Dead Time

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  He frowned. “It already began,” he told her. “You know about Attorney General Maxwell.”

  Christina’s head dropped. “Yes,” she said, barely audible. “I guess . . . I didn’t . . . think . . . But . . .”

  “I know. But Josiah Justice is a raving lunatic. He’ll do something. Something crazy. Even if he has only a dozen zealots with him, he’ll . . . and with four Gatling guns. With all the weapons and gunpowder he has on this ship. It’s just not going to be pretty when he gets to shore. Besides, for all we know, that money—all two hundred thousand dollars—is waiting for him when this bucket lands.”

  She said,“And we don’t even know where he’s landing. Even Chris Ehrlander said he had no clue.”

  “Yes,” Fallon said, “we do.”

  She studied him.

  “Indianola.”

  Her head shook. “That’s a ghost town, Hank. Two hurricanes wiped it off the face of . . .” Which is when she understood. “I’m a lousy detective.”

  Fallon made himself grin.

  “I should have seen it. We all should have seen it,” Christina said, angry with herself. “Of course. Indianola. No one would think about Indianola. People moved out of there by the scores after that last hurricane nigh ten years ago.”

  “And Rufus K. Conley has a newspaper office there,” Fallon said.

  “Preaching his propaganda,” Christina said. “I figured he was there because . . . well . . . he hated people. I mean, if you read what he writes.”

  “He doesn’t hate all people. Just Northerners. And Conley didn’t just print news about the Southern Confederacy. Apparently for a town with very few people, it has a lot of gun shops and hardware stores. Rufus Conley ran some of those, too.”

  Her head shook again. “I am a lousy detective.”

  “No,” he said. “But we’ve solved the crime. How do we stop a war?”

  Christina lifted the candle. Her face showed doubt. She wet her lips.

  “Hank . . .”

  He waited. He knew what she was going to say. He didn’t want to hear it from her, but before he started to say something, she pressed her fingers against his lips. “We’re in the cargo hold,” she said, soft but firm, and resolve slowly showed in her pretty eyes. “Your favorite general put you down here. He figured you’d likely die. He wanted to keep the men, those he had left, up on the decks or in the cabins there.” She raised the candle toward Fallon’s feet. “The kegs of powder. The ammunition. It’s all . . . here.”

  “One spark.” She had to catch her breath. “Could save a lot of lives.”

  One spark would also take a lot of lives, Fallon knew, including Christina’s. Yet before either could say anything, find an alternative to sacrificing themselves for their country, or agree to blow up themselves, the C.S.S. Justice, and General Josiah Jonathan Justice and his killers for hire, the door to the hold opened from above.

  Instantly, Christina blew out the candle.

  Sunlight bathed them through the opening, causing both to shield their eyes and turn their heads. By the time they had recovered, General Justice and Captain Merle were standing next to them.

  “A candle?” Merle said. “Are you trying to blow us to hell?”

  Christina’s head shook, though she still looked away from the two newcomers. “Capt’n, I knows where nots to put no match, sir. Burned me down a passel of buildin’s back up in Cass County when I was but a babe. A-hopin’ I might be like Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.”

  “Huh?” Merle said.

  “Never mind,” the General said. “How is our patient, Private White?”

  “I was about to see if he could make it up dem thar stairs, Gen’ral. Not just fer him, though. Dis place stinks somethin’ awful.”

  “Indeed.” Justice appeared to be grinning. “You do seem better than you were after our encounter at what history will call the Battle of Mexicali Bay.”

  “Ready for duty, sir,” Fallon said. “After I get something to eat.”

  “Bully, Captain Alexander. Bully. We land directly. The war starts anew, but this one will not drag on for four long years.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Help him up, Private,” Justice ordered.

  * * *

  Christina adjusted the butternut shell jacket she was wearing, hiding her breasts, which she had strapped down with cotton wrappings. She pulled her hat down lower, complained about the sun after being stuck in that dungeon since last night, and studied the gulls flying over the ship’s masts.

  Fallon leaned against her for support, which was also more of an attempt to protect her should something go amiss.

