Halls of Montezuma

by Tony Roberts

  Lynch smiled, resisting the urge to kick the chair out from under the hook-handed criminal. “I may.” Whitby looked up at the priest in surprise. Lynch leaned forward on the table that stood in between the two men. “But it will require some contribution on your part, Mr.Whitby. If you fail, you’ll be in here for the rest of your miserable life. Wouldn’t you like to get even with Mr.Lonnergan?”

  Whitby sat up straight, his eyes blazing. “What do you know of him?”

  “More than you do, Mr.Whitby.” Lynch stood up straight and walked a few paces, gathering his thoughts. He swung round and faced the interested prisoner. “I can help you get your revenge, but you must follow my orders to the letter. Do you understand that?”

  “Sure, Father,” Whitby drawled, seeing the first glimmer of hope. “I’d be stupid not to.”

  “You’d be very stupid,” Lynch agreed. “I can get you out. I have certain, ah, influence and funds available which I’m certain the sheriff here will find a fair exchange for your miserable freedom. In return, I wish to use your, ah, skills in gaining access to somewhere barred to me. Once you provide that access for me, I shall tell you more about Lonnergan and why you and I share a hatred for him.”

  Whitby nodded. It seemed too good to be true but if this foolish man wished to pay for his freedom who was he to argue?

  So it was done. Whitby, much to his surprise, was released that very same day. What was more surprising was that Lynch gave him a wad of money and told him to buy items necessary to break into a stout locked door. He was then to meet him at dusk opposite the Catholic Church. If he did not, Lynch would merely say Whitby had stolen from him and the sheriff would be given orders to shoot to kill.

  Whitby was no fool and obeyed the mysterious priest. Besides, there was this business of Lonnergan to sort out once and for all, and Lynch had some information about him. It was too much to turn his back on. He owed that scarred bastard too much to let it go.

  Lynch met him on the other side of the street and the two watched as the sky turned dark and the stars came out. The wind blew down the thoroughfare, blowing a torn newspaper along it. There were few people about and the lights shining in the house attached to the church went out shortly after eleven. Lynch waited another thirty minutes. Whitby was getting impatient and toyed with the sack lying at his feet. In the sack were the implements he’d bought that afternoon.

  Finally they moved over the street. Lynch had the key to the building still in his pocket, a careless oversight by Father Sutton. Lynch had smiled at the time he’d walked out of the building; priests were too trusting towards another of their calling. They gained access to the building and turned left into the church. They paused while a torch was lit, then moved into the nave. “There, that carpet in the middle of the floor,” Lynch pointed. “It hides a slab that comes up.”

  Whitby pulled the carpet aside, then produced a crowbar from the sack and levered the slab up with help from Lynch. Being one-handed did have its drawbacks. The slab was slid across the floor and the two men descended into the stygian depths, Lynch first and a wide-eyed Whitby close behind. The door was still shut at the far end and the crowbar was produced once more. Both men leaned on it and the jamb splintered under the force, bending the locking mechanism.

  With a sharp crack the door edge splintered and a bigger gap appeared to insert the crowbar even further. This time the lock gave way and the door opened inwards, bringing forth a smell that made both men gasp and step backwards.

  “Shit!” Whitby exclaimed, holding his nose. “What in hell is that?”

  “Death,” Lynch said soberly and thrust the torch forwards. He kicked the door fully open and Whitby gaped as the sight of three corpses greeted him. Their skin was stretched taut over cheeks and had retreated from their mouths so that all appeared to be grinning hideously at them. Hands were bereft of skin and skeletal fingers were reached out as though asking for mercy.

  “Dear God,” Whitby whispered.

  “The tall one was a friend of mine,” Lynch said softly, eyeing the cadaver of Stavely, the dark stain over his chest indicative of how he had died.

  “Shit, a priest!” Whitby pointed at the second corpse, the clerical garb ruined by dried blood that had covered neck and chest.

  “Yes. The missing Father Schofield,” Lynch commented, his attention turning to the third body. No mark was visible so Lynch bent and pulled the cadaver over, wrinkling his nose in distaste. The mess in the middle of the dead man’s back was enough. “Shot.”

