In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  As it was, there were no children, to his relief. But there was a man at the far end, where the mew ended and Steven's street cut across the mouth of it, and even as St. James spied him, the man was turned and looking back along the mew, and in his hand he held a gun, which was half raised as he scanned the mew as though he may have heard the wheels of the curricle and the accompanying beat of hooves with it, and was even now waiting to see what may become of these sounds.

  His scanning was but brief as he seemed to become distracted by something along Steven's street, for he gave a final glance about and then turned again to peep around the corner of the warehouse, much the way St. James and Steven were doing now. Without further hesitation, St. James whispered to Steven, “Hold the horses where they are, lad, and I will be back momentarily,” and he slipped one pistol from his waist band and slid around the corner.

  Then, with his eyes not leaving the man ahead of him, he advanced toward him, pistol held at the ready. The man shoved his head further around the corner, and St. James was but ten yards from him and bearing down fast when something more like instinct than actual sound must have made the man aware of his presence.

  He pulled his head back and swung toward St. James. His gun hand stopped in mid jerk as he recognized the significance of St. James' aimed pistol and he realized he was well and truly covered and any effort on his part to bring his own weapon to bear and fire would be folly.

  “Very good,” St. James panted as he covered the last few yards and stood but a few feet from him. “You may hand it here butt first like a good lad, now, mind you, and no funny business or I will plug you without even knowing what no good you are so obviously up to.”

  The man was not a lad, but older than St. James by a good ten years, but he swallowed this condescension without comment and replaced the hammer that was cocked, took the barrel with his other hand and handed it over. He was large and burly, and St. James was not stupid enough to think that although the man was apparently now unarmed that he would be no threat. He kept his distance from the reach of those powerful arms.

  Tyler arrived out of breath beside him, as he must have climbed over the back of the curricle at seeing his employer slipping off around the corner. Now he came forward, staying clear of the line of fire that St. James had drawn between pistol and man. “We'll need a rope, Tyler,” St. James said as Tyler pulled back the man's coat and found another weapon still tucked out of sight, which he himself pocketed into his own waistband to join the gun already there.

  “T'boy's got one about his pants,” Tyler reminded him, and St. James grinned at the thought of Steven doing without his belt and his pants perhaps falling. Tyler glanced down the mew, must have seen Steven regarding all of this activity from the corner as before, for he motioned with his hand for him to come.

  Steven, with good common sense, led the team and the curricle, and as Tyler had tied his mount to the back of it, this horse followed also.

  “T'ain't you gonna ask me anythin'?” the man held at gunpoint complained. “T'is no law 'gainst lookin' down a street!”

  But no one answered. Tyler strode forward and procured the rope from Steven. St. James said, “You may have a seat there on the ground and put your hands out before you, together. Just pretend you are praying,” he mocked. The man paled, perceiving that although his captor seemed uncommonly polite that he was in fact furious.

  He sat as requested. Tyler looped the rope about his wrists, tightened it, knotted it and then pulled on the remaining length of it until the man's hands were at his ankles, which he kicked into the proper position and trussed his hands to his feet in short order. Now the man was breathing hard, and despite the cold he was sweating. St. James took out one of his endless supply of hankies, said to Tyler, “I am afraid I inadvertently lied to Miss Murdock, for I led her to believe that they were for nothing but hysterical females.”

  “Yer t'duke!” the man exclaimed.

  “Indeed I am,” St. James told him, “and I fear that your recognition of that lady's name has just told me more than an hour's worth of grilling you.” And he twisted the fine, delicate handkerchief and gagged the man without mercy. “Check beneath his coat in the back, Tyler, for he has the look to me of a three pistol man,” and Tyler did so and was rewarded with yet another weapon secured in the man's pants at the small of his back. He handed it to the duke.

  “Now,” St. James said, stepping around the now impotent man and with a pistol in either hand. “We shall see what's t'do.” He hugged the wall of the warehouse and peered around this corner, letting his eyes move first to the house that he knew to be Lucy Crockner's and with seeing nothing unusual there allowed his perusal to spread out until he had encompassed all that was in his sight. But there was nothing for apparent alarm.

  “Well?” Tyler asked from behind him.

  “Nothing,” St. James returned with certainty.

  “Mayhaps you put a stop to whate'er he had planned, m'lord,” Steven offered.

  “Mayhaps,” St. James replied as he studied the street in front of him, “but I think we shall pause here for another moment and see if any thing comes about. Tyler, can you get that door open to the warehouse? It's not large enough for the curricle, but we can at least get our reluctant companion out of sight,” and then on the heels of his words, “Damn it!”

  “Movement?” Tyler asked.

  “God, yes,” St. James replied and he rose from where he had been half crouching. One pistol that had been pointed down came up in his hand, but he did not fire. “The goddamned house is aflame!”

  The smoke that had been curling from the chimney had now been joined by a more ominous, thick, grey wafting coming not from the chimney but from the roof. Even as he spoke, St. James saw the sudden appearance of licking flame.

