Hudson's Kill

by Paddy Hirsch

  The dust thinned, and the movement came again. Not a rank of charging men. A flicker of activity, small and close to the ground. They strained their eyes.

  A chicken appeared on the rubble. It peered around, head jerking as it took in its surroundings. It took a single uncertain step, slipped, and flopped into the compound in a flurry of wings.

  There was a loud bang, then two more, and then Justy heard a volley of curses come from the far parapet. He glanced into the compound. The chicken was still alive, making its way uncertainly across the space.

  Justy grinned at Umar. “It looks as though Owens may have had eyes of his own in here.”

  Umar took a step backwards, pulling Kerry. The moon was rising now, and his eyes were hooded by the shadow, but they flickered as a muffled drumming sound filled the air.

  Justy knew what it was. It was the sound of men running along a wooden platform, preparing to hurl themselves through the gap in the wall behind him. A breach, but not where Umar had expected. Riskier, because the gap that led from the parapet to the rooftop was tiny compared to the hole in the outer wall below. But it had the element of surprise.

  It all depended on who came through the gap first, and how Umar would react. Line his muskets up in ranks, use disciplined volley fire, and the invaders would have no chance.

  But Umar was not a soldier.

  A wild howling came from the darkness behind Justy. O’Toole burst through the gap, an ax in one hand and a club in the other. He looked huge, lit by the moon, his face streaked with what looked like blood, his coat unfurled behind him like the wings of some nightmarish bird of prey. The nearest man on the parapet fired his musket, and O’Toole was engulfed in smoke. For a moment Justy thought he might be hit, but then he roared out of the smoke and felled the man.

  Men poured through the gap after him, all screaming and cursing, open mouths and wild eyes. They spread out around O’Toole and began hacking and bludgeoning their way along the parapet. Umar’s men were still frozen in place, as though they could not believe that the enemy had not done what they expected them to do. They were easy prey. A few muskets barked, but not one of O’Toole’s men fell back.

  Umar ran. He dropped his cutlass, let go of Kerry, and made for the gap in the other side of the wall. His men followed.

  Justy caught Kerry’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  She threw him off. “I wish men would get over grabbing me. I’m fine.”

  She looked at her father. O’Toole was standing in the middle of the rooftop, directing his men. He saw her and nodded. She turned away, picked up the discarded cutlass, and walked through the gap in the wall that Umar had taken.

  “Kerry!” Justy called out.

  She ignored him, and he limped after her. Umar and his men were running along the platform to the steps. O’Toole had left a handful of men behind him in the courtyard to cover his rear. One man was climbing the top of the steps when Umar’s group reached the end of the platform. A blade swung, and the man fell backwards, his head lolling. The four scarred bodyguards hurried Umar down the steps, and formed a wedge around him at the bottom. O’Toole’s men circled them. Two were Irish boys, wearing flat caps and carrying staves. The other three were Owens’ men, all big lads with long knives.

  Umar’s bodyguards swung their cutlasses, fending the men off as they inched across the courtyard. One of them lunged forward, hacking at the face of one of Owens’ trusties, hoping to cut him down and carve a way out. But the man stepped aside, dragged him off balance, and slid his knife deep into the man’s chest. The two Irishmen stepped into the gap, attacking together, one swinging at the head of the scarred man on Umar’s right, the other hammering his stave into the man’s spine. There was a sharp crack, and the man crumpled. Then it was an Irishman with a club and a black man with a knife to each bodyguard, and a few seconds later Umar stood alone.

  He stared at Justy. And then he clapped his hands. “Well done, Marshal. You have helped rid the city of a pestilent religion, and consolidated the power of the gangs. Not quite what the city fathers would imagine your role to be. But I’m sure your uncle will be pleased.”

  Justy looked up at the roof, wondering what kind of havoc O’Toole was wreaking. “This is your doing, Umar. Not mine. You’re the one who provoked the gangs. You set the trap. You baited it. You made a shambles of it. All that blood being spilled up there? That’s on your hands. As for my role, part of it is to stop bastards like you from trafficking in human beings, and making money out of their misery.”

