They knew from a Treasury agent posted in Oswego—the one tracking activities of British espionage agent Colonel de Warde—that Enfield rifles had been unloaded from a Canadian ship the night before. There was nothing illegal in that. The agent said that from a Lake Ontario wharf, the guns were loaded on wagons. Again nothing illegal. Some hours later the guns were transferred from the wagons onto canal boats, which then headed south on the Oswego River. The agent followed on horseback, hidden by trees growing along the bank, but after five miles he finally was spotted. He took himself out of range when he was fired upon. The canal boats and guns had continued on.
The ultimate destination of the smuggled British rifles was the Confederate South. The treasury agent's report had considerably narrowed Treasury's current search for the smugglers.
By stealthily evading Lincoln's blockade of Southern seaports, the rifles had been transported through western New York and Pennsylvania twice before. During transport the rifles were equipped with sword bayonets. All of which was illegal. Was, in fact, high treason.
It was not a simple operation. Treasury calculated that the guns and bayonets, to travel south undetected, needed to be disguised. They were likely being repackaged and falsely labeled. This process would require a quiet, isolated place. Since Treasury now knew the guns were disappearing somewhere along the Oswego River, it was speculated that a barn, and a good size wharf would be necessary. And from what the agent had reported, these facilities must obviously be located south of the Ontario port, but north of where the Oswego River joined the bustling Erie Canal system. They also thought a site remote enough to avoid observation would be north of the hamlet of Fulton. This reduced the area under surveillance to a five-mile stretch of river.
So it was figured.
As Rhys Bevan had said, the men who loaded and unloaded the guns were small fish. They might not even know where the cargo was headed. If captured, their arrest would only serve to warn those who masterminded the operation. Thus the objective was to catch the big fish.
Bronwen swung the glasses east to scan the ground. Somewhere down there, waiting on horseback, were Jacques Sundown and Rhys Bevan with a band of Treasury agents. They would have only a small window of time in which to identify and seize the contraband. Bevan's greatest worry was a premature ground attack, which might give the ones in charge an opportunity to escape.
Slowly Bronwen moved the field glasses to sight along the river. Then she stopped, moved the glasses back a fraction, and held. "Professor, I've got something along the river! Almost due east!"
"Please give me a point of reference."
She squinted, running through the calculations he had taught her to determine distance. "Maybe a mile or so above Fulton hamlet on the west bank. I just saw wagons come from behind some trees. There's a big clump of willows hanging into the water and next to it I can see the end of a wharf. Must be a long one the way it's jutting out into the river."
She concentrated as she moved the glasses to the south. Several minutes later she said, "Professor, I think this is it! Those three low-riding, northbound boats—they're past Fulton now. It looks like they could be heading for that wharf! And all of a sudden there's a lot of activity that wasn't there the last time I looked."
Lowe's glasses were now moving beside hers.
"Yes, I see them!" he said. "Boats with heavy cargo, probably bayonets, heading north while the boats with rifles head south from Oswego—and they rendezvous at a site mid-river. Very clever."
He lowered his glasses and said, "Time to get under way! Keep watching the boats while I contact the ground."
He reached beneath the bench where his equipment was stored. Bronwen had heard excitement in his voice that echoed her own, but she knew without looking that his movements would be steady and methodical.
She felt the basket tilt slightly as he leaned over the side. "Loose ropes! Loose ropes now!" came booming from his megaphone. The basket listed again, as Lowe leaned out farther to see those below who were releasing the mooring ropes from their anchors.
Now came the part Bronwen dreaded most. The worst thing about ballooning, hands down, was the stench of the coal gas. She would describe it as smelling like an open sewer filled with rotten eggs. While it didn't seem to much bother Lowe, whenever she saw him reach for the gas valve, she held her breath.