  His brief hope that no one was in residence was squelched as the door to the shanty burst opened and he saw Bertie and Mrs. Crockner and Lizzie behind and God help him, two children. The man on the ground behind him could not have torched the house, there hadn't been time. He must have been waiting as another set it aflame. Without further thought, St. James aimed and fired and plowed a bullet into the door but a few inches from Bertie's face and saw with satisfaction that they all fell back into the house with great panic and slammed the door.

  An angry voice called from the other side of the warehouse from him, “Too damned soon, ya bloody idjit! I'd had a clean shot if you'd just waited but another second!”

  “What the hell are you doing!” Tyler asked, his mildness gone and his own weapons drawn. St. James whirled, was amazed to see Steven had drawn a pistol also, and he recognized it as his own even in the distraction.

  “Here, lad, I'll take that,” he told the boy and Steven looked disappointed as he handed it over, but brightened when St. James handed him a replacement in the form of the one he had just fired. “Load it!” Then he hastened to explain to Tyler. “They'll burn them out, and shoot Miss Murdock when she walks from the door. I've managed to give them fair warning not to come out, but we have got to do something now, or they'll only die inside!”

  “They wouldna have shot the children!” Tyler protested. “You coulda let her take her chances and at least seen that the rest of them lived!”

  “I haven't time to argue about this now, goddamn it! We get them all out, or they all die, but I'll not see her sacrificed, do you understand me?” St. James roared. “Now boost me up onto this roof, for I estimate we have less than two minutes before the house caves in and they're all done for.”

  With that he secured his two pistols, one drawn, one taken back from Steven (and if he had a moment of renewed confidence that he at least had his most prized and, to his way of thinking, most accurate weapons back as a set in his possession again, he had no time to consider it) which with the pistol he had taken from the man bound on the ground replacing the one he had given to Steven meant he now had three in his waist band, and he jumped at the wall of the warehouse and managed to get the fingers o
f his left hand over the edge of the slate roof of the low slung building. His right hand slipped, and he felt a piercing of pain in his chest and knew that at least half of Lizzie's stitches had just broken open. Then Tyler was beneath him, shoving him up by the ass, and St. James kicked off from Tyler's shoulders and was up on the roof. He had a clear sight of the house and it was burning furiously, smoke pouring out from it in great cloudy plumes. The street below was filling with women and children as they poured out from neighboring houses, for the fire would no doubt spread in just a moment's time to its close neighbors. But the milling crowd proved no deterrent in keeping any one from shooting again for another shot rang out from just on the further side of the warehouse.

  St. James scrambled up the pitch of the roof to the top and he filled both hands with weapons as he went. He tripped going over the peak and was hard pressed to control his fall. He landed hard on his knees, sprawled face down arrowing down the slant of it, nearly lost one pistol but managed to retain it, his chest screaming pain, and he skidded with more luck than precision to just to the edge of the roof, where he clawed to a stop before falling off the further side. He looked down, his right hand pointing his pistol in that direction and was just in time to see a startled, grizzled face look up with surprised shock into the barrel of his gun.

  And Dante released the hammer and blew that man's face from his head.

  The man flung back, his own weapon going off as he had held it at the ready to shoot the occupants of the burning house.

  St. James rolled around, slid from the roof and landed awkwardly on the ground, catching himself hard with one elbow as he still had a pistol in either hand. He rose, pocketed the one he had just fired and took the third from his waist band. He ran from the corner of the warehouse to the burning home. A bullet skidded just below one of his flying heels, and he gritted his teeth, for he had suspected there would be more than the two now neutralized, but he dared not try for another when he had no clear idea where they may be and no further time to waste looking.

  He only hoped that with no help from their accomplices, that those left were not skilled enough shots and had not enough ready weapons to do the job themselves.

  Then he was at the door, and he slammed his shoulder into it without slowing, and it flung open with a bang and he landed into the midst of the small room sliding on his side and with both pistols pointed out the open door in case a third aggressor should be so bold as to follow him.

  And Bertie said, coughs punctuating his words from the swirling smoke in the room, “Damn it, St. James! I nearly shot you!”

  The heat was intolerable, and Bertie had to shout to even make these words heard for the noise of the clapboards burning above their heads was an endless din, and there was a great bawling from a child. “Lizzie!” St. James bellowed, and she was there beside him, crawling on her hands and knees. He pulled himself around, put his feet beneath him and into a crouch. “Hang onto my coat, and stay close, do you understand?”

  “What about the others?”

  “Bertie, wait as long as you can after we leave, do you hear me? As long as you possibly can! Then get them out through the front door!”

  “No worry,” Bertie replied. “Go!”

  “No!” Miss Murdock protested. “I won't be so cowardly as to leave them in here! Damn it, Dante—!”

  St. James, with one fluid motion, turned his gun to the interior of the room, aimed it at the first face that was discernible in the smoke, a young lad of a boy about seven years old, and told Miss Murdock in a ruthless, furious voice, “You'll come now, or I'll relieve you of the cause of your reluctance immediately!”

  “Bastard!” But her hands found his coat, and without further delay, he moved forward with her behind him, and kept his body between her and where he had judged the shots to be coming from.

