The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery

by Jack Flanagan

  “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

  “Kyle!”

  The phone went dead.

  Firmino pointed again. This time to the lower wall. Our two pursuers had come out from the cover and started their way up the hill. The copter led their way.

  I rang Kyle again.

  “Rich?” asked the anxious voice.

  “Kyle, they are after us. We are in trouble.”

  “Who is—”

  “Kyle! We need help. Our car is stuck and—”

  “Okay, I’ll try to find you . . . Wait. Peterson thinks he knows where you are.”

  The thumping of the approaching copter increasingly buried Kyle’s voice in ambient noise. His last garbled message sounded like, “Peterson says to go up to the top of . . .pool . . . table, cross the . . . field . . . and . . . woods.”

  “The pool table?” I growled. “What in hell are you talking about?”

  No reply.

  “Kyle . . . Kyle?” The phone was dead. I called his name again—nothing. Frantically, I began pushing and re-pushing the turn-on button, but no response. “The damn thing is out of juice. And I had only charged it six months ago.”

  “What is your plan now, MacKenzie?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, putting my coat and jacket back on. “Kyle said something about going up, up the . . . hill.”

  “Then up the hill, we must go.”

  And that we did.

  So did Nagy and Fordor, joined by their aerial companion.

  Baldewin and I kept low, using the trees and bushes for cover. Along the way, I noticed that Firmino occasionally would pick up a rock and stuff it into his jacket pockets, and I wondered if stone-throwing would be our last defense. At the crest of the hill, we paused behind a fallen tree, engulfed in vines—poison ivy, to be exact. Silently praying that Firmino and I weren’t sensitive to the dreaded creeper, I asked him about his collection of rocks. His response was a finger to his lips.

  We listened.

  Even with the copter circling overhead, we heard the sound of snapping twigs and the moving of leafy branches nearby.

  “Damn!” I muttered to myself as I spied our next hazard, which was a field, at least an acre in size. The cover it offered was only for our feet. The mid-calf high grass couldn’t be useful to us in any other way. But beyond the field, I saw our possible salvation—a thick pine forest with lots of undergrowth.

  Scanning the distance, Firmino whispered, “Suggestions?”

  “Get away from here for one thing,” I said. “I think Kyle wanted us to run to those woods.” I pointed to the inviting trees on the far side of the field.

  “Your brother wants us to run out in the open to those trees? We will be like fish in a bucket. We—”

  “Did you hear that?” An odd, brassy sound had suddenly caught my ear.

  “Yes. That is the helicopter searching for us.”

  Again metallic tones echoed over the landscape and pierced through the thumping-swishing noise of the copter passing overhead.

  “Not the helicopter.” The mysterious sounds grew louder and acquired a musical quality.

  “I hear it now. What is that?” asked Firmino while he nervously held his gun at the ready for the arrival of Fordor and Nagy.

  “It’s, it’s music.”

  Harmonic tones lasted only a few more moments and seemed to have emanated from the far side of the field, somewhere in the distant woods.

  “I don’t know what that was, but we are going to find out. Run.”

  “Where?”

  “To the woods,” I said, pointing at the proposed destination. “Run to where the sounds came.”

  Without a second thought, I started my mad dash across the field, which, objectively speaking, probably looked more like a frantic jog than a run. My scurry was exhausting. The high grass immediately became frustrating. Its high blades clung to my legs and feet, slowing me down. The harder I strove forward, the more resistance I encountered, and the more fatigued I became.

  Just a few paces behind me, with his pistol in hand, Firmino readied himself for our pursuers unwelcome appearance. He didn’t have long to wait. The copter quickly spotted us in the open and swooped toward us.

  Keeping my head down, I pushed hard to reach the safety of the distant tree line. Not looking back, I heard a shot and then another. I heard Nagy yelling something like pooh-mah. Was he telling us to stop? I heard Firmino shouted back to him, and I hadn’t a clue what either one of them was saying.