  Umar laughed. “Your uncle is no different. Nor is Owens.”

  “They’re not slavers. They don’t breed children for sale.”

  “Do they not? They have their stables of whores. Some of whom are little more than children. Would you call them free?”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  Umar shrugged. “You will tell yourself what you need, to keep your conscience easy.”

  Justy felt himself redden. “The fact remains, you are a slaver, and a pimp.”

  “And a murderer.”

  A woman stepped into the yard. She wore a bright yellow robe, and a shawl of the same color, draped over her head and wrapped around her face, so that only her eyes showed. They glittered in the moonlight.

  She stopped a few paces from Umar. She pulled away her veil. “You killed Rumi.”

  “I did not, Sahar,” Umar said, softly. “I did not kill her.”

  “You cast her out. Your own daughter. You gave her to that man. You made her a whore.”

  “She was a whore!” Umar’s voice was loud. “She gave herself away. She broke the laws. She defied me. For my honor, she should have been stoned to death, here, where I stand. Her body should have been burned and the ashes thrown into the sea. But I spared her.”

  “Spared her for what? To be gutted like a pig and left to bleed in a stinking alley, where men and women relieve themselves?” Sahar’s face was rigid. “I hope they bury you alive.”

  Behind her, Owens and the Bull stepped out. Then the huge bulk of Jonty and finally Tanny, dull-eyed, holding fast to Jonty’s massive hand.

  Owens grinned. “How now, Absalom.”

  Umar’s eyes were dark. “God forgive you, Sahar.”

  “God?” She laughed. “You claim to be a man of God, and yet you imprison women. Drug them. Prostitute them. And then sell their babies. You, who were a slave, have become what you most despised.”

  “I carried you out of hell, Sahar.”

  “And traded me one hell for another. How long before you started fumbling at me, do you remember? I do. It was not even a year. I was seven years old. Seven. When I became a woman, when I began to bleed, I thought perhaps you would stop. Perhaps you would be disgusted by me. But no. You kept on, and you made me hate myself. I dreamed of death, every day, until the miracle happened and my belly began to swell. And then Rumi was born, and everything changed. Nothing mattered then, your blasphemies, your goatishness, even when you brought those women in here and began your filthy business, none of it mattered because I had Rumi. My beautiful child. And you took her from me. You killed her. And for what?” She sneered. “For your honor.”

  She spat in his face. He let the saliva trickle into his beard. “I should kill you.”

  Justy had not forgotten about the knife that Umar had taken from him in the storeroom. He was already moving when Umar’s right hand flicked out, and the sprung blade snapped open. The steel gleamed like a fish jumping as Umar lunged. He was quicker and closer than Justy, and Sahar yelped as the blade sheared through her robe. She staggered backwards, her arms flailing, and cannoned into Justy. He dropped the cutlass, held her tight, and turned sharply away, gritting his teeth as his knee collapsed under him and he went down, Sahar under him, his back to Umar, braced for the knife.

  Umar’s scream was high-pitched, like an animal with a broken limb. Justy dragged himself to his feet. Umar was writhing on the ground, clutching at his back. Kerry stood over him, the cutlas
s in her hand.

  Justy crouched over Sahar. He looked for blood, but there was only a ragged cut in her robe. She shook her head. He helped her to her feet.

  She walked over to Umar. He had stopped moving now. He lay on his side, his breath coming in shallow spurts. His robe was soaked with blood.

  Sahar turned to Kerry.

  “No!” Justy shouted. But the cutlass was already in Sahar’s hand. She put it against Umar’s throat and thrust down hard. The sharp edge cut smoothly through the skin and muscle and cartilage. He made no noise, not even a sigh, as his blood drained into the dirt.

  Sahar dropped the blade on his body.

  “For my honor,” she said.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The moment he had seen the wall come down, a single question had begun nagging at Justy. He stepped up to Owens. “When did she start spying for you?”

  “Why do you care, Marshal? It’s all worked out nice, ain’t it?”