The air seemed so still that Bronwen, her eyes glued to the river activity, couldn't tell if the mooring ropes had been loosed. She risked a sideways glance at Lowe, who was throwing out several sandbags of ballast. Then—she sucked in her breath—he turned the valve at the base of the silk envelope to let a small amount of the gas "blow off." The Enterprise, with a diameter of forty-two feet, could hold over thirty thousand cubic feet of gas. If released all at once, Bronwen imagined the stench would topple a herd of elephants.
While her glasses were trained on the wagons, three more canal boats, which must have been concealed by the willows, suddenly appeared. "Professor," she said urgently, "I think we need to get moving. Right now!"
She heard a soft chuckle behind her, and looked down to see their mooring site receding. It amazed her, as it had the first time aloft, that she had no sense of motion. And yet they must be floating somewhat faster than usual on a whisper of breeze from the west.
"You'll be on your own for a minute or two, Miss Llyr," the ever courteous Lowe told her. "Please watch and report, because I'll be checking the lines."
He climbed up into the hoop, a ring between the basket and the balloon envelope on which the guide ropes were fastened. Bronwen scrutinized the ground for Jacques and the Treasury men. They were divided into two groups: one to the north of the Enterprise, the other to the south.
She found them. A number of horses and riders waiting some distance ahead. She guessed they were on a grassy rise, but from the air she had no accurate sense of depth perception. Then she saw their white flags waving to indicate they had the balloon in sight .
"Professor, I can see the Treasury men." She could hear her voice tighten. "How far are we from the mark, do you think?"
Jacques and Rhys would have field glasses, and she was supposed to signal them when the Enterprise was a mile from the target.
Lowe climbed down beside her and raised his glasses. And put them down almost immediately, saying, "Get ready to signal!"
She reached for a portion of the flexible, telescoped wand he was elongating. On the end of it hung a large banner of bleached canvas.
They both leaned over the edge of the basket, gripping the now fifteen feet of wand, and extended it to point in the direction of the target. Bronwen saw one of the horses below already galloping hard toward the river. While Lowe collapsed the wand, she hoisted her glasses, and grinned. That first horse, furlongs ahead of the others, was Jacques Sundown's black-and-white paint.
A minute or two later the Enterprise passed directly over him. He never even glanced up.
The balloon was approaching the river, and with the glasses Bronwen spotted a barn set back a ways from the opposite river bank. In front of the barn stood several flatbed wagons loaded with crates. Another wagon stood at the wharf, while men hauled similar crates to it from the canal boats. But what interested Bronwen most were tall wooden kegs standing at the end of the wharf. She had a feeling the kegs held black gunpowder.
Then she experienced a jolt of tension as she smelled gas, which meant they were about to descend. This did not seem too smart. It wasn't as if the smugglers had to look very far for weapons.
All at once she heard shouting ahead. The men on the far riverbank were making startled gestures as they looked up and saw the Enterprise. Which, it seemed to her, was now barely moving. All the activity below slowed, and then, for a long moment, completely stopped.
The scene came alive with a sudden storm of commotion, as if a giant had stepped on an anthill. And Bronwen smelled gas. They were descending again. She put down the glasses and whirled to shout at Lowe, "We're supposed to keep them dis
tracted, not serve as a bull's-eye!"
She was dismayed to see Lowe smiling as he heaved a sandbag over the side. They lifted and then, with his twist of the valve, down they went again.
The muffled report of a rifle reached her, then another and another. She frantically told herself the basket and balloon were still too distant to hit. Plus the men were shooting upward at a moving target—how accurate could they be? The professor, however, was again reaching for the gas valve. They hadn't discussed this part of the assignment, and she felt a flare of temper at her own inattention. It hadn't crossed her mind that Lowe might be suicidal.
Even without the glasses she could now see that what looked like a sagging picket fence was actually a ragged line of guns pointing upward. And every second the Enterprise was getting closer to them. With the next volley of gunfire, she decided she wasn't ready to die.
She reached under the bench and grabbed her weapon. Snatching it from a cotton nest and holding it up, she yelled, "I'm doing this now, Professor!"
"No, wait!" he shouted, and the stench of gas nearly knocked her off her feet. She grabbed the side of the basket, regaining her balance just as she heard more rifle blasts. They sounded far too close. The balloon was descending and in less than half a minute would be over the river.
