The Tarleton Murders

by Breck England

  Chapter 36

  “You had best let us go now,” came the cool voice of Sherlock Holmes. “You are already conspirators in the assassination of a great war hero. If the crime comes off, it would be well for you to remember the fate of the conspirators against Lincoln. If I recall, Union soldiers would not rest until they were apprehended and hanged.”

  At this the man with the seared face looked uncomfortable, but One-Arm laughed even louder.

  “There is a great deal of affection for Sherman among the Union armies,” Holmes added. “Do not plan to live long once you are discovered.”

  “And who d’ye think will do the discoverin’?” One-Arm cackled. “You?”

  “Yes. I have every intention of revealing you to the authorities. This man, for example,” Holmes gestured with his chin at One-Arm’s partner. “He is clearly a seaman. His complexion and bowed legs attest as much, as well as the expert hitch knot used to secure us. On his knuckles are tattooed the words ‘Hold Fast,’ which a sailor must do when mounted in the rigging, so his must be a sailing ship rather than a steamer. I gather she is known as the ‘Lone Star,’ from the fresh tattoo on his left deltoid, and that his name is J. Calhoun, from an older tattoo which is easily read on the inside of his right forearm.”

  The mariner’s eyes turned to fire as he snarled at Holmes. “Ye’ll die for that.”

  “Oh, and his teeth show clear evidence of scurvy, a common ailment among seamen,” Holmes added, smiling back at the man. “Once free, I shall no doubt find the bark ‘Lone Star’ tied up at Savannah, the nearest port, and will be able to identify this man to the Assizes, or whatever your American courts are called.”

  Calhoun held up the butt of his gun to strike Holmes, but One-Arm stopped him with a curse. “The General said to leave ‘em alone.”

  “But he knows all about me,” Calhoun hissed, then sank into his corner to glare angrily at Holmes.

  It was deep night, and despite our predicament, I had been fighting sleep for hours when at last we jolted to a stop. Pulled from the van, we found ourselves in woods next to a burnt brick ruin that might have been a house at one time. Shards of glass lay all round from broken windows, which now were blocked tight with boards.

  “Where are we?” I shouted, but Calhoun cuffed me across the mouth to silence me. One-Arm lit a torch and pushed us roughly forward. Holmes stumbled, fell against the cracked brick, and rolled face down into the dust. Calhoun jerked him to his feet and led us inside the building, where lamps were already burning and a reception committee of ghouls, among them Adam Worth, stood waiting.

  The interior of the building had collapsed, revealing a frame of desiccated wood against which the outer walls leaned at shaky angles. Still wearing his top hat and enwrapped in a black greatcoat, Adam Worth approached me.

  “Murdering swine,” I said to his face.

  He regarded me seriously and asked, “Is it murder to rid a nation of a tyrant? Of a Caesar who burned entire cities and left famine in his wake? Or is it rather not an honorable thing to do?”

  “So you are playing the noble Roman, are you, Mr. Worth—or whatever your name is? I should remind you of the fate of Marcus Brutus… .”

  “I respect you, Padre,” he interrupted me, “and have reason to be grateful to you; therefore, I have warned you many times to stand clear. I warned you this very night in order to discharge my debt to you. Now that you have disregarded my warnings, your congregation will lose a bold and intelligent pastor—but not a wise one.”

  I answered nothing, and he turned to Holmes with a calm smile.

  “You are no doubt wondering how I knew you would be attending our soirée this evening.” From an inner pocket, he extracted and unfolded a leaf of paper, holding it up to our view—it was Mrs. Wells’s cryptogram.

  “The woman,” Holmes said, looking away.

  “Yes, but not in the way you think. It was not you she betrayed.”

  Holmes looked at the paper more closely. “Ah. I see. It has been traced over with a rough pencil.”

  “Precisely. A copy was made without my knowledge, and it fell inopportunely into your hands. I knew that of all men you alone could conquer our cipher. Thus I anticipated your arrival this evening in this charming costume—a relic of our Roman adventure, if I do not mistake—and it was a small matter to keep an eye on the movements of your friends.”