  The waves were rough for the Gulf of Mexico, and Fallon saw the Texas coast.

  “Are we that close to home, sir?” he asked.

  Justice laughed. “In good time, Captain. In good time. This is the path many fishing vessels take. If we sailed farther out in the Gulf, then steered for Matagorda Bay, it might arouse suspicion. For this moment, we are merely catching fish to feed the masses in Galveston . . . Houston . . . Corpus Christi.”

  Behind them, Merle whispered, “Maybe you’d like to feed the masses on this ship something other than gruel.”

  “Captain Merle,” Justice said, shaking his head. “Look around you.”

  Justice stopped, and pointed. Fallon saw men huddled around the edge of the ship on both starboard and port sides. Over the pounding waves and squawking gulls, he could hear their violent retching.

  “Do you think these soldiers would rather be dining on steak and fried eggs right now?”

  It wasn’t an appealing sight to see on the way to eat supper.

  Fallon looked up at the mast, turned, and stared toward the stern. The Bonnie Blue Flag flew from the rear, which might not get the attention of a Confederate flag.

  Merle went to eat elsewhere, leaving Justice alone with the cook, two other mercenaries, and Fallon and Christina. They ate in the captain’s dining room, grits and some sort of fish, fried in grease, with apples that they had to eat carefully to avoid biting into any worms, and drank coffee that was just awful. Fallon wondered if he would soon join those unfortunate men as they puked their guts out into the sea.

  Justice told them little, merely recapped all that Fallon had missed, bragged about the great victory won at Mexicali Bay, and after everyone passed on dessert, he walked with the two mercenaries back to the hold. By then it was dark, and one of the guards held a lantern. They stopped by the opening to the hold.

  “Captain Alexander,” Justice said.

  Something was wrong here. Fallon could feel it. He stared into the grinning face of the General.

  “How long have you known Private White?”

  Fallon remembered. “Four years. Five. Something like that. We did some time together in a jail up in Missouri.”

  “Yes. Yes. That’s it. How was Private White’s beard back then?”

  “Sir?”

  Justice’s right hand shot out, grabbed the end of Christina’s mustache and ripped it off. “Because,” Justice yelled as Christina brought both hands to her upper lip and shrieked.

  “For a man with such a fine mustache,” Justice said, reaching for his LeMat, “I suddenly wondered why there’s no beard stubble on her face!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Christina dropped to her knees, eyes tearing from the pain. Fallon started toward Justice, but the deadly bore of the massive gun stopped him.

  “We are bound for Matagorda Bay,” Justice said. “I thought about waiting to execute the both of you at Indianola. But it just struck me that I’d much rather have the two of you walk the plank.” He tilted his head back and let out a maniacal laugh.

  Which was all Fallon needed.

  He brought his right leg up and the foot of his boot caught Justice full in the crotch. The smoothbore barrel sent a blinding flame that scorched the bottom of Fallon’s left forearm as he reached for Justice, but the buckshot that filled that barrel never touched Fallon.
/>   It hit somebody else, though. Fallon heard the sharp scream as he lunged at Justice, missing the chance to grab the arm that held the big LeMat. Justice tumbled onto the deck, and Fallon went over his back. He slid a ways on the deck, wet with water from the rocking Gulf of Mexico, rolled over, and saw gray trouser legs running past him. Fallon came to his knees. Justice had forgotten about the revolver he held in his right hand, and for a man who had just received a mean kick in the privates, he was moving very, very fast. Fallon rolled over. His eyes widened.

  “My God! My God! My God!” shouted one of Justice’s men accompanying the prisoners. Fallon couldn’t hear him well because the mercenary who had been carrying the lantern was gone. But a glow could be seen from inside the cargo hold.

  The man turned and ran, past Fallon, after Justice. Christina Whitney had recovered from the pain of having the fake mustache ripped off her upper lip and had stepped onto the stairs that led into the hold.

  Suddenly, Fallon knew what had happened. Justice’s LeMat’s grapeshot barrel had sent its load into the man carrying the lantern, and both man and lantern had dropped inside the cargo hold.

