Lord of Order

by Brett Riley

  Lange prayed faster and faster as if keeping time with frenetic music only he could hear. At the first pause, Boudreaux jammed his pistol against the back of Lange’s head and fired. Brains and blood and chunks of skull spattered the water. Lange fell facedown into the shallows, legs on the ancient steps. His feet drummed a rhythmless tattoo for a handful of seconds and then stilled.

  Boudreaux holstered his weapon and unbuckled his gun belt and set it on a higher step. Then he grabbed Lange’s belt and shirt collar and towed him into the water. The cold Mississippi filled Boudreaux’s boots. The mud sucked at him. He shoved the body outward. The current caught it and spun it away, just another piece of flotsam. Boudreaux turned and labored out of the water, wiping his hands on his shirt and taking up his weapons of office again. He fastened his belt and righted the weight of the guns against his hips, and then he trudged back toward Decatur. By tomorrow, everyone would know what had happened, what Lange had done, who had killed him. Boudreaux mounted up and rode home in the otherworldly dark, the chained choir’s demonic moans keeping time with his hoofbeats. Later that night, he would find deep red stains on his garments. And when he saw them, he would not even weep. At least the brains and bone had washed away.

  From the moment Boudreaux and Lange left the Temple, Jevan Dwyer followed, moving like a deer, flitting from shadow to shadow. He witnessed the execution and let Boudreaux pass. Then he went down and watched the body drift downriver. It would bloat and rot and fragment in the mouths of river creatures. If nothing snagged it, the trunk might reach the sea.

  Then Dwyer turned and scampered after Boudreaux, following the horse’s easy amble, pausing on occasion to clout a Troubler and move on before the man, woman, or child even saw him. As if the universe itself had clenched its fist and pounded them for the effrontery of living so long. And when he had watched enough and noted what there was to note, he turned back, reaching the Temple sooner than should have been possible for anyone afoot. He walked past the guards, who still refused to look at him unless they had no choice, and ascended the stairs, laughing as if their fear amused him. In Royster’s office, he reported that Gordon Boudreaux had performed well, that he belonged to the Crusade, that he would, in Dwyer’s considered opinion, execute his own mother if Royster ordered it.

  Soon they would stand together on the wall and listen to the righteous sound of the levees and canals exploding, to the screams of the damned. They would see the Troublers of New Orleans floundering like ants swept from their hill in boiling water. And then they would go back to Washington and await the pleasure of Matthew Rook, whose judgment and purity stood second only to God’s.

  When Ford got home, Long waited on his walk beside her hitched horse. He dismounted and hitched up and led the new lord of order inside. Then he made two glasses of cool water with molasses. She sat in the den as he lit a single lamp and turned it low. Long watched him, sipping her drink. Ford sat in his favorite chair, the sweat in his hair glistening like goshenite. He’s thinkin about Lange and Gabe and Gordy and the people bound in the streets prayin for a Moses. Long knew how Ford felt. The cries of the dying echoed in her dreams. New Orleans now housed the insane and the criminal alongside the true and the just, and she carried all their weight. Sometimes she wanted to shoot them all just to shut them up, to kill every Crusader for bringing them here.

  Thank you, Lord, that this is almost over.

  Tomorrow’s sun would bring the culmination of all their planning and prayers. One way or another. She needed some sleep, but she could stand vigil with Ford for another half hour. Perhaps he would sleep tonight too. Perhaps he would even dream of better days, of his favorite game trails and lush crops and soil pregnant with possibility and a city without walls.

  At his desk that night, Royster ate a plate of beefsteak and roasted corn, a napkin tucked into his shirt. Benn stood before him, nostrils flaring, licking his lips. The deputy envoy had not eaten all day. The aroma of the peppered, buttered steak must have been driving him mad.

  Yet he has not looked at my plate once. Admirable.

  And so the wall is done, Royster said, his mouth full.

  Benn’s face was unreadable, though Royster could have sworn the man’s stomach growled. Yes, sir. The men have been instructed to hold the last section, as you ordered. They’ll be waiting for us tomorrow at sunrise.

  Royster swallowed and smiled. Almost time to solve our vermin problem.

  Yes, sir.

  And then we can go home.

