The Halifax Connection

by Marie Jakober

  “Mr. Shaw.” He shook hands warmly, but he did not smile. “I’m glad to see you. I take it the good constable here has told you how pleased we are with your work?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Good.” He settled into the first chair he found. “So tell me about this Janes chap, will you? All of it, from the beginning.”

  He listened attentively, interrupting only with an occasional question, frowning when Erryn explained the involvement of Sylvie Bowen, but saying nothing until he had finished.

  Then he asked, very quietly, “Do you trust this woman, Shaw?”

  “Yes, sir. Entirely.”

  He nodded. It was not, Erryn thought, a nod of approval, merely an acknowledgment of fact.

  “Calverley tells me you spoke with the so-called Confederate commissioners when they passed through Halifax, and you thought they might be looking to start an uprising in the northwestern states?”

  “That was certainly the impression they gave me, sir. They talked a great deal about how discontented the people were in places like Illinois and Ohio, how much support the Sons of Liberty had. All that sort of thing.”

  “So, if there’s an armed rising in the works, your man Janes might be bringing in weapons to support it.”

  “He might,” Erryn agreed. “But if those three names we have are destinations for the shipments, they’re all on the east coast.”

  “Way stations,” Hawkins suggested. “Or a diversion—a move to trigger panic. What would the government think if a rebellion broke out in the west and suddenly there was fighting in places like Philadelphia and Baltimore as well? They might well believe the Copperheads to be ten times more powerful and dangerous than they really are.”

  “Now there’s a nasty thought,” Matt said.

  “Indeed.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?”

  “Well, I can tell you what we don’t do. We don’t let that cargo leave Halifax if there’s any way on earth we can stop it. Mr. Shaw, it seems your man Janes has been fairly close-mouthed about the whole operation. How likely is it you’ll wake up one morning and find he’s gone? That his contraband came and went without you ever knowing?”

  There was an even nastier thought. Erryn ran it through his mind very carefully, and weighed it against everything he knew of Janes: the man’s ambition, his shrewdness, his nouveau riche sense of self-importance …

  “It’s very possible, sir. But I think … I think there’s a chance he’ll tell me when it comes.”

  “Why?” Matt challenged him. “Wouldn’t such a cautious man simply take his cargo and slip away?”

  “If he hadn’t told me anything about it back in Montreal, when he thought he needed to—then I think he would. But I already know a little. I already know he’s part of this extraordinary mission that’s going to change the course of the war, and that makes me the one person he can tell. Not the details of it, no—he’s shrewd enough to keep those tucked safe away. But that it’s finally happening? That it wasn’t all just talk, just Maury Janes playing the big man? What with me being his best mate and a genuine blue-blooded English gentleman to boot, the sort who can appreciate real merit in a man? He’ll be awfully tempted, I think.”

  Hawkins looked to the constable, who shrugged. “Shaw knows him, sir. I don’t.”

  “Well.” The colonel spoke again to Erryn. “If you’re right, and God willing you are, then at least we can impound the vessel and search it for contraband.”

  Matt shook his head. “That’s not a very good solution, sir.”

  “I know. We’d likely compromise Mr. Shaw, and lose his valuable services.”

  “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, colonel,” Erryn murmured, “I’m rather more concerned about Mr. Shaw’s valuable head.”

  “Also a consideration,” Hawkins agreed. “You tell me Janes never leaves anything in his room. So he might have some papers with him—a bill of lading, at the very least. Surely you can find some excuse for searching him, constable.”

  “It’s a port city, sir. Hundreds of men carry around shipping papers for one thing or another. Why should I pay any attention to his, unless someone betrayed him? And that someone could only be Erryn. It’s the same thing, sir. Search him, search the ship—either way, we’re hanging a millstone around Shaw’s neck and pitching him over.”

  “Then fabricate something. An accusation of theft, perhaps—”

  “Footpads,” Erryn said quietly. “That’s what we need. Footpads.”

  Matt’s face brightened with interest. The colonel frowned. “Explain,” he said.

  “We get attacked on the street. At night. You knock the bugger senseless. He’ll think it was thieves.”

