by Chuck Dixon
“Think they’ll feed us?” Chaz said. “Or let us go to the latrine?” Lee said.
“This is the latrine,” Chaz said and nodded toward the crusted wooden bucket in the corner of the room.
“I think we both know the next time these guys come for us, it’ll be for the walk to that hanging bar,” Lee said.
Lee was feeling the wall around the doorway with the tips of fingers. His nails explored the gaps between the stones. The surface of the mortar was brittle and broke into powder with a little pressure. Under that, it was spongy, gone soft from years of moisture creeping in to be trapped. He dug further with the blade of his clasp knife until the mortar was cleared away.
“We can loosen these stones,” he said to his brother Ranger, voice low.
Lee and Chaz worked their blades into the spaces between the stones that framed the cell door. Within an hour, they had loosened a few. Another thirty minutes and they removed two stones to reveal another row of stones keyed in behind them.
“This is going to take a while,” Chaz said, bathed in sweat from the effort.
“We have till morning,” Lee grunted under the weight of a stone he was prying from its place.
They took either side of the doorway, working as quietly as they could, scraping away ancient mortar and prying hundred-pound stones from place to stack them in the center of the cell. The men had stripped off their shirts. Their fingers bled.
Gray light was coming through the bars of the view slot as they removed the last interior stone from around the doorway. They broke a blade doing the silent work of disassembling the wall. It took both of them to drop the massive lintel from atop the door frame to the floor without making a sound above their groans of exertion. The door and frame now sat braced in only the section of stone that fronted the cell on the corridor. Chaz tested the frame with a shove and a tug. It moved in place, a stream of dust rained down from atop the frame.
“On three,” Lee whispered. They braced for the rush.
As one, the two Rangers crashed their shoulders against the stout wooden door. Their weight tore the door and frame from the opening, and men and door tumbled to the floor of the corridor.
They rushed to the right and down to the corridor’s end where they overcame the pair of soldiers dozing at their sentry post. The soldiers, a pair of Chinese in red turbans, were clubbed unconscious before they knew what was happening to them. Lee snatched up one rifle, Chaz the other. Chaz helped himself to a curved sword hanging from the sash of one of the soldiers. Lee grabbed a ring of keys resting on a niche by an oil lamp.
They opened the second cell along the wall to find Boats and Jimbo standing crouched and ready for a fight. Jimbo held a clasp knife in one fist. Boats had a straight razor open and held ready to strike. They relaxed when they saw their friends.
Lee moved to the third door and worked the keys in the lock to thrust the door open.
The cell was empty.
23
Rum and the Lash
“Damn it, Bat!” Lee seethed.
The center of the floor of the empty cell was covered in a heap of loose dirt. In a rear corner was a dark hole just large enough to admit Bat Jaffe and the diminutive Macedonian.
“Where the fuck?” Boats said.
“We found Bruce in a mine, remember? The guy digs like a mole,” Jimbo said.
“No way in hell any of us are fitting in that rat hole,” Chaz said.
“Bat! You hear me?” Lee called, lying on the floor, his face at the opening of the tunnel. His voice echoed in a room somewhere beyond.
“They’re gone, bro,” Chaz said.
Lee leapt to his feet and raced from the cell with the others following. At the T intersection, they hooked right to go deeper into the interior of the fortress, the floor sloping down into shadows thrown by the light of guttering lanterns. Jimbo took a lantern off the wall and turned the dial to lengthen the wick to throw more light. He shouldered past Lee to lead the way down. The ceiling dropped lower, forcing them to stoop as they progressed.
“I don’t know how the army does it. This is the opposite of an exit strategy,” Boats said, bringing up the rear.
The corridor ended in a damp, musty chamber, the walls stacked with wooden kegs. There was a sweet vinegar smell in the air. Something puddled around a stopped drain in the floor. Boats touched fingers to a leaking tap and touched it to his tongue.
“Rum,” he told the others.
The men turned to a scraping sound on the cobbled floor.