  Holmes gave him an indifferent look. “I assume you will deal with her.”

  “In my own way. I did not want to be forced to kill you, Holmes. We have given each other much sport these last years, and we have often come up even in our attempts to block one another. Now, however, there is a great deal at stake, and you must disappear without a trace, along with these two gentlemen.”

  “Mr. Harris is the father of young children,” Holmes replied. “I am sure he will undertake to remain silent if you let him go.”

  “I w-will not,” Harris protested.

  “Do you hear?” Worth chuckled. “The press is not to be silenced. Do not concern yourself, Mr. Harris. I will have a word with Grady and your family will be seen to. What time is it?” he turned to Calhoun, who consulted a big silver watch.

  “It’s comin’ on four in the morning.”

  “Then we must be on our way. This appalling fellow here,” Worth nodded at One-Arm, “will ensure that nothing remains to testify of your existence. You yourself will become an unsolved mystery—ironically, the sort of thing you have lived for, Holmes. It should give you some pleasure to reflect on all the puzzled souls who will sift the evidence forever trying to discover what happened to you—all to no avail.

  “Meanwhile, the honor of a great nation is about to be avenged. Lincoln’s assassination did not suffice; the death of Sherman will re-ignite the conflict. ‘This same day must end the work the Ides of March begun.’”

  His face dusty, his arms tightly bound, Holmes smiled boldly into our tormentor’s eyes. “To your immense profit, no doubt, as you and your associated villains take control of the entire economy of the South.

  “Do not delude yourself, Adam Worth. You have no honor. You are a thief. An inventive one, yes, but in the end no more than a vile little thief. You are also a coward. You will not commit murder yourself—that would bloody your hands too much. Oh … except once … long ago … when for a few dollars you shot three young soldiers in the back.”

  At this Worth turned to go, his face white with anger. He glared once again at Holmes as he left the room, and then we heard him ride away with his guards.

  “What’ll we do to make these men disappear, Calhoun?” One-Arm asked his cohort. “How to carry out this order?”

  “Just shoot ‘em, mate, and be done with it.”

  Holmes smiled at the nervous sailor. “J. Calhoun. J for John? Joseph? James? Ah, I see by your slight flinch that I have hit on it. James Calhoun of the bark ‘Lone Star.’ You will have a heavy reckoning to pay, James Calhoun.”

  “I’ll smash your mouth if you say ought else,” the sailor roared.

  “Quiet, man. We can’t just shoot ‘em. We got to leave not a hint of bone or flesh or linen. Weight ‘em down in the river? Bury ‘em alive? How about a bonfire?”

  Suddenly Holmes tugged violently at his ropes. “Not fire,” he murmured. “Not that.”

  “I see the English man is a-feared of fire,” One-Arm clucked his tongue.

  Holmes sank to the ground and pleaded. “Don’t burn me. I’ll die any way you wish, but not by fire. Please don’t burn me!”

  Astonished, I glanced at Harris, who was equally amazed. I had seen Holmes enraged, desperate, and deadly ill, but I had never seen him afraid of anything.

  “Then fire it shall be,” One-Arm announced, and began to build a pyre out of straw and dry twigs against the decayed wood of the wall. “Go get some more kindling, Calhoun, so we can barbecue these gentlemen. It�
�s a fine answer to our quand’ry. A big, hot fire … nothing left but ashes we can blow to the winds.”

  Whimpering, Holmes curled himself into the dust and struggled in a panic against his bonds. The two ghouls shook wet wax from the lamps over the kindling, set it afire, and fled, fastening the only door behind themselves.

  The wall opposite us shimmered with flame much faster than I had expected; it would be only moments before the rotting roof blazed down upon us.

  “I-I wished I was a button,” Harris said in my ear, and I turned to see him smiling at me. What a bizarre sense of humor—and what a streak of bravery. I felt it strangely comforting to die in his company.

  I knew I would have no time for a dying prayer, so I closed my eyes and simply whispered, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I give you my heart and my soul… .”

  But abruptly I felt my ropes relax. Holmes was freeing my hands.