  Fallon leaped to his feet, suddenly aware of the commotion of some of the seasick soldiers—and shouts from those not puking over the sides or into buckets. Reaching the steps, Fallon’s eyes shied away from the intensity of the flames. The lantern had exploded on the floor, the kerosene carrying flames toward the crates of ammunition and the kegs of gunpowder. The man who had been carrying the lantern lay spread-eagled on the floor, a cavernous, bloody hole in the center of his chest.

  Christina was removing her shell jacket in an attempt to beat out the flames.

  Fallon grabbed her arm before she took another step down.

  “Forget it!” he shouted.

  “But—”

  He didn’t let her argue. She wouldn’t be able to stop that fire. Flames already leaped at a box of shells for Winchester .44-40s. Moving back up the steps, he jerked her savagely. He moved as fast as he could, dragging her up the few steps she had managed to climb down, and then flinging her in front of him once they reached the deck.

  A gagging, weaving man rushed by him, stared into the opening, and ran down the steps.

  “Don’t . . .” he started, and reached for the man, but missed. Another soldier of fortune slid to a stop, peered down, screamed, “Mother of God, we’re all gonna die!” and bolted for the side of the ship, disappearing into the night. Fallon never heard the splash after the man dived overboard.

  Christina was up by then, and Fallon moved toward her, turned her around, and pushed her in the direction he had seen General Justice running.

  “Hurry!” he yelled.

  “But . . .” she tried.

  He turned her around as the first pop of an ignited Winchester cartridge echoed from the smoking hold.

  Fifteen steps later, the pops sounded like a Gatling gun being cranked. Ten steps later, the explosion lifted the ship partway out of the sea and sent flaming debris out of the hold and scattering across the decks. Fallon went one way, sliding toward the edge as the ship listed toward its starboard side. He didn’t know where Christina went. He grasped at everything and anything, bottles, ropes, canvas sails, and finally stopped himself by slamming his boots against a trunk. The ship settled back, but that violent movement sent several other seasick individuals waving their arms frantically, then falling backward, into the night, into the Gulf of Mexico.

  Fallon rose. Someone pushed him aside and ran toward the stern. Fallon looked up. Flames lighted the night sky. Smoke churned out of the cargo hold’s opening. Fire spread across the ship, and another one shot up the mainsail. Ashes already started raining down.

  “Jesus help us all,” he said, and started for Christina Whitney. He found her, sitting up, staring with widening eyes at the orange flames. He grabbed her hand just as the next explosion rocked the ship sideways, up and down, and sent them rolling toward the bow. Only the bottom post of the mainsail stopped them from continuing down, but the ship’s bow leaped out of the water, and they rolled away.

  Again the ship steadied, though listing now to the port side, and the stern beginning to sink.

  Another keg of powder or crate of cartridges exploded as one, but did little to disturb the doomed C.S.S. Justice. Fallon pulled Christina to her feet. She blinked.

  A man rushed past them, screaming in terror and pain, his chest aflame, his hair burning. He bolted toward the starboard side. Fallon made out a figure standing at the rails, holding out his hands, yelling something that Fallon couldn’t make out. Apparently, he was trying to stop the burning man from diving overboard. Instead, the man on fire dived and took that one trying to stop him off the ship. Both disappeared into the Gulf.

  Fallon swore. He stared at Christina, whose mouth moved, “Oh . . . my . . . heavens.”

  Turning her around, Fallon guided her toward the lifeboats on the port side.

  They found General Josiah Jonathan Justice in one boat, holding that big LeMat, yelling, cursing, demanding that they lower him down first.

  “This is the officers’ boat, you blasted fools! Officers first. Get me down now or, by thunder, you’ll all drown or burn! Trooper, sound ‘Officer’s Call’! You, work that crank. Get this boat down first, you fools, then all sailors, all enlisted men, all good men and true shall join us.” He fired over one man’s head. “Our camp is just there! Just there! They will send help. But you must get this ship down first!”

  Although the C.S.S. Justice appeared to be sinking fast, the men obeyed, either out of misplaced loyalty and duty, or fear. Fallon pulled Christina toward the boat. The LeMat trained on Fallon’s chest.

