Vacant Graves

by Christopher Beats

  The room fell silent.

  “Impossible,” one of the lieutenants said.

  To my surprise, it was Roy who answered him. “You ever seen Mr. Liutt? In person?”

  No one answered.

  “Have you?” He glanced at each man in turn.

  They all shook their heads.

  MacCallard said nothing. Instead, he stared at me while his hatchet man grilled them. When Roy was finished, he spoke. “This information, though intriguing, is not what we paid you for.”

  “You’re right. He contracted me to find the bodies.” I pointed at Mack. “And find them I did.”

  “You made a deal with us first, though. We still need to know who the new workers are.”

  “The hell we do.” Roy spat. “They’re scabs. If they catch a bullet during the fight, who cares?”

  MacCallard rounded on him. “They may not know they’re scabs. He’s clearly keeping them separate from us.” He took a breath to calm himself. “They might not even speak English or understand what’s going on. We owe it to them to find them and warn them before a fight breaks out.”

  Roy made a face which made it clear what he thought of people who didn’t speak English.

  “They might join in the strike,” Mack added. “And then the factory won’t run at all.”

  “We could avoid the fight entirely,” another unionist agreed.

  Roy looked with disgust at the suggestion they avoid a fight.

  “Listen—I’ve done enough.” I wasn’t really in the mood to watch a policy debate. “I found Mack’s dead miners. I’ve dragged this poor girl around your hellish town for days. I need to be on my way.”

  “You talk about me like I’m a damn steamer trunk!” Phoebe protested.

  “On your way where, Mr. Schist? The rail is closed. The road is closed. The river’s still burning. Where will you go?” MacCallard’s voice was calm, but his lip twitched into the slightest smile of triumph, which made me hate him.

  Nothing bugged me more than being forced to do something. “I’ll skulk in the damn woods if I have to. We’re leaving town. Now—are you going to pay me?”

  “No.”

  I clenched my jaw and looked around. There were eight men in the room besides me. Phoebe had the pistol.

  “Find those workers,” MacCallard said patiently. “And you’ll get paid.” He tapped a fat manila parcel on the table. “There’s an entire month of union dues waiting for you.”

  “I’m greedy,” I admitted to them. “But not stupid.”

  Roy snorted.

  “Snicker all you want,” I snarled. “But I’ve lived through one war. I’m not going through another. You bastards can throw up all the barricades you want. You can ship in carbines for your men.” I gave them a harsh smile. “But you’ll lose. They’ve got ironclads and hardheads and shotguns that burn. I don’t see soldiers—I see a whole mess of dough about to get flattened by the rolling pin.”

  The unionists looked at each other and got pale, like I was saying something they already knew but didn’t want to admit. MacCallard was unfazed, though.

  Roy, of course, got angry. “Why’re y’all listening to this coward? What does he know? He’s paid to find little girls, not fight.”

  “I used to be a goddamn Eye,” I went on. “I know how this story ends.”

  In a way, cracking heads was easy. You hit a guy and he falls down. Maybe he gets up, maybe he doesn’t. Either way, his family drags him off and the scene is over. You can always tell yourself he’d be okay after a day or two in bed.

  It’s different when you gun them down. The massacre at the factory gates wasn’t the first one I’d seen. I’d seen another, except that time, I was the perpetrator. I could remember our victims lying face-up in the summer sun, eyes unblinking while their wives and children screamed and wept and wrung their hands. Despite the jumble of bodies, despite the press of the mourning crowd, I could pick out the man I’d shot. He had a wife and two daughters, all with curly blond hair. They surrounded him, screaming like harpies, but their hair was still beautiful in the midday sun. Those girls must’ve been the dead man’s pride and joy before I gunned him down for striking.

  Kober was there, too. He laughed at the carnage, said the miners had it coming. I guess that was why he got a job with Harriman and I went indie.

  “I’ve studied other conflicts,” MacCallard said, as much to his men as to me. “I feel confident this time is different. We’re prepared.”

  I laughed harshly. “Everyone thinks this time is different. You know how many goddamn generals tell their men they’ll be home for Christmas? That they’ll take Richmond?” My voice choked off and I looked away.

  Roy flinched when I said it.

  MacCallard was silent.

  “The best preparation would be to avoid fighting altogether,” Mack said calmly.

  The two men stared at one another for an awkward moment, as if they could communicate their disagreement without words.

  MacCallard broke first. “If you get word to the new workers, Mr. Schist, you could prevent this war and earn your pay.”

  “I’ve already earned my pay.” I turned and took Phoebe by the elbow. “If you’re not going to pay me, we’ve got nothing more to say.”

  Phoebe tugged free. “If you could get a message to the workers, do you think they’d join you?”

  MacCallard studied her. “I hope so.” He glanced at Mack. “We must try. If nothing else, I want it known that we did everything in our power to avoid this fight.”

  “What if someone snuck into the factory during their shift and gave them the message?”

  “What are you saying?” I asked, grabbing for her elbow again as if she were a child.