  “Who the hell did this?”

  “The man you know as Lonnergan. He’s got to be stopped.” Lynch released the body and stood up, his face like stone. At least he knew now what had happened to the Brotherhood cell. The rest were most likely dead as the contact he’d been given hadn’t turned up at the meeting place. Possibly the unidentified third corpse had been him. The two men hurriedly left the charnel room and breathed deeply in relief, glad to be away from the stench of death.

  Lynch turned to Whitby, his face stretched into a mask of hatred. “Let me tell you a little story. It’s about the man you know as Lonnergan, but I know him by another name.” And so Lynch embarked on a story that stretched back eighteen hundred years, and Whitby listened in amazement and disbelief, but inside him something was clutching at his heart, something that told him a man should not have, could not have, survived the bullet back in Philadelphia…..

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The roar from the circle of men rose as the solid fist crashed into Lonnergan’s face, sending him staggering back against the end of a bunk. The big Irishman who’d struck him lunged forward, teeth bared, eyes slits of hatred. Another blow from his fist crashed into Case’s chest and the Eternal Mercenary gasped, lashing out in a reflex motion with his boot.

  It hit big Billy Quinn on the shin but the enraged man hardly noticed it. Quinn was after blood and his target was Lonnergan. Case grabbed the outstretched arms of Quinn as they closed towards his neck and held them fast. He couldn’t push him away but at least he had managed to stop him. For the moment.

  Quinn wrestled, his breath sucking through his teeth, eyes glaring into Case’s. “You fuckin’ Brit-loving traitor!” he snarled. “I’ll wipe ye all over the fuckin’ wall!”

  Case still wasn’t entirely sure why Quinn had descended upon him that morning, some three weeks after he’d began training. Quinn hadn’t shown any signs of hatred before, but Case supposed someone had learned he’d served in the British army and told the anti-British pro-Irish Quinn. Case guessed it was someone who’d seen his file in the camp headquarters building. Case had told the recruiting officer he’d been in South Africa with the British army, so that’s where that must have come from.

  The first thing he’d known was the stunning punch to his face the moment he’d come off drill from the square. The others in the hut, all Irishmen, had been waiting. They all knew. If he got away from Quinn, the ringleader, one of the others would step in. No escape.

  Then….

  “What the hell’s going on here?”

  The men parted, like a cornfield being blown by the wind, and through them came striding the stern figure of Senior Sergeant Amos Lampeter. He was something of a strict disciplinarian, and hated the Irish recruits. Lampeter came from a family that had been in America from way before the Revolution and insisted that everyone in the army was an American, something Case had no trouble with, but the Irish couldn’t get their heads round that.

  “You fighting again, Quinn?” Lampeter snapped, his eyes flashing angrily. Quinn stood to attention but his eyes slid sideways at Case with menace.

  “Sergeant,” Quinn barked.

  “What for now?” Lampeter rocked on his heels, a wooden rod gripped tightly in one hand. He eyed Case who was standing still by the bunk he’d been pressed up against, his jaw swelling and red. “Lonnergan, isn’t it?”

  “Sergeant,” Case said quietly.

  Lampeter studied the figure of Case, staring at a point a
million miles over his shoulder. He had a problem with this man. Nothing he could pin down, but this man was unlike the others. No preferred mother country, yet he was not American born. His accent was odd, not Irish, or English and definitely not American. Sort of a mixture of English and not English, really. He was an old pro, that was certain. Knew how to be a soldier and was a model recruit. Could handle shoulder arms and the bayonet, and thought nothing of drill, marching and running. Strong as an ox, too.

  Yet…

  Something odd about him. Like those scars. Said they had been from a bad experience in southern Africa when he’d been captured by the Zulus, or so his records said. Certainly many of them had been from edged weapons and those sort of things hadn’t been used in European armies for centuries.

  “I’m waiting, Quinn,” Lampeter said.

  “Well, Lonnergan and me had a difference, y’see.”