  “And after we’ve used his papers and claimed the shipment, then what will he think?” Hawkins asked grimly.

  “Oh, bloody hell. All right, forget I mentioned it.”

  “No,” Matt said. He leaned forward eagerly, his elbows on his knees. “It’s a damn good idea. Only we don’t knock him senseless, Erryn, we knock you senseless—”

  “Now wait just a minute—”

  “Only for show, mate, only for show. You play dead. The colonel here and his fellow thieves get scared off, what’s Janes going to do? Likely he’ll hunker down and be grabbing at you to see if you’re dead or not. That could look right suspicious to a policeman just coming on the scene, couldn’t it? Or he could leave you lying there and cut and run—well, that’s even more suspicious. Either way, I have grounds to arrest him, search him, and keep whatever I find—leastways till poor Mr. Shaw comes to his senses and tells us it was all a terrible mistake. That could take days. And who knows what I’ll do in the meantime, being a sod who thinks the worst of the Johnny Rebs on principle?”

  Hawkins frowned. “You can’t lay a man out for days and then have him turn up without so much as a bump on his head.”

  “Well then, we can give him some bumps.”

  “You’re so kind,” Erryn said, “but I have a better idea. When I wake up and tell you it was thieves who attacked us, you start to wonder what he’s smuggling. Well, wouldn’t you? He’s a diehard Southerner. He’s up to his neck with the Grey Tories. Now a ship’s just come in with cargo for him, and the day is barely gone before he’s nailed by thieves. Damned curious coincidence, don’t you think?” He turned to Colonel Hawkins, who did not seem the least bit impressed, and then back to Matt. “What did the robbers want so badly? Wouldn’t you wonder, Matt? Wouldn’t anyone?”

  “They wanted your purses,” Hawkins said.

  “Most likely,” Matt agreed. “Then again, given the men involved, given the circumstances, I think the possibility of contraband might cross my mind.”

  “Would the Rebs believe that? It’s for their benefit, remember, not mine.”

  “They might,” Erryn said. “As the constable told you, sir, he thinks the worst of them on principle.”

  “Well.” Hawkins looked from one to the other, gravely. “It’s rather thin, gentlemen. But we may not have a lot of time, and at the moment I don’t have a better idea. The question is, though, Mr. Shaw—when the time comes, can you lure Maury Janes to some appropriately dangerous spot late at night?”

  “I shouldn’t have to lure him, colonel. If I play my role right, he’ll be luring me.”

  CHAPTER 32

  The Vessel of Retribution

  He must have iron nails who scratches a bear.

  —Edward Bulwer-Lytton

  I THINK HE’LL FIND IT hard not to tell me.

  Erryn thought back on his words many times over the next three days, days as difficult as any he had ever lived through. His judgment of Janes had been instinctive, based on his knowledge of the man rather than on practical good sense. He knew he might be right. He knew also that he might be deluding himself again, reading all the wrong signs, misjudging an enemy just as he had done on the streets of Montreal, and afterwards on the Saguenay. The possibility chilled him to his bones. Little Robin R
edbreast sat beneath a tree, along came pussycat and crunch went he …

  Not funny, Shaw. There’s more at stake here than your head, dearly though you value it.

  There was altogether too much at stake, which was why, even though he was bored to desperation by the man, his heart lifted every time he met Maury Janes on the street, every time he spoke with someone who had just seen him. As long as Janes was in town, he still could hope. Sunday passed, and Monday; he found excuses to spend time near Al MacNab, hoping for a drop of news. Tuesday morning he was on his way to the emporium when he spotted Janes through a Hollis Street shop window. He raised his hand in greeting. Janes dropped whatever he had been doing there and dashed into the street.

  “Shaw! I was hoping I’d run into you!” For days the Carolinian had seemed a man with something very serious on his mind. Now all the tension in him was gone, replaced by a buoyant energy. He clapped Erryn warmly on the shoulder and fell in step beside him, steering him onward. “Come,” he said. “I want to show you something!”