  Yes, sir. Then we can go home.

  Royster smiled wider and returned to his steak. He wished he had ordered a baked potato with butter and fresh chives. He would truly miss New Orleans’s food. Ford’s hunters and farmers were excellent, the city’s cooks peerless. Even leaving out what you could get anywhere—a pork chop or a roasted chicken—the city swam in flavors and odors, jambalayas and etouffees and gumbos and boudin balls, fried alligator and smoked fish, everything teeming with bell peppers and onions and celery, rich spices in every dish and remoulade sauce on hand for all occasions. If he could have saved anything from this festering boil of a city, Royster would have taken its food stores whole, every last head of cattle, every fish from the great river and the Gulf. He had, in fact, tasked Jevan Dwyer with copying all recipes, gathering all indigenous seeds. The river and the Gulf would endure after the city fell, and so would the cuisine of a vanished people.

  He pointed his fork at Benn. What will you do when all the Troublers are dead?

  Benn considered a moment. I think there will always be Troublers. Just because we’ve caught the ones we suspect doesn’t mean we’ve suspected all the right people.

  True, true. But still. Imagine a world where you could forever set aside your gun. Where you can trust every face you meet as a temple to the one true God. What would you do with your life?

  Benn shifted a little. I’ve never given myself leave to imagine that world, sir. But I suppose I’d spend my days taking naps with my wife and teaching my daughters to fish. When we weren’t at worship, that is.

  Royster nodded and ate, sipping tea cooled in jars at the river. A wedge of lemon floated in the glass. That sounds like a lovely life. Send word to Misters Clemens, Boudreaux, and Ford. To Lord Long as well. They are to attend the fastening, the speeches, the beginning of the celebration. All guards not on duty are required to attend.

  Yes, sir.

  In fact, instruct the guards on the canals to come too.

  Benn frowned. Do you think that’s wise, sir? What if the Troublers attack?

  Then the guards at the lakefront will flood the city, as God brought the Red Sea down on the Egyptians after the Israelites passed safely. The Troublers know this. Their best play is to stay in their verminous swamps and let this city drown.

  But what if Troy—

  Troy is dead. His friends have turned or sit captive in their ill-gotten homes. Not one true Crusader has been harmed. No, Mister Benn. Let the canal guards join us, that they may go forth afterward and spread the word of our victory.

  Benn seemed on the verge of speaking again. Then he cleared his throat and said, Yes, sir.

  Leave me. I have much to do.

  Benn bowed and exited. Royster finished his meal, hoping that, wherever they might be, the loyal would eat well. Soon they could lay down their burdens.

  28

  On the eve of what would likely be their last stand, Stransky and Troy stayed in a cabin near the Refuge’s westernmost edge. Stransky’s Troublers slept on tiny hummocks or stood guard or dozed in boats of sundry sizes and shapes and material. When it was time to move out, Stransky would give a signal, which would fan outward like water rippling after a tossed stone, and they would descend on the city, killing and razing everything in their paths. They would take New Orleans from Royster or die trying. There was no third choice.

  Troy lay awake, thinking of his absent friends
; the citizens for whom tomorrow would seem like the cataclysm, not the cure; the many ways everything could go terribly wrong.

  Outside, the sound of oars in water. A guard hailed someone.

  Troy flexed his right knee. It still felt stiff, but he could walk without limping, could even run for short bursts. Across the room, Stransky sat on her cot, black hair falling over her eyes. She picked up the oil lamp from the little side table and lit it, banishing the shadows to the corners of the room. Troy stood. She gestured for him to wait and went to the door and poked her head out. Someone muttered to her, but Troy could not make out the words.

  She turned to him. It’s your girl and that fuckin dog. Kid better hope we don’t end up in a goddam siege, or we may have to eat it.

  Troy followed Stransky onto the rickety porch, where two guards armed with rifles stood vigil. Someone was carrying a lantern up the hill. The guards must have let McClure pass. How had she found them?

  Soon enough, girl and dog stood before Troy and Stransky, McClure’s faced bathed in sweat, the dog panting, its pink tongue lolling.

  Howdy, Troy said.

  McClure wiped sweat from her forehead. Howdy. Hotter than hell out here.