Bat Jaffe and Byrus, black with dirt, stepped into the lantern light.
“Looks like you guys found the easy way out,” she said, white teeth gleaming from a filthy face.
Boats struck the head of a rum barrel with the butt of his rifle until it broke. The sweet liquor rushed through the break to make a river on the floor.
“What the fuck, sailor?” Chaz said, stepping back as the lake of spirits grew toward them.
“We’re all together. Now we need a distraction,” he said, grinning.
The fire woke the entire camp. Gongs rang. Horns and bugles sounded. Voices bawled. Deep in the belly of one of the fort’s walls, an inferno was building. Men were roused from their sentry posts and bunks to form bucket lines. Spurring them to action was the knowledge that it was their own rum rations being consumed in the flames of a furnace. Smoke rose from the ramparts where the heat sought an escape. The opening to the cells and stores was sucking wind to feed the blaze.
There were some Welshmen among the troops who knew a thing or two about fires such as this one. They’d fought their share in the coal fields of Clee Hills and Flint. They directed the others to shovel dirt over the entrance to starve the fire’s source of air. Hundreds of soldiers and coolies set to work with shovels, buckets, and bare hands to build a berm over the entrances to the cellars. A killing heat filled the air before the openings. A thick pall of choking smoke filled the fort like a bowl. A sergeant shrieking orders in two languages collected men in a line stretching to the water tanks. They handed along buckets of water to toss over the laboring diggers.
No one noticed the ragged band moving through the smoke toward the main gate. Not even Lieutenant Haverty who was sprinting by them, directing men forward, and shouting orders peppered with profanities.
Lee and Chaz trotted before the others, borrowed rifles in their fists. They followed the interior face of the wall, using tents for cover when they could. Every soldier they passed was running in the opposite direction to battle the fire.
“You know where you’re going?” Jimbo called.
“We take the first opening we come to and run like hell,” Lee called back.
“I like it,” Chaz said.
They reached a sally port along the landward face of the fort. It was set in a smaller version of the main gate, topped by crenelated battlements. Faces spoked from the gaps between the teeth of the ramparts above—soldiers at their posts but curious to know what was happening within the fort. A quartet of uniformed Filipinos stood sentry at the inside post. They raised up on their toes, craning their necks, trying to see the commotion across the other side of the broad parade ground.
One of them, his red turban pinned with a bronze badge of rank, stepped into the Rangers’ path and offered a challenge, rifle, and bayonet extended.
Chaz batted the bayonet aside and took a fistful of the man’s tunic.
“The fire’s in the ammo dump!” Chaz shouted in the smaller man’s face. “Get your ass out of here! The whole damn place is going to hell!”
The sentry’s eyes grew wide, not comprehending all the words but surely understanding the urgency in the enormous black man’s voice. He threw down his rifle and ran through the gate for the outside. His comrades took their cue and followed on his heels, flinging their rifles away and howling with fear. Lee and Chaz bolted after them with the others close behind. Jimbo, Bat, and Boats grabbed up discarded rifles. Byrus was satisfied with the curved sword Chaz had put in
his eager hands.
The sally port exited onto an apron of land at the foot of a causeway leading over a wide marshy moat for the northern bank of the river. The Filipino soldiers dashed down the causeway, shouting in Tagalog to their brother troops to follow them. Soldiers manning cannons either side of the opening were clambering over their sandbagged embrasures to join the rout. An officer, blond hair under a tall peaked red kepi edged in braid, waved a saber and shouted in German for them to stand in place. He struck a fleeing man across the back with the flat of the blade, but the soldier kept going. He was ignored by his artillery teams who were running full out for the high ground.
The German whirled to see a strange collection of soldiers trotting by out of the smoke. His face twisted in disgust at the state of their filthy uniforms.
“Wo bist du Piraten gehen? Nach rechts stoppen!” the officer roared, pointing the tip of his saber at them.
“Fire in the powder room! The whole place is going to go boom!” Chaz shouted as he ran past.