  The thump-swish-thump sound suddenly hovered over me. I was engulfed in a pulsating swirl of air. I flung myself onto the ground, daring myself not to look up. “This is it,” I said to myself. “I will be shot dead and left to rot on some old farm. My body will lay here until my brother finds it.”

  I began making my peace with the Almighty when I heard a burst of bugle calls. But this time, the brassy notes were accompanied by a steady rhythmic beating of drums. I rolled onto my back and saw the copter was backing away. I then got onto all fours and peered over the grass. And that is when I saw it . . . or rather them.

  A double line of blue-clad men, about twenty yards long, led by Old Glory herself, were advancing, in good order, straight out of the woods. Every drum beat was met by a forward step. From the middle of the blue ranks, a tall man with a long red feather stuck in his hat emerged. He positioned himself several strides ahead of his companions and shouted, “Halt!”

  The men stopped as if they were instantly frozen.

  The leader then walked off to the right of his men as if on parade and shouted again.

  “First rank . . . Ready . . . Aim . . . Fire!”

  Not knowing at whom or what these fellows were about to shoot, I hit the dirt hard. Scores of black-powder long guns went off in unison, filling the autumnal air with billowing plumes of acrid gray smoke.

  “Second rank forward!”

  As a single entity, the rear blue line formed a new rank in front of their comrades. Before I had enough presence of mind to call out my whereabouts, the command came again.

  “Front rank . . . Ready . . . Aim . . . Fire!”

  Another smokey volley echoed through the Vermont hills.

  The leader then returned to his position in front of his men.

  “Form battle line!”

  Instantly, the blue rear rank melted into the first. The shuffling combination of men quickly transformed into a single row that stretched almost forty yards long. Upon the maneuver’s completion, the guy wearing the red feathered-slouch hat, flank by two flag bearers, stepped in front of the middle of the long line of men.

  The order, “Fix bayonets,” suddenly echoed through the air. As the leader pulled his sword from the scabbard at his hip, sounds of scrapping steel and metallic clicks were mixed with the rapid succession of ear-jolting notes from an unseen bugler.

  When a stillness settled onto the unit, the leader waved his tassel decorated blade over his head. The sun flashed on its polished steel, catching the attention of all eyes present. The man then stretched out his arm and pointed his weapon in my direction.

  “There is the enemy. For God and country, are you with me?”

  A loud communal “Huzzah!” spontaneously rose up from the ranks.

  “At the double-quick, to the crest of the hill . . . forward!”

  And on they came.

  In the mists of flags flying, bugles blaring, and drums beating, our rescuers came to my aid in true mid-nineteenth century military fashion—a fast-paced walk.

  I must admit that the whole affair was mesmerizing. For several moments, I had completely lost track of the helicopter, Nagy, Fordor, and even Firmino. I was transported to another time and place.

  As the Civil War warriors came closer, I got up on my knees and looked for my pursuers. They were gone. The helicopter’s thumping faded away. I watched the menacing craft dropped from view behind the tree line in the distance.

  I got to my feet, yelling out my presence to
the oncoming horde. I then called out for Firmino. After three tries, I heard a gaspy, “Eccomi qua!” From out of the grass, Baldewin popped into sight just a few feet away from me.

  “You okay?” I asked, relieved just to see him.

  “Si,” he replied as he dusted himself off. “I am okay.”

  It wasn’t long until both of us were engulfed in blue. We huddled together as the men passed us by like an outgoing ocean wave. The man with the feather stuck in his black slouch hat stayed behind. He was a tall, middle-aged chap who did justice to his bygone-era uniform. He approached me, taking off his right glove, and offered his hand.

  “Captain Jonas Tuthill,” he said smiling. “20th Vermont Volunteers, Auxiliary, of the Catamount Civil War Re-enactors Brigade of Southern Vermont. Welcome to Pohl’s Table, one of Vermont’s lesser-known mesas. You must be Mr. MacKenzie.”

  “I am. And this is my, eh, friend Firmino—”

  “Baldewin. Firmino Baldewin.”

  “Glad to meet you,” replied the Tuthill. “I’ve been told your car is stuck. We’re here to get you out.”