  Yeah, and I reckon the fish ain’t bitin, Stransky said. What the hell you doin here?

  McClure ignored her. Y’all was hard to find. If I hadn’t heard them boys on the dock talkin about you, I might have rowed right past.

  Stransky shook her head. Loudmouth assholes. I should gut em.

  How are you? Troy asked. How are the others?

  Everybody’s alive, McClure said. Jack and Ernie are still confined to quarters. That ain’t the big news, though.

  The kid told them what she had heard on the streets—a meeting at dawn, the canals unguarded. When she finished, Troy fetched her a glass of water and a bowl for Bandit, while Stransky ran about, giving orders. Troublers scurried hither and yon. Soon their oars beat the waters as they moved out to spread the word.

  Stransky came back, breathing hard. Gonna be a harder fight at the wall than we thought.

  Don’t change nothin, Troy said. We still gotta bust my people out, keep the outlanders from blowin the levees, and take the wall.

  We know where Royster’s gonna be. That helps.

  Plus, McClure said, the ordnance crews got orders to light their fuses after the evacuation, if they got any choice. That gives us some time in the city.

  Right, said Troy. Willa, head back and get started on your part. The more you can do, the better off we’ll all be.

  McClure stood. Bandit, who had been asleep on the floorboards, sat up and wagged his tail. Then the girl exited and trotted down the hill, the dog following.

  Troy drank from McClure’s half-full glass. With most of the guards gone, a surgical strike inside the city’s better than a mass force.

  Stransky spat and shook her head. Strike team ain’t got much chance.

  Once we free Jack and Ernie and mobilize our people, we can cut the prisoners loose street by street. I’ll take a dozen troops with sidearms, plus some extra rifles and shotguns.

  Nobody here’s gonna follow your orders. Not till they see you’re really with us. That means you go alone, or I go with you.

  You need to lead the wall assault. Send Bushrod with me and tell him I’m in charge.

  Bushrod can take the wall. He’s better at that we who are about to die shit than I am. Besides, I wanna see Jack Hobbes’s face when he sees who’s rescuin him.

  Troublers leading both prongs of the attack seemed like letting a couple of wolves guard a newborn babe, but Troy could not dictate terms. If Stransky wanted, she could order him bound, gagged, and buried to his neck in the back yard while she took her chances. And she was crazy enough to do it too.

  He sighed. Fine.

  For a while, they watched the furious activity in the yard and at the dock. You sure the Crusaders won’t blow the levees as soon as they hear shots? Stransky asked.

  Can’t be sure of nothin, but they ain’t known for independent thinkin. They’re taught from birth to follow orders. If I was a bettin man, I’d take odds they won’t light them fuses until we’re about to overrun em.

  She flicked her hair from her eyes and looked hard at him. So our lives depend on a guess.

  Yep. But we’re outta time.

  Stransky grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. Then she got up and went inside.

  Troy prayed for courage, for guidance, for the rightness of his cause. After he said his amens, he followed Stransky in and stretched out on his cot. Perhaps he could sleep a little before they moved out. He might never see a bed again.

  29

  The sun was a thin rind when Royster arrived at the wall on horseback and sauntered before his gathered people. Thirty yards outside the main structure, the final section awaited like New Orleans’s tombstone, wanting only a steady hand to carve it. Facing the opening, Clemens and Benn stood beside their mounts, flanking Jerold Babb, who seemed to have come afoot. Boudreaux, Ford, and Long lined up behind them, their old and tattered horses grazing. They have chosen poor mounts for the occasion. We must find them better horseflesh before they ride into Washington at my side. On the other hand, those broken-down animals seemed in keeping with the city dump festering nearby, its stink curling upper lips and watering eyes. I must reprimand Misters Melton and Glau for their poor planning. This is no setting for an august occasion. The architects and more than two dozen higher-ranking guards stood behind the deputies. Beyond them, gaggles of off-duty Crusaders lined up at parade rest, their numbers stretching far back into the city.

  The great segment rested on crude log rollers. Teams of horses and Troublers were yoked to it. No one guarded them. Where would they go? Seeing Royster, some of them turned aside and spat.