The German stood, riveted in stunned surprise at a Schwarzer speaking directly to him in a raised voice.
“Boom!” Chaz repeated, hand cupped to his mouth as the little group pelted onto the surface of the causeway.
“Boomen?” he said, perplexed.
The team rested on the banks of a paddy dike watching a tower of smoke rising from the fort behind them. The sky was turning from gray to pink as the sun rose. They drank from their canteens, catching their breath after the five-mile run.
“What now? We’re a month from extraction, we’re broke, and all we have is what we’re carrying,” Jimbo said.
“Maybe that Gordon guy will hire us for his Forever Enduring Army,” Lee said.
“Ever Victorious Army,” Jimbo corrected. “We might work our way upriver as hired guns on a merchant boat.”
“Riding shotgun on a cargo of opium?” Bat said from where she squatted in the shallows of a paddy washing the dried mud from her face. Byrus lay floating on his back, fully immersed in the mustard colored water.
“We got off death row anyway,” Chaz said.
“You guys don’t know how close we came. When me and Lee were in the tent with Gordon? Prince Kung was there. He’s the regent, the current ruler of China,” Jimbo said.
“I thought they were run by an emperor,” Boats said.
“They are. But the emperor’s just a kid now. This Kung guy is ruling in his place until he’s old enough. And the guy is one motherfucker I’d rather not meet again,” Jimbo said.
“We were gonna get hung, bro,” Boats scoffed.
“And that would have been good news,” Jimbo said. “These Manchus don’t let you off that easy. They like flaying, impaling, pressing, scalding, and all other kinds of sick shit where their prisoners take a long time dying. They can keep a man alive for weeks just for the sheer hell of it. One mandarin has a barrel lined with razor blades on the inside. Piss him off, and he has you stuck inside and rolled down a hill.”
“This op was a clusterfuck from Day One,” Chaz grunted. “We had more friends around us in Afghanistan.”
“We need to find food. We need to resupply, rearm, and reorient our asses,” Lee said, standing. “This deployment ends when we come back with that fucked-up mailing tube Taan is after. Our only way through this is to continue the op.”
The others nodded in grim assent.
“I sewed a few coins into the seam of my jacket,” Boats said. “Breakfast is on me.”
“We’ll order in Chinese,” Chaz said to the groans of the others.
“Breakfast might be delayed, guys,” Lee said, looking off toward the fort, a hand shading his eyes.
A mile back the way they’d come along the paddy dike, a cloud of ochre dust was rising into the sky. Points of reflected light bobbled in the cloud. The gleam of the rising sun shimmering off the point of lances. The dust raised by the hooves of galloping cavalry.
24
The column of lancers formed a circle about the clutch of escaped prisoners standing atop the paddy dike. Their lances couched, razor-sharp points swinging in the direction of the six Yankees who were tossing their stolen rifles to the ground. Blue uniforms and white kepis. They were European riders and skilled at that. Their mounts splashed through the shallow water to enclose the sad souls raising their hands in surrender.
No cover, no place to hide, and only miles more of the long stretch of the dike before them. The cavalry would catch up to them before they’d run a hundred yards. Their five rifles were loaded with one shot each. Their bayonets were no match for mounted men with six-foot spears.
Lieutenant Haverty cantered his mount forward to ride through the ring of lancers. He wore a cruel smile as he drew a revolver from the holster at his hip and trained it at Lee Hammond’s head.
“The general is most troubled, Yankee, and wishes you to return as his guest.” Haverty chuckled. The grim faces of the lancers did not share his humor.
“Gordon still wants to hang us?” Jimbo asked.
“Aye. You’ll be lucky to make it to a rope, though. You lot cooked up the lads’ rum tot for the next month or two,” Haverty said. “You might just as like get a bayonet in the guts for that.”
They fell into line to walk back the way they came, escorted by the cavalry, aware every step of the oiled lance points dipping and rising in the grip of the riders.
