The Tarleton Murders

by Breck England

“Quiet her down,” One-Arm barked from his perch near the fire.

  “We’ll quiet her down,” one of the ghouls said. “We’ll just take her over into them bushes and teach her how to stay quiet.”

  Under my gag I roared my protest. Rather than sit by and watch them take advantage of that poor girl, I was ready to die that instant. If I couldn’t speak, I would roar, and I refused to stop roaring even as they slapped me repeatedly.

  “She’s right skinny,” one ghoul looked skeptically down in the wagon. Another one grabbed her and picked her up.

  “She’s fevered,” he said. Then I heard the sounds of vomiting and choking, and the man dropped her.

  One-Arm pulled my gag out and lifted me by my belt to my feet. “Englishman! Come over here and take a look. What’s got into this gal?”

  Marta lay there restless in the wagon bed, delirious, her face inflamed and almost dried up with fever. An opportunity glimmered in my head.

  “It’s variola,” I pronounced.

  “Smallpox,” breathed Tom Beaufort.

  “We’ve been with her all day,” I said mournfully. “That means we’ve all been exposed. Before this night is over, we’ll all be lying here gasping out our last.”

  This alarmed the men who were now crowding round the wagon. I didn’t reveal that I at least had been vaccinated, and in any case had no idea what was wrong with Marta.

  “What can we do?” a guard asked.

  “We burn the ship and row away from her fast,” said the nautical horseman, who was already creeping away on his bowed legs.

  “Now you have opened Pandora’s box,” I said with a side glance at Tom Beaufort. “There’s no closing it now. The thing to do is to get to a doctor straightaway—if you want to save yourselves.”

  “Hold on,” said One-Arm, who had lighted a torch and lifted it over the girl. “This ain’t the smallpox. I seen the smallpox before, and this ain’t it.” He examined her more closely. “She’s most likely got the other kind of pox. You boys are welcome to her if you want to get it, too,” he snorted with laughter, and the men dispersed. My feint had failed.

  One-Arm marched me back to my frozen log and tied me down again. Harris was chilled to the point of convulsions. One-Arm prodded me with his foot. “You’re sly, Mr. English Man. Sly like a fox. But you ain’t the only sly one in the woods.”

  “You’re a bigot and a bully,” I replied. “And you’re about to become a murderer.”

  “About to? About to? Mister, you have no idea how many of them tar-faced barracoons I’ve left in the mud.”

  I simply stared at him. With his steepled hood, he bore an unsettling resemblance to the penitentes of Rome.

  “You think I’m prejudice, don’t you,” he said. “You think I’m prejudice against the coloreds. Let me tell you, I’ve done more for the coloreds than any man. I’ve filled a whole nation with mulatto babies, and they’ll grow up and marry each other, and purty soon they’ll be cart-loads of quadroons. Eventually I reckon the tar will breed out of ‘em, and they’ll all thank me.”

  “You are indeed proof of Mr. Darwin’s theory. In more than one way.”

  He ignored that. “But I ain’t particular. White women does just as well for me. All created equal.” He waltzed to the wagon and held up Sister Carolina’s nodding chin with the end of his carbine.

  “Get down,” he commanded.

  Sister Carolina clambered off the wagon seat, her hands tied behind her, her face as immobile as ice. One-Arm held his torch up to examine her features.

  “Walk.”

  She looked at him, confused.

  “Just walk.”

  She took a few slow steps forward.

  “She looks well. She walks good. Let’s see how she kisses.”

  “Swine!” It was Harris, who had managed to spit out his gag. He was in a frenzy of trembling now, and not just with cold. “F-Filth! Leave her … be!”

  Harris’s shouts alarmed the other two leaders, who turned from the bonfire. “What’s going on?”

  I spoke up plainly. “Your associate here intends to violate this holy sister.”

  One-Arm took his hands off her as Tom Beaufort and the seaman glared at him. They accompanied her back to the wagon and lifted her into her seat. Then the seaman took an oversized silver watch from his saddlebag.

  “Almost eight bells. Near midnight,” he said to the others. “It’s time.”