  She slipped my grasp and looked at the men around her. No one moved to help me—or her.

  MacCallard rubbed his chin. When he took his hand off the table, I saw the bottom of the diagram. It read Her Majesty’s Rolling Steam Fort 1861 [Duke of Wellington Model, Mark 6].

  They had found the schematics for the ‘61.

  I was pretty sure the limeys didn’t just leave those lying around. Roy didn’t seem to be the type who bought schematics, though MacCallard did. The Virginian wasn’t the only one here spoiling for a fight, no matter what the union leader said to his men.

  “We’re going, Phoebe.” I tried to grab her again.

  “You might be. But I’m not. I’ll stay and help.” She dodged into the center of the room. “I could get them a message. The hardheads would never suspect a girl.”

  “The hardheads are looking for you!” I reminded her.

  “No—they’re looking for a young traveler who lost her way. I’d go in dressed as a factory girl. Without my hat and bustle, who would recognize me?”

  MacCallard stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  Before I could voice a protest, Roy beat me to it. “No way. It ain’t right. We ain’t hiding behind a little girl, MacCallard. Let’s just send our demands to Liutt and let the cards fall where they may.”

  Mack put one of his large hands on Phoebe’s petite shoulder. “We can’t ask you to do this.”

  “You’re not. I’m volunteering.” She turned and winked at me. “We’re partners—after I get the message through, you gotta pay Mr. Schist what you owe him.”

  “Agreed,” MacCallard said.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I don’t want your blood on my hands, Phoeb
e. We’re leaving. Forget the money. Greenbacks are useless to a dead man.”

  “I just told you—I’m not a damn steamer trunk. I want to help these men, like you did.” She leaned closer to me. “You’ve been worrying about money ever since we got off the train.”

  “I’ve also been worried about your welfare. I can’t let you put yourself in harm’s way like this. Your mother will kill me.”

  “It ain’t right,” Roy repeated. “I don’t hide behind little girls.”

  “No one’s hiding behind her,” MacCallard said. “She’s just a messenger.”

  “Taking a message into a lion’s den!” I shook my head. “C’mon, Phoebe.”

  “Let go of her,” MacCallard ordered.

  “Or what?”

  The union leader sighed. “Or I’ll call the sentries down here and have you arrested.”

  “Arrest me? Are you joking?”

  He didn’t laugh. MacCallard never laughed.

  I started dragging Phoebe toward the exit tunnel.

  The sentries were there, carbines in hand. They glanced over my shoulder at MacCallard.

  “I’m surrounded by lunatics. I thought you were crazy, Roy—but you’re the sanest one in the lot. You two, get out of my way.”

  “You can leave now, Mr. Schist.” MacCallard glanced down at the schematics.

  A rifle butt plunged into my stomach and I gasped, releasing Phoebe.

  Her brown eyes gave me a pained expression. “Stop it! I won’t go with you, Mr. Schist. Please stay.”

  I fell to my knees. The blow wasn’t particularly hard—I’d felt worse. But it knocked the wind out of me. I put my hand on my truncheon and looked up.

  The black barrel of a carbine was pointed at my face.

  With blazing eyes, Roy took a step toward us. “It ain’t right.”

  The union leader stopped him with a glare.

  I eased my hand off the truncheon and looked at Phoebe. “I didn’t save you from Stanny just so the hardheads could crack your skull,” I gasped when my breath came back. “This mission is suicide.”

  “I can do this, Mr. Schist,” she said weakly. “We’re a team...”

  MacCallard glanced at the sentries coldly. “Why is he still here?”

  They dragged me by my elbows down the rough-hewn corridor.

  “Stay,” Phoebe begged. “I’ll get your money for you.”

  Anger welled up inside me. The rifle-butt to my stomach, the indignity of being dragged out like a misbehaving drunk...these were the products of Phoebe’s betrayal.

  “I’ll tell your ma where you died,” I said as the secret door slammed shut.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Once I was outside, regret blossomed hot as the river fire. She was a good kid with a kind heart. Maybe I should’ve pretended to go along with their stupid plan and talked her out of it when we were alone.

  I stared at the basement door, thinking of the words I should have said. Be careful. Make sure they feed you. Keep your head down when you go in. Don’t be afraid to make eye contact—but don’t stare too long. They’ll get suspicious.

  Instead of helping her I’d written her off, just like that.

  I stepped toward the door.

  “Get movin’,” one of the sentries said. “You’re not needed anymore.”

  The other one worked his carbine’s feeding mechanism. A bullet slid audibly into its chamber.

  I dusted myself off and slouched away. I could wait by the factory gates and snatch Phoebe before she went inside. But that would mean going into the center of town, into the belly of the beast. There were probably still bloodstains from the last massacre.

  If Harriman’s goons didn’t catch me and turn me over to Stanislaus, MacCallard’s men might kill me for gremlining their plans. They’d probably send an escort with her under orders to drill me if I came near her at all.