  “Quickly, Tuck,” he muttered as the wooden skeleton of the house began to crack and sizzle. “Untie Harris.”

  Dumbstruck, I leapt to work, freed Harris, and we joined Holmes, who was butting his shoulder against the brick wall with all of his strength. The mortar had gone to mold, and as we threw our bodies at it, a seam opened up.

  A shower of flaming shingles nearly engulfed us, but the wall gave way just in time and we rolled out on the fresh ground. Scurrying into the shelter of the woods, we crouched down to watch the conflagration we had barely escaped.

  When I found my breath, I embraced Holmes, whose eyes mirrored the fire as he crouched at the foot of an oak. “How? How did you get free?”

  He grinned, holding up a savage piece of window glass that flashed with reflected sparks. “Do you recall that I ‘stumbled’ when we were being marched into the house? I picked this up and used it to cut my bonds. I also noted that the brick overlay of the house was mildewed and cracked—I knew it would take only a few well-placed blows to bring it down.”

  Harris was quietly chuckling. “Ain’t it nice to have such a w-warm fire this c-cold night?”

  But Holmes was sober again. Carefully, he removed his penitente robe and secreted it under a log. “We must get away from here as soundlessly as possible. Those two villains are not far, and they will sift the ashes to assure themselves of our death.”

  Chilled through in the January night, we crept among the trees while Holmes watched the ground for traces of the party that had brought us here. The fire was fading, and soon it would be blind darkness. A few times I thought I heard rough laughter from somewhere in the forest; every tiny crackle of a leaf beneath my foot took my breath away.

  All at once Holmes stopped and pointed at the ground. He had spied the vague marks of wheels in the dust and the scuffing made by horses’ hooves—we would have to follow this trail backwards to escape, for we had no idea at all where we were.

  Keeping close to the woods, we filed along behind Holmes who kept his eye fixed on the ground like a dog on the scent. Soon the tracks turned into a rough back road visible by starlight, and we walked a little easier as the fire behind us died away.

  “It will be dawn soon,” Holmes whispered. “We must make quick progress. From the time elapsed between the Depot and our destination, I estimate we have fifteen miles of ground to cover.”

  “Fifteen!” I choked. I was already exhausted.

  “We cannot rest. Behind us are two bloodthirsty ghouls who soon will discover our escape, and will surely track us down this road. More urgently, General Sherman arrives in Atlanta in about seven hours—if he is to be saved, we must hurry.”

  Bit by bit, the sky lightened as we trudged silently through a never-ending forest, Holmes skittering along like an animal sniffing at the ground and feeling for the van tracks with his fingers. Then Joe Harris stopped and pointed to a long, low silhouette on the horizon.

  “I-I know where we are! That’s Stone Mountain. We’ll be c-coming up on the Georgia Railroad and then Decatur… .”

  He was right. We walked along the railroad tracks until I thought we would drop, at last arriving in the village of Decatur where Harris hired a rockaway carriage and horse. Speeding on toward Atlanta, I lay back and closed my eyes while Holmes sat erect watching the road behind us. Despite the cold, I had nearly fallen asleep when Holmes barked at Harris.

  “Drive into that grove!”

  I leaped up as our carriage dashed into a dense stand of pines just off the road and came to a stop.

  “Be perfectly still,” Holmes whispered.

  Down the road a puff of dust was moving toward us, and we heard a rapid echo of horses’ hooves. Our own horse nickered; Harris jumped from the carriage to calm the animal. After several minutes, the riders whipped past us—it was One-Arm and Calhoun, looking desperately angry.

  When all was quiet again, Holmes muttered, “Imbeciles.” And soon we were back on the road, making our furtive way into Atlanta.

  Chapter 37

  “Holmes, I suspect that your fear of fire was all a sham,” I observed as we proceeded down Decatur Street toward the Union Station.

  He snorted and gave me a supercilious smile. “I had to get those two villains out of the house if we were to escape. Of course they would not remain if the place were on fire, so I made certain that they chose fire as our manner of death. But what is this?”

  Approaching the station, we were caught in a knot of carriage traffic and people swarming the street.