  “May I know your intentions?” I asked, putting on my most defiant tone (which wasn’t very convincing even to my ears).

  Tom Beaufort answered. “Our intentions, sir, are to do justice to this tar man. Then we will release that pathetic scribbler to return to his family. His concern for them will ensure his silence. Oh, he may write about us just to quieten his conscience, but in such cloaked words that no one will ever discern his meaning.”

  “And the women?”

  “The nun will say nothing. She wants to see a hanging tonight. As for that muddy stick in the wagon, she’ll likely be dead by morning.”

  “What about this English Man?” One-Arm asked, scowling at me.

  “That … will require some thought.”

  “Yes, Colonel Tom Beaufort,” I said, facing his masked eyes. “I expect it will.”

  “He knows your name, Cyclops!” One-Arm shouted. “How does he know your name?”

  “At this point it matters very little. He’s a Jezza-wit. He knows what a martyr is.” Beaufort turned from me.

  “Beaufort! If you’re going to release Harris and the women, let them go now,” I called after him. “The girl needs a doctor. There’s no reason to keep them here and subject them to any more of this outrage.”

  This was ignored. The three leaders climbed onto a fallen log and called their men to form a circle round us. In the dull blaze of the bonfire, they looked like a horrible circus of ghosts. Quietly, they began to chant.”

  “Yah Oh Ee Ay Oh, Yah Oh Ee Ay Oh, Yah Oh Ee Ay Oh … .” they repeated, louder each time until it was a raucous shout.

  Then Beaufort called for silence and chanted alone.

  “Shadowed Brotherhood! Murdered heroes!

  Fling off the bloody dirt that covers you to the four winds.

  Prepare Charon for his task! Row back across Styx! Mark well your foes!

  The keyword is Revenge! Revenge! Revenge!”

  At this signal, James was raised to his feet and a noose was put round his neck. Each ruffian came forward to beat the poor man, slapping him, spitting on him, and jabbing him with the butts of their guns, as if to lay on him the whole burden of their own shattering defeat in the great war.

  Harris and I turned away from this horrid spectacle. And then I looked at Sister—she gazed on the scene almost without interest, impassive, remote, the face of Lady Justice, as she supposed.

  I was sickened. I let out a howl of rage, “Stop this! Stop at once!”

  But it went on until the last brave ghoul in the circle had a go at the defenseless James.

  Beaufort called for calm, then paused.

  “By my order as the Great Cyclops, bring forward the tar and the turpentine,

  Boil and bubble like a hell broth,

  Rain brimstone on him.”

  Some of the ghosts brought a small cauldron that had been heating on the fire. They poured the contents over James, who awoke and shrieked with pain.

  “We mighty goblins in the Kuklux of Hell-a-balloo assembled,

  Offended ghosts,

  Condemn this creature to the gibbet for the blood of the Lost Cause!

  FLECTERE SI NEQUEO SUPEROS,

  ACHERONTA MOVEBO!”

  With this flourish of Latin trumpery, Beaufort gave the signal to hang poor James. I closed my eyes in impotent anger, murmuring the prayer for the dying: Profiscere anima christiana de hoc mundo in nomine Dei Patris …


  But all went silent.

  When I opened my eyes again, the whole company of ghouls stood as if frozen to the ground. Then I heard a loud voice behind me.

  “STOP!”

  I had never laid eyes on such an apparition. Amongst the dark pines, on a great red horse sat a giant figure enwrapped in the robes of the Klan, his hood towering into the branches of the trees. His shoulders were immense and his hands monstrous white bones.

  But most horribly, both horse and man glowed like the devil’s own fire.

  “IN THE NAME OF THE GREAT GRAND WIZARD!” his voice was a peal of brass. “I CLAIM THE PRISONER FOR MYSELF!”

  The flaming red horse charged a few steps forward, and the ghouls fell back.

  “RELEASE HIM TO ME AND BE GONE!”

  Two ghouls started hastily to untie James, but One-Arm roared back. “Whoever you be, this ain’t your Den. I’m the Night Hawk here, and yonder’s the Grand Cyclops, and we ain’t never heard of you before.”

