“Lincoln?” asked Miss Sanchez.
“Yeah, that was it. How did you know?”
“Go on, Henry,” said Seamus.
“Well, the other man said they did Lincoln also. But McCullen didn’t agree or disagree. He just said that the krewe was for making parade floats only.”
“This is bad,” Miss Sanchez said, glancing at Seamus. “Buchanan was supposed to be president. Then Lincoln.”
Henry looked like he was going to correct Miss Sanchez, but Seamus put up a hand and Henry closed his mouth.
“What were Buchanan’s policies?” Miss Sanchez asked.
“He opposed slavery in the new states,” said Seamus. “Breckinridge believes each state should decide for itself.”
Seamus glanced at Mrs. Washington, who was standing across the kitchen. She was busying herself with something, but Seamus knew she was listening. He didn’t mind.
“What about the East India Company?” Miss Sanchez asked him.
“The South favored Buchanan because he promised to put limits on the Company’s activity in the Caribbean. Well, in American waters anyway. Now, Breckinridge, he’s the son of one of the major owners of a Northern airship company. He wanted to raise tariffs on the steamship companies. So the South would pay more, but the North and South would both benefit from the revenue.”
“So if Buchanan died, or was killed, and Breckinridge took his place, the North would generally profit?”
“That’s about the size of it,” said Seamus.
“I wish I knew their first names, to see if they’re the same people,” she muttered, and Henry gave her an evaluating look. The boy was bright, but Seamus knew there was no way he would figure out what was happening. It was far too strange and unlikely.
Miss Sanchez looked at the corner of the ceiling, deep in thought. Her hair had come down from its pins in places and small tendrils were brushing her shoulders and the back of her neck. She had a pleasant, easy look about her, even if she was still in the hateful gown that McCullen had sent. Even exhausted and weary, she was putting her mind to the problem instead of allowing him to handle it for her.
Seamus pulled off his coat and threw it over the back of his chair. He leaned forward on his elbows and leaned his head in his hands. “This is bad,” he muttered.
“What’s bad?” asked Henry.
“Pay it no mind, lad,” said Seamus, raising his head and forcing himself to sit up. The boy didn’t need any more worries on his narrow shoulders. “I’m just worried if Buchanan truly is dead. I hope you heard wrong, or that McCullen was lying. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Mrs. Washington was no longer pretending to do any domestic busywork but stood stock still, listening. Seamus decided that enough had been said.
He rose and pushed in his chair. “I think we all could use some sleep. Oh, and Henry.” He glanced at the boy’s filthy clothing. “Tomorrow, you need to get yourself some new clothes. The ones you have are in need of washing. And you have to look your best on Saturday for the Steamboat Festival.”
Henry looked happy, but Seamus thought he saw the boy’s eyes moisten. It made him uncomfortable and he turned away. Miss Sanchez gave Seamus a look that said she was not finished speaking with him. Well, she knew where she could find him. After the night he had experienced, he did not think he would get much sleep.
Twenty minutes later, Miss Sanchez was in her nightclothes and sitting in his laboratory. He was getting more used to the woman’s strange ways. Her culture allowed women to wear trousers, or even what she described as “shorts,” which sounded like little more than underclothes. Both men and women went hatless and the bathing attire they wore to the beach might have just as well been nothing. It reminded him of the tales of the South American and African natives who roamed about, naked and childlike. They were, in a way, innocent. He had said as much, bringing a laugh from Miss Sanchez, who assured him that “innocent” was not a good descriptor of her time.
And now, Miss Sanchez was in a long cotton nightgown with a heavy robe over it. Mrs. Washington must have given it to her, as it was a few sizes too large for her. The slippers on her feet were too bulky as well.
“I know you aren’t used to our world,” he said. “But here, a woman would not converse with a man in her nightclothes,” he said. If somehow he was unable to send her back home, he would have to educate her on proper ladylike behavior.
“Yeah, I figured. But you aren’t going to put it in the society column of the paper, so I’m not too worried.”
She seemed oblivious to any discomfort that he may experience at her state of undress. He was by no means unfamiliar with the female form, but he found that he liked Miss Sanchez. He supposed, in a way, he respected her. And seeing her like this, well, something was not right about it. He decided to think of her as one of the innocent savages, whether she liked it or not. He found his pipe, took a few pinches of tobacco from a small pouch and packed it. After rummaging through his pockets and a few drawers, he found a box of matches and lit the pipe.
“That’ll kill you, you know,” said Miss Sanchez.
“What’ll kill me?”
“Smoking. It’s bad for the lungs.”
He looked down at his pipe and then put it between his teeth. He turned to his work table.
Miss Sanchez leaned against the table, either too weary or too uninterested in convincing him to give up the pipe. “The deaths of Lincoln and Buchanan are designed to drive a wedge between the North and the South,” she said. “Is that what you are thinking too?”
Savage she may be, but not unintelligent or prevaricating.
“Yes. If, as you say, Lincoln was to keep the union together, these deaths seem as if they would make it more likely for the country to split. Perhaps Lincoln had stated his opinion on this, and it led to his killing.”