  Erryn kept his voice amiable and calm. “You’re in a fine humour today.”

  “You got that right.”

  At the next corner they turned toward the harbour, and then Erryn allowed himself to hope. He said nothing, however, letting Janes play out his moment of triumph as he wished. The wind coming off the water was fierce; wild gusts tore at their sleeves and tossed dirt into their faces. His companion steered him onto the pier of Taylor’s Wharf, where an aging, graceless steam freighter lay at anchor.

  “There she is, Shaw,” Janes said proudly. “The Vessel of Retribution.”

  Erryn looked at the man, at the ship, back at the man. “Well, I’ll be damned, you’ve done it!” He held out his hand. “Congratulations! Though I don’t mind telling you, I was expecting a more—well, shall we say a more impressive-looking vessel.”

  Janes laughed. “So was I, once. The lads in Nassau had a nifty blockade-runner in mind for us, but it turned out the captain wasn’t interested. That’s why everything took so damn long. Tell you the truth, Shaw, there were times I thought I’d never see this day.”

  “Waiting can be the worst thing in the world,” Erryn told him. “Especially when matters are in someone else’s hands.” A lesson he had just finished learning for himself, unforgettably. He paused, and added with a touch of well-feigned regret, “I suppose you’ll be leaving us now.”

  “Couple of days. Maybe tomorrow if all goes well. Listen, let’s go have a drink to celebrate. Then I have to see MacNab.”

  “I have a much better idea. This deserves a real celebration. You shall be my guest for the evening, yes? Dinner at the club at least, and maybe something after? Dear Lord, Janes, this is something you’ve planned for and waited for so long. We must do it up right!”

  Some thirty hours later, Erryn was sitting on the floor of an empty shed in the ordnance yard, waiting for Matt Calverley to turn up. Hawkins had already arrived, having left Matt to handle the administrative details. Matt was the peace officer, after all; there was no reason for Hawkins to be involved, except for such reasons as they preferred to keep to themselves.

  The shed was large and bare, but it was safely away from the curious eyes of the public. It was also conveniently divided into two compartments, allowing Erryn to slip out of sight when Matt and his men brought the contraband in. Supremely practical, the place was, but dreary to sit in, hour after hour. Erryn filled up the time by going over every detail of the previous night: his dinner with Janes at the Halifax Club, the carefully staged attack on Grafton Street, the papers Colonel Hawkins had shown him in the carriage. There was a letter—the same letter, no doubt, that had been delivered to Janes late one night at the Den. Your trunks will arrive Dover early July. You will need this. With the letter was a page from Great Expectations torn in half.

  He remembered also the colonel’s wry assessment of the documents: The captain of the Dover likely has the other half, and will only surrender the cargo to the man who has its mate … or, of course, to an officer of the port authority with a lawful warrant.

  They had him, Erryn thought. Unless something unusual and dreadful occurred, they had Maury Janes. And he, Erryn, stood an excellent chance of coming out of it alive.

  The trouble was, sitting here waiting, a man could readily think of fifty unusual and dreadful things that might occur. Thus, most of eternity had passed before he heard the sound of wheels and horses drawing up outside and a knocking on the shed door. He stepped into the next compartment. It had, he discovered, a few small cracks in the wall, allowing him a limited view of the other room.

  Hawkins walked to the outer door and stood beside it, obviously weary but very much alert. “Identify yourself.”

  “It’s Calverley, sir.”

  He pulled the bolt and opened the door. “Well, constable, what did you find?”

  Matt and young Connor walked in, carrying a large steamer trunk between them. Two other constables followed with a second trunk. Astonishingly, when they had returned with a third, Matt dismissed them.

  “Thank you, lads,” he said. “I’ll be here awhile. Don’t send for me unless we’re being shot at, or the city’s burning down around your ears.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The door closed. The wagon clattered away. Erryn stepped back into the room with the others … a room grown extraordinarily and painfully quiet. Hawkins was staring at the trunks as though they were beetles on a piece of toast. Eventually his gaze shifted back to Matt Calverley’s face.

  “For God’s sake, constable, didn’t you seize the entire shipment? Where is the rest of it?”

