The Escape: A Slave Planet Prequel (The Slave Planet Book 4)

by Seven Steps

  “Maybe,” Terra said. She cleared her throat. “What do you think of Roland?”

  “I think he’s changed,” Nic replied.

  “Me, too. I remember him being different. I remember him being quiet and sad, but now he’s happy, and this grand speaker.”

  “I remember him being the same way,” Nic replied. “I remember all of us being different, but I don’t know why.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “Maybe tomorrow will come, and we’ll figure it out.”

  “What are you afraid of?” Nic asked her.

  She sighed. He knows me so well.

  “I just have a terrible feeling that we aren’t going to make it out of here alive.” She turned toward Nic. “Isn’t that silly?”

  He ran a finger down her cheek.

  “No,” he said, pulling her close to him and kissing her softly. “I’ll protect you. Whatever happens, I’ll protect you.” He kissed her again, his lips smooth and soft. She tipped her chin up to him and absorbed more of his kisses as he caressed her arm. “No matter what happens, I’ll protect you.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Police Superintendent John Kennedy began to sweat. It was only a little after eight in the morning, but the heat rose like a tide. He looked out of the window, and could have sworn that he saw steam rising off the cobblestone. He blinked, and looked again. The steam was gone, though a haze still hung over the pale stones.

  He patted his belly, long ago rounded from the laziness of a good wife. He’d had stomach pains all night. Lightning bolts that streaked across his belly, keeping him awake until the New York City sun rose in the east. When he dressed for the day, his stomach had abruptly heaved, and he made it half way to the bathroom before giving up and bracing himself against the bed post, vomiting a stream of green and brown bile onto the wooden floor boards. When the vomitus stream stopped, he felt his wife pat his back.

  “You don’t have to go in today. You’re sick. They’ll understand if you stay home.”

  He refused. The bad feeling wasn’t just coming from his swishing gut. It came from the pit of his stomach where his nerves sat. The drafts on Friday were quiet. Too quiet. He had anticipated some disturbance, a small riot, a small fire maybe. But nothing had happened, and he’d been on edge ever since.

  Those Irish can’t be happy about their names being in the paper either. What will I say when everything’s going down, and I’m not in the thick of it? Sorry. I was vomiting up coffee and my wife told me to stay home?

  No. He couldn’t stay today. He helped his wife clean up the mess, had another cup of coffee and some cold water, and walked to work. Now, here he sat, his stomach churning and his mouth still fresh with the taste of vomit.

  What would the fellas say if they saw me now?

  He thought back to his days as a tough kid in the Five Points, fighting to be a member of the Dead Rabbits Gang.

  I was the one to watch. I was the go-to guy. Now, I’m here with my stomach in a vice, and vomit in my mouth. My body went and got old on me without telling my brain.

  The door to the precinct slammed open and in walked Daniel Roonie, a young patrolman who was thin as a rail and cocky as they came. He took off his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  “How are things out there, Roonie?” Kennedy asked.

  “Quiet, sir,” Roonie replied, sitting in a chair adjacent to Kennedy. “Weird thing, though. The Ninth Ward is dead. Ain’t nobody at work. None of the street contractor’s guys. Nobody.”

  “None of them?”

  “Not a one.” Roonie cleared his throat. “Sir, I’ve been hearing some things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I heard that some of the guys are planning on taking over the Arsenal.”

  Kennedy gasped. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” he demanded.

  “I didn’t know if it was true or not. The guys I heard it from were drunk out of their minds. They might have just been talking.”

  Kennedy took a deep, thoughtful breath. Those drunks do a lot of talking, and most of it is just hot air. But something about this morning, he shivered, I just can’t shake. One thing about Irishmen, they never miss a day at work. Not one day. Certainly not all at once. Better to be safe than sorry. Kennedy looked down at his sweaty palms.

  “I’m going to send a patrol out to the Arsenal,” he said. “And the next time you hear something like that—”

  Kennedy was suddenly surrounded by patrolmen running into the precinct.