  “AND I AM THE HYDRA OF THE GRAND WIZARD. RELEASE HIM!” Then the apparition’s head slowly rose from his neck until the hood blazed among the trees like a tongue of unearthly fire. The ghouls began to whimper.

  “Stand your ground!” One-Arm shouted to his men.

  The monster then raised his sleeve and brought it down like a swordstroke: his spidery hand flew through the air, catching One-Arm full in the throat and knocking him to the ground.

  At this, the ghouls scattered screaming through the trees. The two remaining leaders jumped onto their horses and were gone, leaving us alone in the firelight with the mounted monster and One-Arm, groaning on his back in the dirt.

  The burning apparition on the red horse drew near to One-Arm, who was grasping at his throat, and looked down at him.

  “Who … who are you really?” One-Arm pleaded.

  The answer came in a clenched whisper: “I … AM … AZAZEL!”

  With a frightened gurgle, One-Arm got to his feet and ran off into the darkness shouting for his horse, which had long since fled.

  “Right,” said the horseman, pulling off his flaming regalia. “Now hurry. We must get to town straightaway.”

  It was Holmes.

  Chapter 21

  That night is a blister in my memory—a freezing, burning, black night.

  Holmes took the reins and the wagon plunged into the winter wilderness at great speed. The bay and the red horse, now tethered to the wagon, raced each other nearly out of control. Mercifully, they seemed to feel the road ahead, although I had no doubt that Holmes was sure of the way.

  As we dashed up and down hills, I felt as though I were again being flung about on the black waves of the sea. Harris and I lay low in the wagon bed giving what little comfort we could to Marta and James and watching for pursuers. We saw nothing.

  While Marta groaned loudly, I heard no sound at all from James. I feared for his life, but as I held tight to the poor man to keep him from bouncing off the bed, I could tell from his powerful muscles that there was great stamina in him. I prayed for him—what else could I do?

  At last the glow of gaslight from Atlanta came into view, and I felt I could breathe again. Harris directed Holmes to the city jail, a castle-like building made of rock, where we pounded at the gate and delivered James to the infirmary. Harris’s explanations appeared to satisfy the keepers. James was safe for now.

  By the time we deposited Sister at her family home, Marta felt better. Her groaning grew even louder, which we decided was a good sign, and she was able to walk on her own to the back of the house. Harris went home; then I entreated Holmes to come to the rectory with me, but he wouldn’t hear of it—we were both to retire to a clapboard hotel in the warren of the railroad district.

  “Those blackguards will go to the rectory first if they decide to look for you,” he said. “My hotel, being more obscure, will provide a measure of safety.” The place was decidedly seedy, but there was a bed and an armchair that looked like a mass of threads with no frame to hold it together.

  I had built up a good deal of resentment at Holmes for thrusting me alone into these dangerous circumstances, but my joy and relief at seeing him again overcame it all; and when we were at last in private, I involuntarily embraced him.

  He stiffened and smoothly pushed me aside.

  “It’s just that I’m so glad to see you, Holmes … and grateful.” The thought of our near escape made me weak in the stomach.

  “As well you should be. Your judgment has been utterly appalling, Tuck. Knowing as you do the nature of the Klan, and the fact that you are in their sights, I’m astonished that you would put yourself and others in such an indefensible position.”

  “I know. I’ve cursed myself over and over. But … how is it you are here? And how the devil did you manage that spectacle tonight? I confess I was as frightened as those ruffians were.”

  Holmes shrugged. “Sulphur and zinc powder, mixed with a little copper dust,” he pointed at a washbowl filled with a glittering substance that looked like sand. “An old chemist’s trick. Sprinkled on my penitente’s robes, it becomes luminous in firelight. Together with my black walking stick to raise my hood into the trees, some beef bones from the butcher to serve as my projectile hands, and I become a howling phantom to the eye of the superstitious.”

  “How you astound me, Holmes.”

  “Child’s play. Omne ignotum pro magnifico, as our Latin tutor would say.”