  “This is all of it, sir.”

  “This is all of it?” The colonel’s voice was altogether too calm.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Calverley, do you know anything about combat?”

  “Mostly the street variety, sir.”

  “That’s rather what I thought. God damn it, do you actually think someone is going to change the course of the American war with such weapons as he can stuff into three God damn steamer trunks?”

  “I suppose that would depend, sir.”

  “Depend on what, for God’s sake? If these are all the guns you need, you can buy them in the States. You don’t have to smuggle them from England to Nassau to Canada first!”

  “Sir, if you’ll forgive me,” Erryn said, “we don’t know what Janes was bringing in. All he ever talked about was a shipment. But it has to be war contraband of some sort, and dangerous. To that extent we had to take him at his word.”

  Hawkins threw out his arms and let them fall again. “Oh, I suppose you’re right. Well then, let’s get on with it.”

  Matt offered Erryn the keys. “I guess the honour is yours, mate.”

  Erryn dropped to one knee by the nearest trunk. The key fitted poorly, and had to be rattled and jiggled to get the lock open. He snapped open the catches and raised the cover cautiously. A sickeningly powerful stench wafted out, like old, half-rotted clothing, only worse. The trunk was packed to the rim; folded carefully over everything was a worn grey blanket. He lifted it and turned his face away.

  “Whee-eew! Lord Jesus almighty, what a stink. They must have wrapped a dead dog in it for a week.”

  “Well,” Matt said, “that’s one way to discourage snoops.”

  “Just about enough to discourage me.”

  There were more old blankets underneath, obviously used to wrap and protect the important cargo. He peeled them off, carefully; they all stank. Underneath were a mass of garments—a great many shirts, several pairs of women’s drawers, nightgowns—more blankets, a rag doll, a bedsheet, a bible, a diary, a lady’s reticule, a child’s frilly dress. The others merely stared as he pulled up one harmless thing after another, all of them old and smelly, as used belongings would become, packed for weeks or maybe months inside a trunk. Old, but harmless. Finally he was scrabbling in the bottom for one last ragged shirt, and the trunk was empty. He saw total bewild
erment on Matt’s face; he supposed his own looked much the same. They turned the trunk upside down. They tapped it and poked it, testing for false bottoms, hidden compartments. There was nothing. It was empty.

  “A decoy?” Matt suggested.

  “Possibly.”

  Erryn found the right key for the next trunk and tossed the remaining one to Matt. “Here, constable, make yourself useful.”

  “In a minute,” Matt said. “Let’s see what that one looks like first.”

  It was the largest of the three. Erryn unlocked it easily, but for a long moment he could not bring himself to lift the cover. He was, he realized, quite absurdly afraid, and part of what he feared was that this one would look exactly like the other.

  It did. So did Matt’s.

  Nobody said a word. Carefully he and Matt picked their way through the contents, trying not to gag at the smell, trying not to think very hard about how idiotic they looked, and felt, poking about in the bedclothes and underwear of strangers, holding long fluttery nightgowns up against the light to see if bombs or pistols or dispatch cases would fall out of them. When they were done, three shabby piles of used clothing lay on the floor, and nothing else. No weapons, no contraband, no papers, no money.

  “I don’t bloody believe this,” Matt said. “Where did you find this Janes arsehole, anyway? In a circus?”

  “They must have suspected you, Calverley,” the colonel said. “They gave you the wrong cargo. I’ll wager there’s a few tons of weapons still sitting in the Dover’s hold.”

  “No, sir, there isn’t. I thought it was a mistake too, but we checked everything. We examined the hold, the warehouse, the cargo manifests, everything. It all matches. That ship was full of cookstoves and hammers and cheap brandy and such, nothing else. Besides, Janes’s letter says ‘trunks.’ We’ve got the right cargo.”

  “Well then, gentlemen, you’ve been had. The man is obviously a lunatic. Give him back his trash and let him go.” He took out a fine linen handkerchief and wiped his face. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go home and find out how much Madeira it will take to get this stink out of my throat.”