  “Tell me! Was it before or after you came bleating to me in your damned carriage?”

  A smirk. “A shade before.”

  It was like a punch in the stomach. “You lied to me.”

  “I told you Kerry didn’t mark any of the carts, like we agreed she would. And she didn’t. But she got Sahar to come out to us. And she told us everything.”

  Justy turned to speak to Sahar, but she had disappeared, and all the other Mohammedan women with her.

  “Umar knew about the wall,” he said. “One of your people talked.”

  Owens jerked his head at the big man looming behind him, like a hole in the darkness. “That was Jonty here. Singing like a bird, on my instruction. He came up a few months back with two escaped slaves from Charleston. I didn’t have work for them, so they went with Absalom. He stayed in touch.”

  Justy’s face burned. “Quite a scrap you came up with. Why the hell did you involve me?”

  “You involved yourself, bach. I knew Absalom had some kind of land scheme cooking because one of my conks overheard young Mister Lispenard blabbing about it in his cups. I was set to take care of things myself, but then that lass got milled and you and Kerry started poking your trunks in, and that put Absalom on guard. I needed a diversion, something to keep him off balance. I estimated you’d do the trick nicely. And so you did.”

  Justy shifted his gaze to the Bull. “You knew about this?”

  “Not until yesterday.”

  “And you were content to let it happen.”

  The Bull grunted. “There’s not much can stop you, once you get going, Justice. If we’d given you your head, you’d have whiddled the whole scrap. We thought it better to just divert your attentions a nipperkin, and no harm done.”

  “No harm?” The anger was like a spike in his chest. “I was nearly killed. Twice.”

  The Bull’s face shifted into what passed as a smile. “You weren’t, though, were you? You’re a hard man to make easy.”

  He looked at Kerry. She shrugged and said nothing. His face flared. “God damn, but I should arrest you all. For murder, for conspiracy, and for causing a riot.”

  Owens smirked. “Self-defense, bach. We were conspiring, certainly, but only to rescue my cousin from a shameful fate.” He nodded at the corpses littering the courtyard. “These rogues just got in the way.”

  There was a creaking, clattering sound above them. O’Toole led his troops along the platform and down the steps into the courtyard. His shirt and breeches were spattered with blood.

  “All clear up top,” he said to the Bull. “But the cavalry’s here.”

  The Bull nodded. “Right on time. How many dead?”

  “Of ours? Two. Patsy Fagin caught a ball in the face. And that’s Jem Clancy lying there with his swede half off.”

  The Bull glanced at the body crumpled at the bottom of the steps. “What about their lot?”

  “We put down a handful or so. Plenty more with cracked costards and broken rammers. The rest put their hands up quick enough. Quiet as lambs now.”

  “The muskets?”

  “The lads have them.”

  “Let’s pike then, before the swoddies get past the gate.” The Bull nodded at Justy. “That was fast thinking, blocking the gate like that. You did us a favor there.”

  Justy said nothing. He watched, helplessness and uselessness and anger all curdling inside him like a bad dinner, as his uncle and Lew Owens led the troop of men through the withdrawing room door, most of them now armed with brand-new Brown Bess muskets.

  Tanny was leaning against the giant, Jonty, still holding his hand. Her eyes were glazed, and her skin was gray. Kerry embraced her, but her arms were limp. It was like hugging a doll.

  “She was in the room beside where we made the breach,” Jonty said. “She was tied up there.”

  “Was she hurt?”

  He shrugged, and followed the last of Owens’ men out of the yard.

  Umar’s white robe was now black with blood. Justy dropped his cutlass and squatted beside the corpse, wincing at the grating sensation in his knee. He pried Umar’s fingers off his knife. He wiped the dirt off it, folded it carefully and slipped it into the pocket of his breeches.

  He looked around at the litter of dead bodies. “Well, at least I know who did it this time.”

  “You won’t go after her,” Kerry said.

  “I won’t? And why not? She murdered a man. In cold blood. Right here in front of me.”

  “You heard what he did to the girl.”