Bronwen steadied herself against the bench, eyeing the powder kegs at the end of the wharf. She waited, waited, and then hurled the grenade.
Nothing happened. There were at least a dozen rifles trained on the basket, firing at it, and nothing happened. The damn grenade was a dud! Or had she forgotten to insert the plunger?
BANG-BAMMM!
The explosion came as the basket lurched downward. Water sprayed beneath her, tossing up pieces of wood and metal. She couldn't tell how much damage had been done, because by then the Enterprise was passing over the barn and descending fast to the farmland beyond. Then, from the far riverbank behind her, she saw a score of horses thundering into the smoking mass of confusion.
"They're here, Professor! Bevan and his men!" she shouted at him, pointing at the agents. He was manipulating the ropes and just nodded, smiling broadly.
She braced herself for the coming jolts.
They made a rough landing in a field of scrub. When Bronwen crawled out of the basket, she staggered when she took a first step. It felt as if every inch of uncovered skin was scratched and small trickles of blood ran down her arms. The professor was concerned only with securing his balloon. As Bronwen found her bearings, Loew seemed to ignore the clamor coming from the riverbank.
She took off at a run in the direction of the noise and the smell of gunpowder, her hair whipping around her face, though it had not so much as ruffled during the flight. When she tripped over the cuffed legs of her too-large, men's trousers, she had to stop and haul them up, pulling the drawstring at the waist so tight she could hardly breathe. Then she drew her Treasury-issued pocket revolver and dashed forward.
She halted short of the river; it was not wide, but it was wet. Rhys Bevan, not more than thirty yards away on the opposite bank, stood with his revolver trained on several scruffy-looking men.
Bronwen shouted, "Everything O.K.? Sir!"
"Top-notch!" he answered, and jerked his free thumb over his shoulder. He was smiling, but it was probably because for once she'd remembered to respect his rank.
It looked less chaotic here than from the air. Bronwen could see half a dozen men herded together, wound tightly with rope like an upright bundle of logs. Other men with crowbars—a few of whom she recognized as fellow Treasury agents—were prying open crates and hauling out Enfield rifles and sword bayonets.
Casting a quick look around her, she spied several small rowboats beached along the riverbank. With some effort, she shoved the first one into the water and scrambled into it. Shortly, she was standing beside Rhys Bevan, looking down at canal boats loaded with crates on which had been stenciled bold black letters: pickaxes, shovels, rakes. Some crates were still empty, some full of weapons.
"A shrewd operation they had here," Rhys commented in his pleasant Celtic lilt. "Well planned. Not particularly well executed, but almost good enough."
"Where's Jacques Sundown?" Bronwen asked.
"In the barn, I believe. It's a shame about him," he added.
"Why?"
"I've never seen a man act faster. Never a moment of hesitation, never a wasted motion or a false move. I'd give a great deal to have him in the detective unit."
"You know he won't join."
"Yes, and even if he would, McClellan could claim him first. He wasn't happy about Sundown leaving Cincinnati right now, not with Confederates in western Virginia threatening the railroads."
Bronwen grinned. "Jacques would never pass up an excuse to come back here."
"And we know why, don't we," Rhys commented dryly, watching Jacques stride toward them. Behind him, lanterns were being lit, their glow keeping the gathering dark at bay.
"Everything wrapped up?" Rhys asked.
"It's done." Jacques gave Bronwen a short nod.
"Did you get everybody?" she asked.
"All but one."
"De Warde?"
"No," answered Rhys. "I doubt very much we'll be able to hang this on Colonel de Warde. He's too cunning. Most of these men know only their immediate contacts. A smart move by the one who masterminded it, because then nobody knows too much. There's nothing to trace back to the man at the top. It won't be de Warde, though—I'll wager he merely saw an opportunity, collected his money, and kept his coattails clean. But we did have some good luck. Winged a canary who wants to sing. You guessed a few days ago who he might be, Agent Llyr, and I think we'll know soon enough who's behind him. What we don't know is where the bayonets originated."