  Those heathens disdain my holy office. Before we flood the city, I will see them drawn and quartered by the very horses they toil beside. Even drowning is not enough to purify their souls. In hours, a day at most—as soon as the last Crusader clears the wall and the ladders have been retracted, when the guards stand ready to repel all who try to escape—corpses will pile and stack like detritus damming a swollen river. Clouds of insects and battalions of vermin will attend them. These wretches who dare spit in my presence, though—they will know the tortures of the damned.

  He smiled his shark’s smile. Then he took a deep breath and shouted, My friends! Fellow servants of the Most High and His Holiness Matthew Rook! Today we etch our names in history! Today we strike down iniquity! Today we complete the wall that is part and parcel of Brother Rook’s vision! Rejoice, for today, more than ever, we walk under the loving and protective gaze of God!

  The faithful erupted in cheers and raised their fists. Babb spread his arms and lifted his hands to heaven, his eyes closed, his lips moving. Melton and Glau embraced and slapped each other on the back. The Troublers looked away.

  Royster raised his hand in the air. Once he let it fall, the elite guards would march outside and steer the Troublers and horses to their work. And when the last section had been driven in place and sealed, Royster would issue only two more commands in New Orleans—one to begin the faithful’s exodus, the other to light the fuses.

  And then we can ride from this pond full of dead scum and never look back.

  Then something struck his right shoulder.

  Pain and heat shot down his arm and across his chest as he spun and fell off his horse. He landed on his back, the breath driven from his lungs in a single gush. A second later, a rifle’s flat report. Crusaders cried out and ran, ducked for cover, scanned the city or the trees beyond the wall for the shooter. One of them screamed something about the forest, and those guards who were both armed and near the gap began firing. Horses reared and threw riders. Royster’s own mount’s forelegs smashed into the dirt only inches from his face. Troublers cheered. Panicked voi
ces blended together. Benn was shouting for everyone to cease fire, keep your heads, know what you’re shooting at. He, Clemens, Boudreaux, and two guards lifted Royster and carried the envoy to safety. Royster’s wounded arm dangled and jounced with every footfall, fresh waves of pain washing over him. He moaned. Jerold Babb jogged alongside him, huffing with effort. Just before they ducked behind the wall, Royster saw Troublers boiling from the woods, out of the ground itself. Their leader, a man almost as big as Jevan Dwyer, paused at the lone segment and hacked at the Troublers’ chains with a hatchet. Several of his fellows did the same.

  Chaos everywhere—Crusaders took positions at the gap and clambered up ladders and fanned out up top. They fired, reloaded, fired again. Melton and Glau cowered nearby, their arms about their heads, Melton blubbering. Guns roared from within and without. The injured and the dying bawled and pleaded for help. A woman’s body fell from the wall and landed less than ten feet from Royster. Her blood spattered him and pooled around her still-twitching limbs, her left arm bent at a right angle halfway between the shoulder and elbow. Babb prayed aloud. Every sight and sound seemed farther and farther away, the light too bright. A semicircle of faces looked down upon Royster: Babb, Clemens, Benn, Long, Ford, Boudreaux.

  They’re coming, Benn said, mopping sweat from his eyes. Orders, sir?

  30

  Troy and Stransky reentered the city before dawn, bringing with them two dozen armed troops. They used old, rusty grapples and ropes and scaled the wall between the skeleton crews manning positions along the top, Troy gritting his teeth as his injured knee throbbed. All of them carried sidearms and knives strapped to their belts or hidden in their boots. Some wore shotguns in scabbards on their backs. Inside the wall, chained and emaciated Troublers covered the streets and much of the lawns and lots, but the guards were limited to fixed positions. The usual riders and ambulators had gone to see Royster’s big show. For every guard, fifty or more prisoners. If everyone rose, they could kill these outlanders and take the city. But these folks are starved and dehydrated and half dead. Lord, let em find their spirit once they’re free. Troy’s and Stransky’s troops were dressed in Crusade attire. He did not want to know how they had gotten the tunics, but they worked. Beyond those who saw them come over the wall and grinned their damned grins, the prisoners barely glanced at them. The guards and the pickets nodded or waved or even saluted. No one tried to stop them. They’re lax. And why not? They’ve always won.