  I pushed the shame of it away and left the barricades. I hadn’t made it this long by being sentimental. I was a survivor, goddamn it. If I didn’t look after myself, who would? Phoebe’s decision was silly—but MacCallard turned it tragic, not me.

  The whole thing was a wash. Never mind the cash—my new mission was to get home in one piece. If Stanny figured out who crossed him, I’d need to keep my head down for months at least. Maybe it was for the best. I had enough greenbacks from my last case to hibernate a bit. I could take care of Moira and be around when the baby came. The wife might appreciate it if I played the dutiful husband for a while instead of stalking cathouses. That appreciation might even mean our baby could go through his first year without seeing his ma make his pa bleed.

  I reloaded the pistol, double-checked my derringer, and made sure my truncheon telescoped smoothly. Obviously, I wanted to avoid fights, but Trouble’s got a nose like a bloodhound.

  The road over the mountains was out. Without my Chesterfield, I probably wouldn’t survive a single night up there. My best chance would be to follow the rail. MacCallard had the way blocked for sure, but I might be able to go around a barricade or even bribe my way through with the last of my company script. I had no other use for it anyway. The unionists might be mad, but probably not mad enough to turn down a garnish.

  After that, I wasn’t so sure. What I did know was that my fear of Liutt’s hellhole outweighed my fear of the Pennsylvania wilderness. If I had to go a night or two in the cold without eating, so be it. There had to be a town within a day’s hike. It wouldn’t be the first time I trekked on an empty belly. At least this time I didn’t have to carry a wounded comrade with me.

  I tried not to think of Phoebe as I dodged from alley to alley, wondering who would be worse to meet—the hardheads or the unionists. At this point, both groups were prone to shoot first and ask questions later. The Harrimen knew Stanny wanted me. The strikers, meanwhile, knew me for a former Eye. Fighting the stream-fire might’ve endeared me to Mack and his miners, but it didn’t mean squat to the factory men. What’s more, MacCallard had no reason to protect me now. I was on my own, with only so much script for a bribe.

  I cleared the town but not the action.

  Boots pounded the road ahead of me, crisply audible in the stark winter forest. I made for the scraggly cover of a tree and prayed they wouldn’t look my way. My aptitude for skulking tended to the urban—I was out of my element in a forest.

  A troop of hardheads jogged past. They’d lost all semblance of formation—which explained why I’d eluded them so easily. They should’ve had a guy or two on point to watch for ambushes, but instead they were bunched together, talking and swearing and looking over their shoulders like hell was after them.

  A few minutes later, hell caught up.

  Unionist torches danced through the skeletal forest like a flock of cardinals. There were a score at least, probably more.

  The Harrimen paused, turned, and sprayed the cold forest with their shotguns.

  I hit the snow and covered my head. The crazy bastards were more dangerous to me—a hidden bystander—than the actual enemy.

  It was sloppy. The hardheads shouldn’t have shot at this distance. Their scatterguns were sawed-off and fitted with pistol grips. They were for messy, close-in work. Shooting at moving targets in a nighttime forest was more like hunting than crowd control, but none of the hardheads carried a rifle.

  The torches were fanning out, making a semi-circle.
My soldier’s eye could tell that in just a few minutes, they would have the detectives surrounded.

  The hardheads lived up to their name. They didn’t sense the danger until it was almost too late. Rather than try for a cohesive unit action, though, they made a disorganized retreat toward town.

  Gunshots echoed around me. The damn unionists were right at my back, shooting over my head.

  A spasm of terror jolted through me as something hit my neck. My skin went numb. Liquid coursed down my back. There was no pain, but then there often isn’t. What’s more, I had Dr. Lichfield’s insane tonic in my veins, so I didn’t trust my nerves.

  I flexed my fingers inside my gloves to make sure I wasn’t paralyzed, afraid to move anything else. I didn’t dare probe the wound right now—movement would reveal my location.

  One of the detectives fell. He floundered with his overcoat, struggled to his feet, and let out a cry of terror as angry unionists erupted from the tree line. His comrades kept running. They didn’t even spare him a backward glance.

  The unionists were almost on him. He brought up his shotgun but was too panicked: the shot went wide.

  I bit my lip and closed my eyes as the laborers reached him.

  If sound were any indicator, it was a nasty way to die. It didn’t last long. Lucky for him the unionists were too angry to prolong the issue with torture.

  I lay there and waited for the men to pass. The murderers didn’t tarry long. The Hounds were still fighting somewhere down the road. The dull boom of shotguns echoed through the forest.

  When I got to my feet, the numbness was replaced by hot embarrassment. It wasn’t a bullet that had hit me but an icicle. A gunshot must’ve dislodged it. When it hit my collar, it numbed my skin and melted like dripping blood.

  The dead hardhead hadn’t been so lucky. After brutally killing him, they’d stripped him bare. They’d taken his armor, helmet, and weapons. They even took his boots. The dead man lay face down in his underclothes, rump in the air like a toy soldier dropped by a forgetful child.