  “’To the ignorant, everything unknown appears miraculous.’ But I thought you were in London—I’ve been writing to you there! When did you cross over?”

  “How you underestimate me, Tuck. As before, you haven’t been out of my sight for a moment since we parted at the Liverpool docks.”

  “You were aboard the Nebraska?”

  “Of course. I’m gratified, though not surprised, that you weren’t able to see through that brilliant Norwegian violinist, Sigerson.” A transitory smile crossed his lips.

  “That was you? But you said …”

  “I know. I said I was going back to London, but then I became aware of a startling development—Moriarty himself, or rather Adam Worth, had booked passage aboard the Nebraska, and suddenly there was no reason to stay in England. Having found him, I determined to unravel what he was up to.”

  “So it was you who you passed me the cipher warning me that Adam Worth was aboard. I came to suspect that Adam Verver was Worth. The wealthy American with the beautiful wife? Holmes, is it he?”

  “A logical suspicion,” Holmes nodded. “Verver is pure economic man, who sees the acquisition of a beautiful wife as essentially no different from the acquisition of, say, an exquisite Persian carpet. In this he is similar to our Moriarty, but men of his mentality acquire power in order to shape the law in their favor rather than to violate it.”

  “If Verver is not Adam Worth, then who is it? Why didn’t you take me into your confidence on the ship?”

  “I couldn’t risk being seen with you and recognized. Your ignorance was much more useful to me in any case. Knowing your social nature, I counted on you to mingle with the passengers and write to me your findings; when the purser collected your missives, he brought them straight to me. I had an arrangement with him. As it was, I believe Worth suspected Sigerson all along. He nearly killed me on the deck the night of the storm … .”

  “I thought I saw Sigerson—you—wrestling with … .Raymond!” At once all was clear. “Henry J. Raymond is Adam Worth!”

  “Precisely.”

  “But I thought Henry J. Raymond was the editor of the New York Times.”

  Holmes laughed. “The editor of the Times was one Henry B. Raymond, a very influential figure indeed—when he was living. He died years ago. Our master criminal delights in slanting the truth ever so little, just enough to establish himself in the eyes of his dupes but not enough to invite scrutin
y. I’m sure he never actually admitted to being the editor of the Times.”

  “No, as I think of it now, he didn’t.”

  “He likes to leave a small door of escape—sometimes as small as a single initial or a transposed letter. No, he is no journalist. When directly queried, Henry J. Raymond represents himself to be a financier, and so he is. He finances most of the criminal activity in Britain and on the Continent and earns a healthy return from it. Like any wise investor, he has his hand in diverse enterprises—bank robbery, prostitution, the theft of jewelry and art, the occasional assassination… .”

  “And the theater!” I broke in. “He seemed to be recruiting theatrical types… .”

  “Yes, the two young performers. The demimonde of the theater provides our Moriarty with endless illegitimate profits as well as entertainment.”

  “Mrs. Wells did say he was a sort of ‘impresario.’ And he recruited that counterfeit clergyman Shlessinger with his magic lantern, who in my mind was another candidate for Adam Worth.”

  Holmes was amused. “Ah, your instinct there was not far wrong. That rascal with the mangled ear is well known to me. His real name is Peters—in the confidence trade he is called ‘Holy’ Peters. A crude type, he lacks the mental acuity of an Adam Worth, but together with his vicious wife he preys successfully upon lonely ladies who suffer from a surfeit of religion and money. Worth will no doubt find him valuable. I was in no position to foil Peters on the ship, but no doubt we will cross paths again. ”

  “I gathered as much. But I thought Adam Worth’s operation was in London. What brings him to this side of the Atlantic?”

  “That is what I intend to find out, and why I followed you instead of him. We left him at Philadelphia, but the game will be played out here in Atlanta, I’m convinced of it.”

  “I cannot imagine what that game consists of.”

  “Imagination does not enter into it. Facts, Tuck, facts. We now have two cryptograms that involve both you and Adam Worth. The original cryptogram by itself would be enough to justify a full investigation, but this second puzzle—the one delivered to you by Mrs. Wells—raises the stakes infinitely.”