  “Sir, we got a crowd of Irish gathering near Central Park. There must be hundreds of them, and it’s getting bigger every second.”

  “Sir, I don’t know what’s going on but something’s happening out there. Nobody’s working, and I heard that they’re all at some kind of rally.”

  “Sir, there’s a crowd of Irish moving north. What do you want us to do? The business owners are nervous.”

  “Sir, I don’t like the way this day is shaping up. There’s nobody working, and I don’t think they’re in church.”

  Kennedy began to run his fingers through his short dark hair. He knew that some of it had turned grey within the last few seconds.

  If only I knew what was going on. If only I could see the big picture.

  He tried to map out what was happening in his head.

  There’s something going on. Think, John, think. Roonie said that they were going to raid the Arsenal. Why would they raid the Arsenal? For guns, of course. And why would they need guns? For some sort of riot. It probably has to do with the draft. Okay. Let’s say that this whole thing is a plot to disrupt the draft somehow. What would they do first? Provost Marshal Manier’s office on Broadway, and Marshal Jenkins on Forty-sixth and Third are probably going to be hot spots. If I were going to do something to disrupt the drafts, then I’d do something to the draft offices and the heads of the police force. Kill the head and the body shall die, I’ll bet.

  Before he knew it, telegrams had been sent out based on the patrolmen’s reports:

  July 13, 8.35 A.M – From Central Office to Seventeenth, Eighteenth, and Twenty-first Precincts: Send ten men and a sergeant forthwith to No 677 Third Ave, and report to Captain Porter of Nineteenth Precinct for duty. J.A. Kennedy

  July 13, 8.50 A.M – To Twenty-ninth Precinct: Place a squad of ten of your men, with a competent sergeant, at No. 1190 Broadway, during the draft – if you want more, inform me. J.A.K

  July 13, 8.55AM – To Sixteenth and Twentieth Precincts: Send your reserve to Seventh Avenue Arsenal forthwith. J.A.K

  He sent out a final telegram.

  July 13, 9.10 AM – To all platoons, New York and Brooklyn: Call in your reserve platoons, and hold them at the stations subject to further orders.

  He went back to his desk and looked at the clock. It was twenty past nine. He had to do something.

  Okay. There are guys everywhere that I could think of. What else can I do? There are too many people in New York for the amount of men that I got.

  He headed toward the door. He decided to check on Marshall Jenkins’s office. He’d have to take a wagon.

  ~()~()~()~()~

  “Today, the Irish are, again, noted men!” Patrick Butler cried out, as he stood in the middle of the vacant lot.

  Behind him, the Great Lawn of Central Park was visible. He held up a paper and waved it above his head like a banner.

  “Many of your names are in this paper, forced to fight in a war that you never supported. English influence is everywhere! Irishmen are, once again, the ones who suffer.” The crowd cheered their agreement. “The government does not care about you! All they want is more men for their nigger war that the niggers can’t even fight in. Do you want to fight in a nigger war?”

  “No!” the crowd cried back.

  “Then let’s go down to that draft office and tell them that you refuse to be forced to fight in a nigger war!”

  The crowd, many of them young men, cried their applause and cheers, and advanced out of the lot and No
rth toward the draft office, gorging itself with more and more people as they walked down Fifth Avenue.

  Some men wore large white “No Draft” place cards around their bodies, screaming their slogan.

  “No draft! No draft! No draft! No draft!”

  The crowd, full of rage, flowed down the streets of New York like a wave of destruction, destroying everything in their path. Clubs, sticks, and knives waved in the air, and revolvers fired to accent the anger of the day. Like a lava flow, the crowd set fire to whatever building they touched, leaving a deadly calling card behind them. The fires licked the side of the buildings, and crept in through the windows.

  Some men, women, and children ran from the buildings as the fires prowled through them, filling the buildings with smoke and heat. Then, when the buildings could no longer contain the flames, they exploded, sending debris flying for blocks, adding more trash to already dirty streets, and more heat to an already sweltering day. With each explosion, the crowd cheered louder.