  The street was a melee of people, but even so another shot was fired, and the people fled, screaming, in either direction, and he and Miss Murdock were left quite alone to run toward the mew and Tyler. St. James held his two pistols at the ready, but he saw Tyler leaning from the corner of the warehouse, and that man's gun went off, spooking back whomever he had caught sight of who had been shooting at them. Then Steven was there beside Tyler and he had loosed Tyler's mount from the back of the curricle, and with a slap on its flank, sent it toward them. St. James cursed, thrust one of his guns at Miss Murdock, who had the presence of mind to take it, and he grabbed one rein as the horse went to go by, turned it, and then he had it between the shooters and he and Miss Murdock, and in this manner, they made it to the mouth of the mew.

  She was furious and frightened, and as soon as they made cover she turned with a great deal of agitation, and he was forced to yell, “Tyler! Get her, or the little fool will go back!” for he still had a gun in one hand and the horse he dared not let go of in the other, as it was so spooked he would never get it back.

  And Miss Murdock turned with sudden ferocity and lifted the gun that he had handed her and pointed it at him. “Damn you! St. James. Would you let them die then for my sake!” she asked him.

  Tyler grabbed the gun from her hand and St. James secured his pistol back into his waist band, and he snagged her arm and pulled her forward. “Up!” he told her, and threw her with roughness into the saddle, grabbed his other still loaded pistol from Tyler. “Tyler, stay and see that all goes well with them. Use the curricle once they're out! Cover us as long as you can from here!” and then he thrust his foot into the iron, swung onto the horse behind Lizzie even as he shouted at it, so that it was startled and running before he even made his way into the portion of saddle he could find behind Lizzie's disarrayed riding habit.

  She picked up the reins, but as she went to draw in the mount, still furious at his abandoning his friend and a woman with two small children to the flames, he goaded her, “Go, damn it! They will come out all right, for those that are shooting will be after us, not them.” He filled his hands once again with his pistols, and she, still with no clear understanding of his reasoning, at least perceived that it was not his intention to see Bertie or Steven's family die, loosed the reins and urged the horse forward with its double load.

  Then Dante brought his knees to rest over Lizzie's stockinged legs, for her habit was not made for riding astride and had pulled up far higher than was decent. Before she could protest or question, he was speaking into her ear, “Turn right, here, Lizzie, and that's the last I am going to be able to tell you, for I fear I am going to be busy. Have you ever ridden a mount that took leg signals?”

  “Yes. Of course,” she answered, for she knew he referred to a horse that could be directed into turning by pressure of one knee or the other rather than by reining.

  “Then you are going to pretend to be that horse, my dear. If you feel pressure from one of my knees or the other, rein in that direction and keep reining until I let the pressure up. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good lass.” He said nothing more but turned as far as he could in his position behind her to see what may be occurring to their rear. And he was not surprised to see two riders now following. Even from a distance he could see that one had a very red face, and reddish blonde hair, and that his eyes seemed very blue, and from Steven's description to him when questioned about his meeting of the night before in Red's pub, he gathered this must be Red himself.

  The other was the one remaining assassin hired through Red, he surmised, and that left one assassin, besides Steven's father, dead, and the other trussed and in the warehouse. Which meant that unless Red had hired more, they were all accounted for and Bertie should have no problem getting the Crockner's from their home, merely leaving through the door as they should have been able to from the beginning, without anyone shooting at them.

  No. Only he and Miss Murdock had any worry at this point.

  Even as he thought this, Red's hired man pointed his pistol at him and fired, and the bullet skimmed past and ricocheted from the brick of the buildin
g to the side of them. He felt Lizzie flinch, and he could feel her legs shaking, and he pressed his left knee against hers with insistent pressure and was relieved to see that she still had enough nerve to rein the horse in that direction. And as he did not let up pressure, she kept it turning, until they were going in a small, sharp circle back onto their foe. Still he kept pressure on her knee, not wanting her to be a target instead of himself, and he aimed and fired from over her shoulder as the horse charged back in direct line at their pursuers. He could not tell if he had done any damage, but it did have the effect of making their pursuers drop back with abruptness and he could hear their loud cursing even from this distance. Then the horse was turned in completion of its tight-haunched circle, and Miss Murdock needed no instruction to urge it again into as quick a pace as it could possibly go.

  “Where?” she panted.

  “Can you find the North road from here?”

  “I—I think so!”

  “Find it, and put as many buildings as you can between ourselves and them as you do so, for I have but one bullet at the ready until I am able to reload.”

  She directed the horse around a corner of a building and they came out into a market, and if it were not Piccadilly, it was still fashionable enough for her to cringe wondering if they should be recognized, but it did have the advantage of many wagons and carts and conveyances, and she threaded them through as adeptly as she could, screening their route from their pursuers, and all the while, she was aware of Dante at her back, reloading powder and ball into his spent pistols.

  And that is how, Miss Murdock thought, one came to have a reputation for being a rake. For in all their powdered and protected existence, few of the peerage would view their antics as anything but a bit of scandalous misbehavior on their part.