  “Stop!”

  “I’m an officer, sir,” Fallon said. “Remember.”

  He saw the debate going on in Justice’s eyes. Justice hesitated, but also saw those men. It was exactly what Fallon had hoped he would see, and figure out. Turn down Fallon’s request, and the men would storm the lifeboat, probably throw Justice and the LeMat overboard. The LeMat held only nine bullets—eight after that warning shot, and maybe fewer. Fallon didn’t know how many rounds Justice had fired just to get himself inside the lifeboat and have crewmen start to lower it into the sea.

  Fallon helped Christina into the boat, but Justice waved the revolver, screaming, “No, no, no, no! Only officers!”

  “Sir,” Fallon said, “you need someone to row for you. Don’t you, General?”

  The zealot’s eyes were wide with insanity, but he nodded and waved Christina aboard. Fallon found another man, the youngest, and pulled him toward the boat.

  Justice’s brow knotted.

  “The other oar, General,” Fallon explained, and eased the teary-eyed youngster into the boat.

  Another explosion rocked the ship.

  “Get in!” Justice ordered as Fallon looked around for someone else he might be able to save.

  “Sir . . . I’m . . .” Fallon started, but a gray-bearded man with a crooked nose pushed Fallon toward the lifeboat.

  “Get in there, blast ye,” he said. “The sooner we get this boat down, the quicker we get the next one into the sea.”

  A moment later, Fallon found himself at the ship’s bow, staring at Justice and the big LeMat.

  They started down. The ship rocked from another explosion. A voice above, on the deck, called down, “Wait! Damn you, Justice, you ain’t leavin’ me up here!”

  Fallon’s head lifted to see Merle. The man moved toward one of the ropes. “I’m an officer, too, you igno-ramous.” Merle grabbed the rope.

  “Don’t you know that the captain goes down with his ship?” Justice called out, adding with a sinister laugh: “Captain!” The LeMat roared, a pink mist sprayed from the back of Merle’s head as he fell out of view on the listing, burning, ruined deck of the ship.

  That also broke the hold Justice wielded over the crew and the soldiers of fortune. Instead of being lowered at a safe, deliberate rate, they must have either cut the
lines or simply let the crank turn relentlessly. The lifeboat dropped into the water, almost capsizing, spraying them with water and slamming them against the hard, salt-soaked wood. Yet somehow, the boat stayed right side up, and it even began drifting away from the sinking, burning ship.

  Fallon started toward the stern, but Justice grabbed the pistol he had dropped, which was cocked, and aimed it first at the boy on the starboard side, then at Christina on the port.

  “Sit down, you traitor. Or I’ll send this wench to hell.”

  Fallon sat. Justice wasn’t completely crazy. He remembered that Christina was a woman.

  “Work the rudder, Seaman Alexander,” Justice ordered.

  They rowed away, the Gulf of Mexico or Matagorda Bay or wherever they were, reflecting the increasingly violent flames that quickly spread across the C.S.S. Justice.

  Looking behind him, Fallon saw another lifeboat in the water, one on the starboard side of the doomed vessel. Another, on the port side, was filling with men. The oars worked, water rippled, and another explosion sent flames and embers into the sky like fireworks on Independence Day. Flaming chunks of wood rained down into the choppy waves, and the hisses sounded like the sighs of demons in the night.

  There other sounds, too.

  “God have mercy,” said the boy working the oars with Christina.

  Yes, Fallon thought, as another man screamed somewhere in the water.

  It hadn’t taken long. Sharks . . . and maybe barracudas—had come to feast on the dead and dying.

  By the time the lifeboat struck bottom, the moon was rising, bringing light to the skies now that the burning frigate was slipping beneath the waves. The boy rowing the boat leaped over the side and splashed through the shallows toward the coastline. General Justice did not even send a bullet after the kid, but merely stood, pulled down his hat, and stepped into the water. He took a few steps before remembering the other passengers, crew, whatever you wanted to call them, still in the lifeboat.

  “Come,” he said happily. “The war begins tonight. Port Justice is just over there.”