“What was it that Henry said about Ireland, Wales and France?”
“Well, in a conflict, the British would support the North. Economically, John Company is in competition with the South, so giving them dominance over Southern trade would benefit the British.”
“John Company?”
“The East India Company,” he explained. Of course, she didn’t know the nickname. “France and Ireland will oppose England and will side with the South.”
“Sounds like my world. France and Ireland have always had conflict with the English. And what’s this about Wales?”
He shook his head. “Wales would ally with England. If Wales comes in, it could be terrible. Their military is one of the strongest in the world.”
“Seriously?” She sounded as if she were about to laugh.
“Yes, I would not jest about something like that.”
She was silent for a minute and Seamus returned to his work. He pulled together his papers, making an attempt to put all the notes related to the peroxide engine in one place. He was exhausted, but if he organized his materials, he might be able to connect some of the ideas, find a new way of looking at them.
“So, how does one get peroxide for these engines?” Felicia asked, flipping absently through a stack of papers. Seamus took them from her.
“Well, you need electrolysis of an aqueous solution of sulfuric acid or acidic ammonium bisulfate. Then you hydrolize the peroxide sulfate that results.”
“Is that all?” Felicia muttered. “Wait. Isn’t sulfuric acid dangerous?”
Now, how did she know that? Oh yes, her university education. Her knowledge was so scattershot that these things still surprised him.
“Yes. It’s dangerous. Much of what I do is dangerous.”
“Like when you murdered someone? Was McCullen telling the truth?”
She was right beside him, and when he straightened up, he found her watching him intently. He hadn’t seen her with her hair dow
n since her arrival, and it made her look younger. He was put in mind of a little girl on Christmas Eve, waiting expectantly in her nightgown.
At his hesitation, she looked wary. He understood that she expected him to lie. He wouldn’t.
“Yes. I killed someone,” he said.
She exhaled, and Seamus realized she had been holding her breath. The poor woman, trapped in a strange world with a man she knew was a murderer. But she was not pulling away from him. She was staying just where she was. How extraordinary. She was not afraid of him.
“And you thought the police knew this?” she asked. “That’s why you didn’t deny it when McCullen mentioned it?”
“I thought McCullen might have told the police, yes. I thought if you told Mrs. Washington, she would execute a plan that she and I had made. She’d use a letter I have in my safe, withdraw my funds from the bank and hire the best legal counsel I could get.”
“I didn’t tell her the murder part, only that McCullen had you arrested.”
“Thank you.” He felt himself relax a bit. McCullen’s two servants had overheard their master, but they knew nothing of the details. Servants’ gossip without proof was meaningless. As long as McCullen kept silent, he would remain safe.
“Is that how you know McCullen? Did it happen in Ireland?” Felicia asked.
“Yes.” He set down the papers and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose this involves you now, so you ought to know.”
“Involves me? How?”
“When I was at the police station, a man named Neil Grey came in. He knew about my past, and I am now required to assist him in investigating the engine explosions. If I do not, he will expose me. And since finding out how the engines work is the sole path to finding a way to send you back home, it involves you.”
“How do you know this Grey man knew your past? Did he have any proof? McCullen might have told him something and he used it against you.”
“He knew my name.”
“It’s not Seamus Connor?”
“Seamus is my Christian name, yes. But I was born with a different surname.”
She looked away, and got the thoughtful look she wore sometimes.
“McCullen called you brother. Are you related?” she asked.
Miss Sanchez had not asked him his true name. Either she was not interested, which was next to impossible, or it was something else. She was allowing him his privacy. It placed her in a vulnerable position, knowing he was a murderer, but not knowing his name.
“No. We’re not blood,” Seamus said. “We’re from different parts of Ireland. But we were in prison together.”
Miss Sanchez cleared off a chair and sat down, positioning her body so she was facing him, but not directly. She was waiting. He finished with his stack of papers.
“The man I killed was my older sister’s husband. He came from the north to help work my father’s farm. My brothers and I worked, but we needed an extra hand. He was strong and worked hard. We gave him board and meals. In return, he forced himself on my sister, Branna, and got her with child. I didn’t know, nor did my brothers or our father. If we had, the animal would have gone missing and a fresh pile of dug up earth would have appeared a few miles from our farm. I think my sister didn’t say anything from shame. I will never know. Whatever happened, they were wed shortly after her pregnancy was discovered.
“Times were bad, as they were. And still are, I presume. In his own home, the man was a drunkard, vicious and cruel. I had gone to their house to bring over some bread our mother had baked. She had enough flour for an extra loaf, and we wanted to make sure Branna had enough to eat while she was with child. Well, I heard yelling, a man’s voice and a woman’s. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a flesh hitting flesh, and my sister let out a little cry.
“I didn’t bother to knock, but nearly tore the door off its hinges coming in. I was on my brother-in-law before he knew what was happening. My sister screamed for us to stop, but when I saw the blood on her face and her belly swollen with child, something broke free in me. I beat the man until we were both bloodied up and he was on the floor. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even senseless.