  “Lonnergan?” Lampeter swung to face the burly scarred recruit. “What have you to say?”

  “As Quinn said, sergeant, a difference of opinion. We had just about sorted it out.”

  Lampeter wasn’t satisfied. And he hated the men fighting amongst themselves. “Outside, the pair of you.”

  The two marched out, shoulders clashing a few times as Quinn tried to knock Case off balance, and Case retaliated. Both were as strong as the other. Outside, in the humid air of Virginia, Lampeter strode around the two men who were stood to attention, a few feet apart. The others were standing watching, wondering what was going to happen. An officer, Captain Renard, came over, curious. Lampeter and Renard had a brief discussion and Renard nodded with emphasis at the two before striding off.

  Lampeter came back to face the two men. “You two are going to be taught you cannot fight amongst yourselves. You’re meant to be buddies, but it seems you two ain’t got it yet. Whatever you two have against each other I suggest you cut it out. I hate these stupid European rivalries; Irish, German and British. You’re all American now, and don’t forget it. You’re the same people!” He stamped in anger. “You two, forwaaaaaard, march!”

  The two men marched up to the sandy square, in the middle of which stood the flagpole where the stars and stripes fluttered occasionally. The rest of the time it hung limply in the late summer sun.

  “Halt!”

  The two stood at attention, facing the flagpole. Case glanced briefly at Quinn, no more than five feet away, but the big Irishman was rigidly staring ahead.

  Lampeter circled the two men. “Okay, Quinn, Lonnergan. You’re gonna have to learn discipline. Strip off your uniforms!”

  Case stared at the sergeant who nodded curtly. Quinn was already unbuttoning his blue jacket; this took some time as there were plenty of shiny buttons to unfasten. Case followed suit, wondering what the hell was going to happen. Lampeter barked again and two pairs of trousers were removed. Both men stood in their undergarments, muscles bulging. The rest of the men had been brought out of their quarters all round the camp and were now lining up on parade round the square.

  Two officers approached with two more NCOs. The latter two were carrying some rope, two sticks and two tent pegs. Case frowned. What the hell?

  Lampeter smacked his stick into his palm. “Okay you two, hands forward.” The two obeyed and the NCOs bound their wrists together. Next their feet were similarly bound. A murmur went up from the watching soldiers, a buzz that just as quickly subsided under a barked command to shut it. Lampeter nodded to the senior officer, the same Captain Renard who’d been around a few minutes earlier.

  Renard stepped forward and faced the men on parade; he ignored the two due for punishment. “Soldiers of the United States army! You are here to serve your country; whether it be of your birth or your adopted one. No matter. You will serve her best by obeying your officers and NCOs! Any deviation from these orders will be punished. Watch and learn well!” He turned and nodded at Lampeter.

  “Right you two,” he said darkly. “Squat!”

  Case hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly lowered himself. Quinn was already down, head lowered. The NCOs came forward, one grabbing Case’s bound arms and pulled them backwards so the elbows were behind his back. He felt the long stick being slid through the front of his right elbow, then behind his bent knees and then through the front of his other elbow. He saw the same being done to Quinn. Now they were both bound helplessly.

  Next the tent peg was forced between his teeth and tied there.

  Agony.

  The sergeant nodded in satisfaction. “You will remain here facing the flag until it is decided you’ve been there long enough. Consider your stupidity while here, and hopefully you’ll learn not to do it again.” He turned to face Renard who nodded once. “Parade, disssmissssss!”

  The soldiers broke up and slowly made their way back to their quarters, some casting pitying and sympathetic looks their way. Lampeter waited until everyone else had gone before walking over to the two. “It’s worse next time if I catch you two at it again.”

  Then he was gone, leaving the two squatting in their private worlds of pain.

  Case had known worse in his time, but he didn’t want to go through this again if it could be helped. The tent peg wasn’t clean and splinters irritated his lips and tongue. Initially he’d salivated when the peg had been forced into his mouth but now he was dry and the sun beating down didn’t help. The stick though his knees and elbows was tough and uncomfortable and he felt it dig into the backs of his knees painfully.