  #

  CHAPTER 30

  To my surprise, the only part of my conversation with Kyle that was relayed to Jonas Tuthill was that Firmino’s car got mud-stuck. Tuthill said that he received the call from Peterson just as he and his men were about to leave their encampment.

  “We were forming up to go through the Pohl’s Woods,” recounted Tuthill, “when John Peterson called me. He said that you and your friend got stuck at the base of Pohl’s Table and needed assistance immediately . . . And that you were needed at your uncle’s funeral. By the way, I was very saddened when I heard the news of his death.”

  “Thank you . . . You knew my Uncle Raymond?”

  “For many years, not very well mind you, but I knew him. I went to some of his home BBQs. His place is four miles over those hills, near the state parkland where we were going to rendezvous with the Second Vermont Horse Artillery.”

  Tuthill shook his head back and forth before he continued. “You know, there was a time when your uncle would drive up, every Sunday in the summer, to my shop—Tutty’s Tutti Frutti Ice Cream Emporium—in Manchester and buy a couple of gallons of my homemade ice cream to take home. He really liked ice cream, and he said that he loved mine. He said that my ice cream was the best in the state.”

  From the rest of my brief chat with Captain Tutti ‘Frutti’ Tuthill, I learned that he liked my uncle, the Second Vermont Horse Artillery won a prize for accuracy, and he didn’t see or know about Nagy and Fordor chasing us. But he was a little bit curious about the low flying helicopter.

  “When we came through the woods and onto the field looking for you, I remarked to the lads, ‘What is that chopper doing here?’ Bucky Smith, my First Sergeant, suggested that it may be the local TV folks. He thought they probably heard about our encampment and wanted to take some aerial shots of us doing exercises. It made sense to me, so, not wasting an opportunity, we put on a show.”

  “Yes,” I said—feeling that a compliment was in order—“the musketry was impressive. And your execution of formations was well done.”

  Tuthill smiled with pride at my review. “I think we have a good chance of winning several medals this year at the Nationals . . . Do you know whose copter that was?”

  “No, but I think they were foreigners by their accents. They yelled down to me and asked for directions to Bennington.”

  “Really? I would have thought those things would have all sorts of maps and directional gadgets and radios—”

  “They were foreigners, who can say?” Ending any further questions on the topic, I asked, “By the way, did you see my companion and me in the grass before you had your troops open fire?”

  “No,” replied Tuthill with embarrassment. “I am very sorry about that. If I did see you, I wouldn’t have ordered my boys to open fire. To do otherwise would have violated all sorts of safety protocols.”

  “Are you saying that we were in danger of being shot?” I asked with concern.

  “No, no,” he replied, but then he thought a second. “Luckily, the two of you were too far away for any powder burns; the paper waddings didn’t come close to you. We were using 3/4 charges and no slugs. Though, still, it’s not recommended to be located in front of a firing line as close as you were.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You see, if my men weren’t so well-practiced or if someone forgot to remove his ramrod, or used the wrong charge, or loaded real ammo, the result could have been very different. Why I remember, some years back, someone had inadvertently left a ramrod in his musket barrel and then shot the gun off during a reenactment of the Battle of Antietam. The damn ramrod crashed through both sides of a boy’s drum at twenty yards away. The poor boy was so frightened he quit his reenactment unit on the spot.”

  I would have liked to talk further on the subject, but there were more important matters at hand.

  “Jonas, do you have a cell phone handy?”

  In a low, hesitant whisper, Tuthill replied, “Don’t you have one?”

  I showed him my phone and declared, “No power. It went dead when I called for assistance.”

  “Oh. And you?” asked Tuthill, looking squarely at Firmino.

  “My mobile broke when it fell out of my car window.”

  “I see.”

  Not sensing the inconvenience of my request, I asked, “If you have a phone, may I borrow it?”

  “Under normal circumstances, I would be—”

  “If it were normal circumstances, my phone would be charged, and I wouldn’t be asking.”