  “They have c-come to see Sherman,” Harris called over his shoulder. “What shall we do?” We could not move forward or back.

  “Abandon ship,” Holmes cried. We left the trap and horse caught in the crowd and bumped and shouldered our way toward the station platform.

  “Press!” Harris shouted, leading us on. “Press!” At last we jostled through to the front of the mob where the police had hung ropes to hold us back. A band of trumpets tooted, the station was hung with the Union colors, and a small contingent of bluecoats guarded the bearded, bloated dignitaries on the platform awaiting the great man. I recognized the mayor and senator I had met at the Kimball House meeting, as well as Henry W. Grady, who was beaming like the luminary of the sky.

  It was a clear, cold day with a pleasant tang of spring. It surprised me to see the people so eager to greet Sherman: after all, his soldiers had devastated this city only a few years before. Yet there was a hopefulness in the faces; perhaps the future might not be as dark as I feared it would be. Even an old soldier in gray and gold braid, a saber hanging from his belt, stood smiling up at the sunshine and whistling along with the band.

  A newspaperman with a press ticket in his hat called out, “Mr. Mayor! Will you be offering the freedom of the city to General Sherman?”

  At this some wag shouted, “He made too free with it when he was here before!” The crowd bellowed with laughter.

  A be-medaled Union officer stepped out of the building and shook the mayor’s hand; there were scattered hisses from the crowd.

  “Who is he?” I asked a bystander.

  “That is General Ruger. He was the military governor of Georgia.”

  Sherman’s train could now be heard rumbling into the station, and another man cried out, “Ring the fire bells! The town will be gone in forty minutes!”

  Everyone smiled but Holmes, who was anxiously searching the windows of the buildings opposite the platform: clearly he feared a sharpshooter waited behind one of them. Exhaustion lined his face. I too began systematically examining each window, imagining a chessboard where each square could contain death.

  The band blared out a tattoo and the crowd fell silent. “There he is,” someone shouted.

  I turned to see General Sherman emerging with two lovely girls in his train. He raised his hat quickly, not ungracefully, and spoke to Ruger. Sherman was an erect, modest-looking man; his face had a gentle sort of firmness about it, as if he were accustomed to being poli
tely but rapidly obeyed.

  “There!” Holmes snapped, and was off like a hound after prey. He had found the right window. Brushing people aside, he subtly drew the old gray soldier’s saber from its sheath before the man could realize it and pelted, sword in hand, toward a warehouse that overlooked the street. Harris had got lost among the press men, so I followed alone.

  I caught up to find Holmes hammering at the warehouse door, but it was impenetrable. “There’s nothing for it,” he said, “help me up.” He pulled off a boot, put his foot in my hand, and I lifted him with all my strength toward a first-floor window. Smashing the glass with his boot, he hurled himself through and disappeared inside.

  I hesitated, but could not let him go alone. As I have said, I have considerable strength in my shoulders, so I leaped for the window sill and pulled myself up, my toes catching just enough leverage from the bricks in the wall.

  The interior was dusty and dark, the only sound the boom of drums from the station. I kicked at a door and found myself in a hall with a stairway, which Holmes had clearly mounted, judging from the sweeping of dust from the banister. I ran up the stairs, pausing at each landing to glance out the window at the platform across the street. Sherman was now advancing through the line of dignitaries, shaking each man’s hand.

  Reaching the top floor, I heard shouts from a room facing the street.

  Inside the room was Holmes, saber outstretched and pointed at Tom Beaufort.

  “Get away from it, I say!” cried Holmes. Propped in an open window was a murderous air gun, a twin to the infernal machine I had seen in Rome. Ignoring Holmes, Beaufort peered through a glass and went on adjusting his aim. He wore a gray uniform rusted with time and a blackish sword at his belt.

  Holmes reared back and slapped the man with the flat of his saber. “I shall run you through if you do not step away!”

  Beaufort twisted round and went at Holmes with his own sword. “Revenge!” he shouted. “Revenge is the keyword!”

  “So it is,” Holmes replied, assuming the fencing pose I remembered keenly from our days at Stonyhurst. Beaufort could not know that Holmes was the champion.