“You will hang. Indeed, I will see all of you hang,” General Gordon said, pacing before his prisoners in full uniform of brocaded black wool, the silver-trimmed scabbard of a sword banging against his leg.
The team was on their knees in the dust before Gordon’s grand tent. Their wrists were bound behind them. Ranks of glowering soldiers stood behind them in the open on the parade ground. A haze of smoke swirled in the air. They saw the scorched length of wall as they were marched back into the fort. Coolies were spilling buckets on the still-smoldering timbers of the rampart above. A mixed stench of charred wood and burnt liquor clung to everything. Ash drifted like snow on the breeze.
“As much as I disapprove of strong drink, the destruction of military stores is a grievous act of sedition and of theft, actually. I am sure you are aware that the men under my command had their patience sorely tested. Truth to tell, I am abashed that they brought you back alive rather than skewered on a lance point.” Gordon rocked on his heels, looking over the heads of the prisoners to glance at the men under his command with a nod of tacit approval.
“I am tempted to surrender you to the mercy of the Chinese. It is only that I am a Christian man that I do not give into my wrath. Not even for as troublesome a lot as you. Trust me when I say that the gallows is a mercy compared to what the Celestials offer for a choice of punishments.” Gordon now seethed, coming to a stop before Lee who was meeting the pasha general’s eye without contrition.
“Do you have an explanation for your behavior?” Gordon snapped, eyes boring into Lee’s.
“We didn’t really agree with your sentence, Gordy,” Lee said without a trace of irony.
There was tittering in the ranks behind them, cut short by a yelped order from a non-com. Gordon’s brows shot up, and his lips parted, showing teeth clenched to breaking point.
“You swine,” Gordon said, voice hoarse with rage. He turned on a heel to reenter his tent, swatting a dusting of falling ash from the sleeve of his immaculate tunic.
A bawled series of orders behind them was answered by the stamp of feet and the sound of creaking belt leather and boots tramping away.
Bat turned her head to see the parade ground emptying as the men marched away. Ten guards were left behind, standing at ease, rifle butts on the ground. Chinese troops in turbans, eyes hard and lips pressed in a tight line. The terrier Haverty strode before the soldiers, studying the backs of the kneeling prisoners.
“What now?” Boats said.
“Maybe it’s poor form to hang a man before breakfast,” Jimbo said.
Haverty stood shouting orders in Man
darin.
More soldiers, more Chinese troops, came at double-time across the parade ground to lift the prisoners to their feet and return the way they’d come, shoving the team before them with rifle butts. They were trotted to the foot of the gallows. Six nooses swung from the long joist running atop the uprights.
“Lee...” Bat began.
Lee turned to her, his eyes on her but his gaze far away. She nodded and allowed the soldiers to grip her by the arms. They were all pushed and dragged to the platform, eyes on the steps leading upward to the gibbet. But rather than be taken up the thirteen steps, they were shoved back against the support posts. Their bound wrists were secured to the posts by more cording. Another length of cord was cinched about their necks and around the posts, forcing their heads upright. The soldiers stepped back, leaving them standing bound in place. Their guards then took up positions before them, rifles cradled in their arms, and spoke in low voices with one another.
“Maybe you were right about breakfast, Jimmy,” Chaz said. “I hope he’s a slow eater,” Boats said.
Morning passed into afternoon. The sun hammered down on them; the light blinding them. The thongs about their necks prevented them looking away. They leaned their backs into the posts, one foot raised and pressed to the wood, to take the weight from their knees.
The scalding heat, smoky air, and painful light gleaming off the parade ground’s sand were making Bat light-headed. That and thirty-six hours without sleep, no food, dehydration, and the stress of an imminent death sentence. She fought to stay conscious. Surrender to a faint, and she’d strangle on the thong around her throat as sure as from one of the nooses swinging above them. As the sun drifted westward, it threw the shadow of the gallows onto the ground before them. She could see the silhouette of dangling ropes projected before her and wondered which one would be hers.