a cynical eye on the election campaigns. A revelation. When the Senators are stumping the country for votes they rattle the drums and shoot off their mouths like zealous firebrands, but after election they are as docile as lambs. I suspect they have a working agreement with the Emperor. Anything goes during a campaign; they may berate him with impunity, attack his policies and question his sanity. But after re-election they crawl back to kiss his boots and knuckle under for another six years. Vote-getting hogwash. They don’t really mean what they say, but they have to sh
out something to prove they are alive and want the votes. I suspect the Emperor understands that, and closes his ears.”
“Oderint dum metuant,” Steward quoted.
“Meaning what?”
“Let them hate, as long as they fear.”
“Something like that, yes.” Dobbs pulled at his itchy underwear. “Well—the Hittites. I am not done with them and their battle chariots. The shoot continued, digging in for a protracted study of Hatti, and my education increased. Point of the matter is, I next discovered the technique of the big lie.”
“I sort of wondered what you were getting at,” Steward admitted.
“So now you know. Misdirection and falsification. The really gigantic lie. This Hittite king, Muwatallis by name, was handed the dirty end of the stick by an old master of the big lie. And for about three thousand years history cheated Muwatallis out of his rightful reward. It was eventually righted, of course, but by that time the king couldn’t care less. He had been dead so long even his bones were nothing.
“Muwatallis awoke one morning to hear the news that an enemy was striking for his throat. The Hittites had several enemies, and one or another neighboring kingdom was forever rattling the war drums, but this one was something big, and special. This one was a sockdolager.
“This enemy, an Egyptian king named Ramses something—Ramses Two, I think—was marching hell for leather up the coast with twenty thousand men, determined to wipe the Hittites off the map. And he stood a pretty good chance of doing just that, for Ramses had a fearsome reputation as a war lord; he had subdued every border tribe and small nation around him, as well as whipping his own country into line. A man can work up a pretty bloody reputation by knocking over the weaker countries, and Ramses knocked them all.
“Well, sir, old Muwatallis wasn’t much in sympathy with the idea of being wiped off, but he must have been frightened by the size and the thunder of the opposition. I admire him—he decided to fight.
“Our crew caught that battle, sight and sound. Stew, it was one of the bloodiest messes I’ve ever witnessed. Our films were never released to the public. I think the Emperor keeps them under lock and key; they reveal too well what happens when the underdog is threatened with his life.
The Lincoln Hunters Page 11