  Tuthill leaned closer to us. “You don’t understand. It is very much frowned upon to have any modern convenience, such as a cell phone, on one’s person when on maneuvers.”

  “So you don’t—”

  “I have my phone, but I’m not supposed to. I forgot to stow it away when we left camp. I just discovered it in my pocket when I was looking for my whistle as we were coming through the woods. If anyone finds out that I have the phone . . . Well, just say there will be some unpleasantness.”

  “I understand, truly I do. But I must contact my brother, the sheriff, Peterson’s boss, the nephew of that dear old man that loved your ice cream.”

  I could read Tuthill’s moral dilemma on his face, but old fashion guilt and the possibility of legal trouble with the sheriff did the trick.

  “Okay.” Tuthill looked about and saw his men were standing at attention with their backs to us some distance away by the hilltop wall. He reached into his coat pocket for his phone and discreetly slipped it into my hand. “Take it,” he said as if he were giving me stolen military secrets. “Make your call some distance from me, please. Away from prying eyes.”

  “Right, sure,” I said softly as I put the device into my pants pocket.

  Then in a loud commanding voice, Tuthill asked, “Where is your carriage? Maybe we can give you some assistance.”

  Firmino knew his cue. He volunteered to guide Tuthill and his men to our immobilized car. With guarded impatience, I waited until everyone had descended below the hillcrest before calling Kyle.

  “Hi, Kyle.”

  “Sheriff MacKenzie speaking. Who am I talking to?”

  “It’s me, you—”

  “Rich! Whose phone are you using now? How are you? Where are you? ”

  “Kyle, shut up and listen. I haven’t much time. The regiment may come back at any moment—”

  “What?”

  “Never mind; just listen. Get yourself and Peterson to Chester Holland’s place. Be armed and ready for trouble. I fear that Holland may be in some danger.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe being killed.”

  “Should I call the paramedics and the State Police?”

  “The State Police?”

  “Hmm . . .” My brain said, yes, call in the police and stay out of this mess. Let the people who know what they are doing han
dle the situation. But my gut said no. The idea of State troopers scurrying about Holland’s place and possibly making this whole affair an international incident didn’t sit well. I was on the horns of an old fashion dilemma. Outsiders really wouldn’t know what to do in a situation like this. They could even make matters worse or even get somebody hurt.

  “Rich,” Kyle asked again, “should I call the State Police for back-up?”

  “No. No! Don’t do that, and no paramedics, at least not yet. Just meet me at Holland’s and don’t let anyone leave his place. And I mean not anyone, no matter what reason he or she gives. They stay put until I get there. Got that.”

  “Right. But why do—”

  “I’ll explain when I see you.”

  “Rich, I can’t prevent people from leaving a private residence for no reason. What grounds do I have to stop them?”

  “I don’t know . . . Eh, there are bears in the area, or ah, a robbery in the neighborhood, health code violations. You’re smart; you’ll think of something. But the most important thing is to keep everyone at Holland’s until I get there.”

  “Okay, I’ll try. I hope you know what you are doing.”

  “I hope so too. And one more thing. With the equipment in your patrol car, can you receive and print out emails and such from other police departments and Federal agencies?”

  “Ayup. Works like a charm.”

  “Good. Now get yourself to Holland’s.”

  “What is his address?”

  “Ooh, good God! I don’t know.” I wasn’t exactly sure where I was, never mind Holland’s home address details. “Is Morgana with you?”

  “Ooh yeah, she is here, and she isn’t a very happy camper at the moment.” I could hear fear in Kyle’s voice. “Do you want to speak with her, Rich? I know she would want to speak with you.”

  “No, but she knows Holland’s address. Ask her.”

  Suddenly there were all sorts of ruffling noises coming from the phone. When they stopped, a new voice came on the line.

  “Richard!” Kyle was correct; Morgana didn’t sound happy.

  “Hi, Love.”

  “Where in hell are you!”

  “Morgana, I truly can’t speak now—after being kidnapped and all. Do me a favor, Love, and tell Kyle where Chester Holland lives and tell him to get himself there now.”