  The girl. Justy thought back to what Sahar had said. That Umar had cast his daughter out. That he had prostituted her. That he had given her to a man. The man that had seen her last. That man that had probably killed her. But who was he? Umar couldn’t tell him. And Sahar was gone.

  There was a grating sound as the door to the cell block opened.

  “So there you are!” Lars grinned at him, relief behind his smile. Hardluck stood behind him, looking around the courtyard, his eyes bulging.

  “Quite a mess you’ve made in here,” Lars said. He walked across and prodded Umar’s body with his toe. “Was this the big man, then?”

  “It was.”

  Lars grunted. “Good riddance, I’d say. Now, we’ve to be out of here, if we’re not to get snatched up by the soldiery. They’re right behind us. Is there another way out?”

  “This way.”

  Justy dropped his cutlass. He led the way into the withdrawing room. The scarred bodyguard’s corpse had been shoved into a corner of the room. There was no sign of Gorton.

  “What?” Lars asked.

  “Nothing.” Justy led them on, through the room, and into a short passageway that led to a small atrium. There was a huge hole in the far wall, screened by what looked like a large black sail. Justy walked gingerly over the rubble and pulled the sail to one side. He saw a small shack with a dirt floor and hundreds of bricks, piled neatly to the ceiling, with a pathway to the street.

  They walked as quickly as they could through the lanes, Justy leaning on Hardluck, Kerry leading the way. Once she had her bearings, she took them along the side of Jericho’s walls towards the front gate. A crowd had gathered and they stood in the shadows, watching a group of cavalrymen dragging the smoldering remains of the carriage beyond the gate.

  “Sorry, Hardluck,” Justy murmured. The driver smiled sadly and said nothing.

  The soldiers looked nervous, and stood with their swords ready, as more people gathered to see what was going on.

  “Where are this lot usually garrisoned?” Lars asked.

  “Fort Washington.”

  “They got here quare fast then, didn’t they?”

  An officer strode out, snapping orders at the soldiers. He pulled himself up onto a white mare. The moonlight caught his face, showing one good eye and a white hollow with a mass of scar tissue where the other eye had been. And Justy felt another piece of the picture swim into focus, as clear as printed words under a magnifying glass.

  THIRTY-NINE

  He had the sne
aking suspicion that going to the Almshouse was a waste of time. There was always the chance that now Umar was dead, and Sahar was free, she might go to claim her daughter’s body. But he wasn’t surprised when the young novice on the door told him the corpse had been taken by a man claiming to be her brother.

  “One of Owens’ men, no doubt.” Justy looked at Kerry. “But you knew that already, didn’t you? That would have been part of her deal.”

  Kerry shrugged and said nothing. They sat on the steps of the Almshouse with Lars and Hardluck, an awkward quartet, ragged and filthy.

  “A pity we’ll never find out who killed the girl,” Justy said.

  Kerry frowned. “And why would you say that?”

  “Because if there’s no body, there’s no crime. And where there’s no crime, there’s no investigation.”

  “What do you mean, no crime?” Kerry snapped. “She was stabbed and left to bleed to death. You saw her. I saw her.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Even if we knew who killed her, a judge would demand that we produce the evidence. That means a body. Or a grave, if we’d buried her. And I can’t produce either.”

  Kerry ground her teeth. Her face was white.

  Justy stood up, wincing as the bones grated in his knee. “You did what you set out to do, Kerry. You found out who she was. She was claimed, and no doubt her mother will tuck her up properly, in her way.”

  “But the bastard who killed her is still out there.”

  He spread his arms. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Kerry. But what can I do?”

  “You can find him.”

  “I don’t see how. I probably won’t be a Marshal much longer, after today. And even if I was, and I did find him, he wouldn’t get justice.”

  “There are other kinds of justice.”

  “Marshal or not, I’m not about to go after a man on the cross, Kerry,” Justy said, quietly.

  Her eyes blazed. “Well, you’re no use to me, then. You’re full of fine words about making this city a better place, and for everyone who lives in it, but when it comes to doing right by a Negro titter, you’re as careless as the rest of them.”