“As I stood there panting, tasting my own blood and covered with his and my own, he managed to pull himself to stand. He swore he’d kill me. And he gave a smile that chilled me to the bone. The man, he wasn’t human.
“Well, I tried to get Branna to come with me, to return to our father’s farm. But she wouldn’t. I’ll never understand that either.”
Remembering his sister, his whole family, made his chest feel tight and heavy. He pulled back the curtain and looked out into the night sky. The reflection of lamplight on the glass prevented him from seeing the sky properly. He yanked open the window, oblivious to the cold.
Miss Sanchez was beside him. “Sometimes, abused women don’t want to leave their abusers. It’s a common dynamic in an abusive relationship. It’s the same with rape victims. They often don’t wish to report it because they’re ashamed.”
He had a stirring of curiosity as to how Miss Sanchez knew these things, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.
“There are so many stars,” Felicia whispered. “We don’t have that many. I mean, they’re there, but we have so much light from the city that we can’t see them all.”
“Want to go out?”
“In my jammies?” she paused. “Well, why not?” She slipped through the window. It was quick this time, as she did not have large skirts to hinder her. Seamus turned off the light and slipped out onto the upper gallery. In the dark, no one would see them. Miss Sanchez seated herself with her back against the house and her knees drawn up under her chin. She pulled her nightgown and robe down over her legs, covered her feet and wrapped her arms around her legs. Her dark hair hung down her back and over her shoulders. Her face was upturned to the sky. He sat down beside her.
“Are the stars the same?” he asked.
“Yeah, they’re the same.”
Seamus leaned back and took a deep breath of the chilly night air. It was clear and quiet, and the lights in the houses across the street were out. He liked this time of night, when things were so still. These stars were the same stars that looked down on him when he was a boy. And they were the same from Ireland to New Orleans, from the nineteenth century to the twenty-first. They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“The next night, my mother and two of my sisters left the house,” Seamus said. It felt good to speak so quietly in the night. It was like a confessional, here in the dark. But Miss Sanchez was more pleasant company than a priest behind a curtain. “They looked like they were going to a funeral. My brother and I made one of our other sisters tell us what was happening. Branna might be losing the babe. That animal had beaten her again the next night, and she was so thin and frail to begin with. I heard my mother and sisters return long after we were all in bed. Branna was not with them.”
“Did she die?”
“No, but she was injured badly. She lost the child, and the blood loss took a toll on her body as well. I knew that animal would kill her, as he had killed my tiny nephew. One of my sisters told me that the child was a boy.”
Miss Sanchez put her forehead on her knees.
“I got up in the dark, got my father’s hunting rifle and went to my sister’s house. I killed him. The police came, naturally. And Branna died of her injuries the next day. But I’ll always know that it was me that killed my poor mother.”
“She died too?” she whispered.
“No, no. I mean figuratively.” He gave a wry smile. “She was yelling and swearing every second the police were at the farm to take me away. She would have beaten them herself if my father hadn’t held her back. She’s a ferocious woman, my mother. But I know losing me and Branna and her grandson would take a toll. We’d already lost my ot
her sister’s daughter. My mother died a little with each one of us. There was so much death, then. Neighbors. Friends.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her raise her arm and wipe at her eyes.
“It’s all right, lass. Branna and the baby are with God. And that monster is burning in hell. I’ve gone to confession. My soul is cleansed.”
The words didn’t seem to give her much comfort, but then, they’d been little comfort to him either.
“I went to prison after a brief trial. I was guilty, of course. They sent me to Mountjoy Prison. They called it, ‘The Joy,’ and if there was ever something more misnamed …” He shook his head. “Well, while inside, I let it be known that I could fix mechanical things. The more useful you were, the better. After a while, I was given a choice. Transport to Tasmania, or life in prison. I decided to take my chances in Van Dieman’s Land.
“They transferred me to Spike Island and there I met Oren McCullen. He worked on machinery with me. He was brilliant, cunning and he had a theoretical understanding of possibilities. By that, I mean, he always knew you could send signals through the aether, like the radio. And he had other ideas, which we worked on together. He arranged it so we were cellmates, and we spent many nights discussing ideas, talking back and forth between our bunks.
“McCullen had friends on the outside. The man had a hatred for the English that I’ve rarely seen, even from Irishmen who fought them. That’s how he ended up in prison, for killing two Englishmen. Well, he had friends who also hated the English. And they had a plan. While being transported from Spike Island to Van Dieman’s Land, they would send a boat and break him out. He told only one other person about the plan, his closest friend.
“He said we could take new names, settle in America. So many of our countrymen were flooding in after the famine that we’d hardly be noticed. Some of McCullen’s fellows broke us out just off the Spanish coast. We came to New Orleans, and the authorities had no way of knowing where on earth we had gone. After working odd jobs and sharing a stinking little room in a filthy boarding house, we decided to use our heads. Between the two of us, we could figure out almost anything mechanical. And McCullen had a way to charm people. Both of us were decent at lying, and we lied our way into professorships at Tulane. I teach there still.”
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 14