  Quinn was breathing hard through his nose and looked at Case, his eyes glaring hatefully. It was as though he was trying to tell him it was all Case’s fault both of them were there. Stupid idiot. Case shut his eyes and tried to get comfortable but that was impossible; the stick was digging into the flesh behind his knees and that damned block of wood clamped in between his teeth made his jaw ache. His leg muscles were beginning to protest and the rope was digging into his wrists with the pressure forced on them.

  Pride made him squat there stoically. It would have been easy to roll over but the end of the stick would have jammed into the sandy soil and then he’d’ve been stuck and that probably would get him a second roasting from Lampeter. No, best to stay where he was.

  The sun beat down and sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, stinging them. He shut them again and drew deep into his mind, trying to shut everything out. His memory cast itself back to other occasions he’d been in the shit; the whipping he’d gotten after killing his sergeant in Jerusalem was one for sure. Now that one had hurt; his feet had been whipped by the thin reed cane called a bastinado. You were lucky to walk again after that, and Case had first realized his phenomenal healing abilities there in that dank cell as his feet healed.

  And what about Seville in 1485? Case remembered being a prisoner of the Spanish Inquisition, face to face with the fanatical face of Tomas Torquemada as he hung in the prison, charged with blasphemy or something. He couldn’t remember what exactly, and he’d been there for years until his piss had rotted the iron chains holding him and he’d faked his own suicide to get out. Now that was suffering!

  He recalled many more occasions he’d been in the mire, and suddenly his thoughts were interrupted with the barked command close by, and two strong pairs of hands took hold of him and he felt the bindings holding his hands and feet loosen and then fall away. Then the bindings around his mouth were taken away and he spat out the lump of wood with relief. He opened his eyes and saw Lampeter standing before him with two tough looking soldiers.

  “Okay you two,” Lampeter growled, his leathery skin sweating in the late afternoon sun. “Up on your feet!”

  Case hauled himself erect, gritting his teeth as his leg screamed in protest. Quinn grunted and flexed his arms, rubbing them painfully. The blood pounded round his body, eager to reacquaint itself with areas it had been denied for those last few hours, and Case felt the pins and needles begin in his legs and hands.

  “Now, pick up your uniforms and go clean it. Parade at six o�
��clock and you two had better be there, clean and tidy and smart like the soldiers you think you are!”

  “Yes sergeant,” the two men replied, saluting.

  They grabbed their discarded clothing and marched back to their hut, finding it empty. The rest of the occupants were out on some drill somewhere. “Now ye fuckin’ Brit-loving….” Quinn began.

  “Shut up you stupid asshole!” Case swung on the other. “You want to be whipped or something worse? You actually want that sort of stuff again? I’m not worried about what Lampeter can do to me, I’ve had worse in my lifetime. But you? No, I don’t think you have.”

  “Worse than that?” Quinn sounded skeptical. “What’s worse than that awful punishment out there?”

  “Look at this,” and Case peeled off his undergarment, revealing his torso, cruelly criss-crossed with scars of all description. Quinn had seen a brief glimpse before of the mass of scars and stared at them in disbelief. “Oh holy mother of God, look at that!”

  “Yes,” Case nodded and shrugged back into the once white cotton garment. “So you think that little bit of pain out there would worry me? You try anything on me again and I’ll hit you so bloody hard your mother wouldn’t know who you are.”

  Quinn sneered, but turned towards his bunk. “Don’t go thinking that’s the last I’ll be saying on this matter, Lonnergan.”

  “I’ll be waiting, Quinn.”

  Case threw his kit onto the bed and sat down wearily. He was sick of Quinn and his stupid old world bias. Lampeter had it right; they were Americans now and the sooner they pulled together the better.

  Training went on as tough as before, and although Quinn threatened Case behind Lampeter’s back, he didn’t do anything over the next couple of weeks. Case was too busy learning the new weapon he had anyway to worry too much about the big Irishman. The army was using the flintlock musket which weighed about ten pounds, something Case found easy to carry about, and these fired .68 caliber lead balls. Case had used many muskets in his time and he was used to them.