  They turned east at Fourth Sixth street and continued on.

  The Ninth Avenue Draft Office was still blocks away, but Patrick could smell the impending destruction and smiled.

  They want a war, I’ll give them a war the likes of which they’ve never seen.

  “If you’re not with us, you’re against us!” Patrick cried, urging his ever-growing crowd onward and toward the draft office. They turned up Third Avenue, rushing toward their goal.

  ~()~()~()~()~

  Marshall tossed and turned in his sleep. The night had been hot, but the day had begun even hotter. He kicked most of the sheets off his bed and looked at the clock on the wall.

  Ten forty five. I’ve got to get out of here.

  He stretched, yawned, and walked down the hallway to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

  As he relieved himself, he felt a shivering in his bones.

  He listened.

  Voices.

  Angry voices.

  Tucking himself in, he ran toward the bathroom window and stuck his head out. He heard the chants. He saw the fire. He saw the mob approaching. They were still several blocks away, but they were coming in his direction. At the forefront was Patrick Butler, and he looked red and angry.

  Marshall backed up toward the door and gathered his thoughts. They had to get out of there, and fast.

  “Hey!” he screamed. He ran toward Terra and Nic’s door and banged on it. “Hey! Wake up! We’ve got to get out of here, and we’ve got to go now! Hey!”

  Nic snatched the door open and looked at Marshall through sleep-glazed eyes. “What?” he asked, yawning and wiping his eyes with his palm.

  “Get Terra and the kids. We’ve got to get out of here right now!”

  “What’s going on?” Nic asked, frowning.

  “No time to explain. Just get up. We’ve got to move!”

  He ran toward his own door and pushed it open.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” he cried, shaking Roland and Joanna awake. “Get up. We’ve got to go right now!”

  “What?” Roland asked, throwing a lazy arm around Joanna.

  “Get up now! We’ve got to go. If Patrick finds us here, he’ll kill us!”

  “What are you talking about?” Joanna sighed.

  “We have got to go right now. Patrick, and about a thousand of his friends, are coming this way. We’ve got to get out of here now!”

  Roland arose lethargically and stretched, infuriating Marshall.

  He began to pace the room like a caged animal.

  “Don’t you get it? Patrick is coming this way, and he’s burning every building in sight. Do you know what that means? It means that in five minutes, this building is going to explode, and if he knows we’re here, he’ll make sure that we’re inside of it. Let’s go!”

  Roland looked at a still sleeping Joanna, beginning to get a sense of urgency.

  “Jo, we’ve got to go.”

  “What?” she asked, stretching.

  Roland jumped out of bed, and grabbed his shirt and boots. He jammed his feet inside of his boots, and began to put on Joanna’s.

  “We’ve got to go right now,” he said, putting his hands under her under arms and helping her out of the bed.

  Marshall raced out into the hallway in time to see Terra, Nic, and the children coming out of their room.

  “We’re ready,” Terra said. She had Danny by the hand, while Nic held Deanna in his arms. She was gradually waking up out of her dream. Danny was still rubbing his eyes and yawning. Marshall turned around to see Roland and Joanna exiting the room, wide-eyed and nervous.

  “Let’s go.”

  They rushed down the stairs and into the lobby. The man was sitting at the desk, reading some sort of book.

  “You’d better get out of here!” Marshall cried. “Patrick Butler’s coming, and he looks angry!”

  The man just stared at them as they ran toward the back of the boarding house.

  Harsh sunlight assaulted them as they reached the back door and pushed it open. Several men in military uniforms raced passed them, their faces wide in fear.

  Nearby, a crowd screamed over the sound of glass shattering.

  From their vantage point, they could see into one of the windows of the draft office. Furniture flew through the air, slamming against walls. Paper scattered like an indoor snowstorm. A man ran toward the front of the building with a large metal wheel in his hand. A second later, more glass shattered as the wheel was flung from the second story window of the draft office and landed with a clang against the cobblestone streets.