"I think I do," said Bronwen.
Both Rhys and Jacques stared at her. "Well?" demanded Rhys.
"Have you heard," Bronwen asked, turning to Jacques, "of the Oneida Community?"
Jacques's flat expression almost changed; which, if it had, Bronwen would have seen as a near-supernatural phenomenon.
"They make steel knives," he said.
"What are you two talking about?" Rhys asked with impatience.
"I was watching those three boats"—Bronwen gestured in the direction of the demolished wharf—"and I think they came from the Oneida River. And they made it into that river by way of Oneida Lake. The Oneida Community, as Jacques said, is noted for its steel cutlery—among other things. It has a forge, and its own foundry. The people there are a little batty, and they might not even know where their bayonets are going."
"Good work, Agent Llyr!" Rhys said. "Oneida makes the sword bayonets that somebody has ordered, then someone else entirely puts the weapons on boats and brings them to this spot. Here they're fitted to the British Enfields come from Canada to Oswego, and crated as farm tools. Then they're stored until they can be delivered to the South. Think I'll pay a call on this Oneida Community."
Bronwen looked toward the moon just rising over the eastern farmland. "Chief, could I please borrow a horse?" she asked. "I need one to get to a train station, because by morning I have to be in Seneca Falls. My cousin's being married there tomorrow...maybe." She looked down at her scratched arms, imagining Emma's reaction.
Rhys nodded to her. "What about you, Sundown?"
"Heading back to Ohio."
Rhys smiled. "I distinctly heard you tell McClellan— when he ordered you to stay in Cincinnati—that you are not a Union soldier."
"Going back because I want to. There's a difference."
"I really have to leave, now!" Bronwen said. "But I don't want to abandon Professor Lowe. Chief, can some of the men put the balloon on a wagon, and take it to the rail station?"
When Rhys nodded again, Bronwen started for the tethered horses. She stopped as two men approached, one of them an agent, the other a man with bound hands and face rigid with fury.
"And here we have our treasonous canary," Rhys said, gesturing toward the capt
ured man. "You guessed the identity of this angry gentleman, Agent Llyr."
"Yes, he lives east of Syracuse—which is where the Oneida Community happens to be located," Bronwen answered. "His name, I believe, is Derek Jager."
27
SATURDAY
June 1, 1861
Men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.
—Shakespeare
Glynis stood with her brother Robin under a cherry tree in full bloom. Every now and then a pink petal floated down into her crystal punch glass. Vanessa Usher must have made prodigious offerings to those spirits who command the weather, as the morning had dawned just as she promised Emma: fair and warm, a flawless June day.
The fragrance of mock orange blossoms and opening roses drifted over a magical scene of women in pastel gowns and men in courtly morning coats, while servants continued to bring forth enough elegantly prepared food to feed half the Union army. The virginal, white wedding cake stood nearly two feet high. Violins, harp, and harpsichord sent music rippling from under the flowered arch where Emma and Adam had just been wed. Adam still looked somewhat dazed. Grooms usually did, Glynis had noticed.
Besides which, Adam had earlier managed to work himself into a frenzy, because by eleven o'clock Bronwen had not appeared.
"Marriages must, by law, take place before noon!" He repeated this so many times the entire wedding party had threatened to toss him into the canal. Even the ordinarily unflappable Reverend Mr. Eames had shown a brief spurt of annoyance, but then he joined Adam in worrying.
Emma, however, had stood firm. "Bronwen will be here," she said with an unexpected faith in her cousin that Glynis for once feared might be misguided.
All the while, Adam had paced back and forth across the Usher grounds. When not intoning the legal statute of doom, he muttered under his breath about what bodily harm he planned to inflict on Bronwen if she failed to show up. Glynis thought his plans displayed an imaginative streak she hadn't previously seen in him. And Vanessa began to complain about her grass wearing thin.
Must the Maiden Die Page 28