  Marshall smelled the smoke before he saw the black columns that rose in the air, blackening everything inside the building.

  “Help us, please!”

  “Help!”

  “Somebody help us!”

  They looked up at the third floor window.

  “There are kids up there!” Danny shouted.

  His little eyes saw a little girl, an older man, and a woman upstairs from the draft office, screaming for their lives.

  “Help us, please!” the woman begged.

  Seconds later, they heard the cheer of the crowd, then a voice thick with fear.

  “Those families up there had nothing to do with this. Let us help them!”

  The crowd jeered the voice as it continued to plead for the families’ lives. After a few minutes of its pleading, they heard the voice no more.

  “We have to help them!” Danny cried, pulling away from Terra and running toward the building.

  “Danny, stop!” Nic shrieked, snatching the little boy in mid run.

  “But there are kids up there!”

  “If we help them, then we’ll all die,” Nic said.

  Danny looked at the people in the window, coughing viciously from the black smoke that was rising in the air, then looked back at Nic. Torn, he tucked his chin into his shirt and began to cry.

  “We can’t help everybody. We have to be safe. We have to make sure that we’re safe first. If that mob sees us, then they’re going to hurt us. We have to stay here and be safe.”

  That only made Danny cry harder.

  “But there are kids up there!” he sobbed.

  Nic sighed and picked the little boy up, comforting him in his massive arms.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  “We can’t stay here,” Marshall said. “We have to go.”

  His eyes were glued upward. They followed his line of vision.

  The fire had leapt from the top of the draft office, to the top floor of the boarding house, and was moving quickly through the floors. They looked from the fire to Marshall in fear.

  The crowd had silenced themselves. They weren’t gone. They were breathing and buzzing, like flies over warm manure.

  “Follow me,” Marshall said, moving away from the boarding house.

  Some other tenants had begun to evacuate the boarding house, rushing past them.

  They passed through the alleyway for a block before
it released into the street. The heat from the day was intensified by the heat from the smoke. They took a deep breath, anticipating their next move.

  A horse drawn fire wagon rang its bell, zooming past in a race to get to the smoke.

  “Where are we going to go?” Roland asked.

  “I have a friend who runs an orphanage,” Marshall replied. “His name is Willy Davis. We can stay there until things quiet down.”

  A feeling of doom stabbed him through the gut. Something wasn’t right. However, ignoring it, he proceeded on, heading for the Colored Orphan Asylum.

  ~()~()~()~()~

  Superintendent Kennedy made his way to Marshal Jenkins’s office. If the mob was going to burn down an office, then Jenkins’s would be the first. His horse drawn carriage turned a corner and proceeded up Lexington Avenue.

  The inside of the carriage was sweltering, even with all of the windows open.

  This must be what Christmas hams feel like.

  He approached the corner of Forty Sixth Street and Lexington Avenue.

  Is that smoke? he wondered, sniffing the air.

  He looked down the street. Fire was bellowing from where the draft office was supposed to be. As a matter of fact, it was spewing from most of the block.

  “Let me out!” he screamed to the driver.

  The carriage slowed to a stop, and Kennedy tipped the man before running toward Third Avenue.

  “Hey. There’s Kennedy!” he heard.

  It seemed as if the whole crowd turned to look at him. He saw the white of their eyes and shivered. They didn’t look happy to see him.

  He turned around and began to walk back toward the carriage, muttering a prayer to the Virgin Mary as he went. To his horror, he saw that the carriage was gone.

  “Oh Mary—”

  His prayer was interrupted by a heavy push against his back. He whipped around to find a tall, young man in an old, dusty soldier’s uniform.

  “What’s this about?” Kennedy demanded, looking up at the towering young man. “Do you know who you’re messing with, soldier?”

  The man stepped close to him, the crowd advancing toward the dispute. He bent down until his sweaty nose touched Kennedy’s. Then, in what seemed to Kennedy like slow motion, the man pulled back his fist and crashed it against Kennedy’s face.