Neal Barrett Jr. (15 page)

Garvey’s son giggled, and earned a frown from his father.

“What Lathan wants, simply, is exactly what the present government has. He wants to be in. He doesn’t want to be out.” Jones spread his hands. “And that is why young men are dying, why people are going hungry, and—no offense, sir, for I attach no blame to you—why merchants like yourself are presently making a great deal of money. 1 contend, ladies and sirs, that if you were to leave this nation for, say, a year, and return to find Lathan in control, you would be sorely pressed to find one small inkling of change. I contend that things would neither be better nor worse. That there would merely be a new face at the head of state.–

“That is—preposterous!” Garvey slammed his fist on the table, rattling cups and plates. Howie thought the man’s eyes might spit right out of his head.

“We have established a method of gaining political power in this country,” said Captain Finley. “If Lathan wants the job, let him get himself elected.”

“Hear, hear!” Garvey said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Jones said. “But Lathan’s not a fool. He’s from the West, and he knows the majority of our population’s in the East. He knows he isn’t ever going to win an election. That the only way he’ll ever come to power’s through a war.”

“And
your—church,
they’re going to stop this war, is that right?” Garvey’s expression told everyone there what he thought about that. Both his manner and his words were contrived to rile Jones, but the preacher refused to take the bait.

“We are surely going to try,– Jones said solemnly. “Satan is the only winner in a conflict as terrible as this one, sir.”

Garvey smiled and shook his head. “I don’t give this peace talk of yours any more chance than a fly in a pail of tar.” He leaned forward and tapped a heavy thumb on the table. “Lathan’s got no
reason
to stop, preacher. He is bleedin’ us dry and he knows it.”

“Lathan’s people are suffering as well,” Jones said. “I think the proof of that is the fact that he has pledged himself to send men to the peace table in High Sequoia. General Corrigan himself will be there. And Bruchner and Leeds. They will sit down across from Shiner and Henry Cord. Harriver Mason and General Crewes. That says something to me.”

Garvey was quick with an answer, but Howie didn’t hear it. He stared at Ritcher Jones, and something ice cold touched his spine.
Harriver Mason
. There was the name again. The man who had run Silver Island. Jones had mentioned Mason only once, on the trail, telling Howie what he already knew, that Anson Slade had been murdered in Tallahassee. Only once, but Howie hadn’t forgotten.

Howie looked down at his plate to hide the anger he knew was there. Looked at the crumbs of good cornbread he had quickly finished off, the slab of breakfast meat he hadn’t touched. Fat and charred flesh. The cabin boy brought a fresh platter through the door, and Howie tried not to breathe.

When he glanced up again, he found Dr. Sloan studying him intently from across the table. Howie met his stare, and the man turned away.

Now what the hell’s that all about? Howie wondered.

S
loan was a gaunt and balding man with a face like a bird. As far as Howie knew, he hadn’t said a word during the talk between Garvey and Ritcher Jones. Seated between the overwhelming bulks of Garvey and Captain Finley, he hardly seemed present at all

Howie listened with half an ear as Ritcher Jones praised the marvels of High Sequoia, the wonders of California. A new generation of peace was on the way. A new beginning for the land. Lawrence himself said it was so. Things would be better, even better than they’d been before the Great War of the past, when marvelous devices had made life easy, and shining roads linked the towering cities of America. All this would be once again, because the Lord had told Lawrence that the Light would bring long years of plenty to the nation, and that he, Lawrence, would make brothers out of warriors and plows out of swords.

The Lord’s sure got a hell of a lot of work to do yet, Howie thought, before all that comes to pass.

He risked a look at Lorene. She was prettier than he’d ever seen her before, blue eyes shining with light and color in her cheeks. Mr. Adams, the ship’s officer, seemed to think she was worth a look, too. The way he flat swallowed her whole with his eyes didn’t sit well with Howie at all. And Lorene was
enjoying
it. Hell, just taking it all in. Adams whispered something in her ear, and she smiled and looked shyly at her hands. Howie felt his face heat up. Damn it, you can leave her alone! he thought. He gripped the sides of his chair and thought about pounding that fancied-up fellow in the face. Bloody that shiny blue uniform some, and see how you grin then.

“Mister, what happened to your eye?”

“What?” For an instant, Howie wasn’t sure who had spoken. Then he saw Garvey’s young son to his left.

“Hush, boy,” his mother scolded. “The man lost his eye in the
war
.”

“That’s all right, ma’am,” Howie said.

“You’re scary,” the boy said. “I don’t like you.”

Mrs. Garvey slapped the child hard, and he started to bawl. Howie felt sorry for the boy. It was plain he was going to grow up looking just like his daddy.

T
he sea was running smooth, and Howie liked being up on deck. The ship still leaned and pitched about all the time, but he was getting used to that. A sailor named Jack told him he was getting his sea legs. That’s what you called it when you didn’t fall down all the time and get sick.

There wasn’t so much for the sailors to do when the sea was slick as glass, and Jack told Howie how the ship could use the wind even when it wasn’t coming up from right behind. He explained what the compass was for, and how you didn’t need that if you could read from the sun and the stars. Papa had told him that. How to watch the North Star and the way the constellations moved about.

There were dolphin that followed the ship, and even fish that seemed to fly. Now and then, enormous white sea birds arrived in flocks to eat the garbage that was tossed off the ship. Jack said the birds could fly a long way from land, but that they weren’t that far from shore now. The place where Mexico curled around and thrust a big bulge into the Gulf wasn’t fifty miles off the starboard bow. Jack had been there once, and said it was a terrible thing to see. Nothing but bugs and heat, forests that choked on themselves and people that weren’t friendly at all. Howie thought about that. Forests didn’t sound like the Mexico he knew, which was desert where nothing but spiny things grew. He guessed that was because he’d only seen a little part up north.

He saw Lorene once or twice, but didn’t try to say hello. Adams was taking her on a tour, likely showing off, since he knew everything about ships. Well, to hell with
him
. And he wasn’t too pleased with Lorene. Of course, they couldn’t be together during the day, he knew that, and Lorene had to act as if they didn’t know each other real well. But she didn’t have to act like she was
enjoying
that bastard so much. She didn’t have to do that. She could look a little sad instead of smiling all the time.

His belly felt empty at noon, right on time. Still, he stayed on deck and didn’t join the others in the galley. It seemed like a fool thing to do, going hungry out of spite. He’d have to eat with the others the rest of the trip, there wasn’t any way out of that. Only skipping one meal wouldn’t hurt. He would miss Captain Finley dropping food down his shirt, miss another sermon from Ritcher Jones. Miss that goddam Adams making eyes at Lorene. Hell, that was worth going hungry half a day.

Howie paused at the railing to watch the flying fish. He never seemed to tire of seeing the graceful creatures perform their acrobatics in the sea. They didn’t really fly, Jack said, and Howie could see this was true. They leaped out of the water and glided across the waves, then plunged back under again. Flying or not, it was surely a wondrous thing.

Something rolled far off to starboard, a brief flash of silver in the sea. From the splash it made it had to be big. Howie walked quickly aft, keeping his eye on the water. Whatever it was, it might just do it again.

Searching the water intently, he scarcely heard the sound at first. The noise came again, louder this time, and he turned. The sight turned his legs to water; he felt as if someone had struck him in the belly, and he gripped the railing to keep himself up.

The sound came from the stern, just to his right. Two geldings and a mare squatted together on the deck. Each had a short length of rope about its leg, the other end tied to the far railing. It was the mare who was making all the noise. Like the geldings, she was no more than six years old, the age when stock was best for eating, though it was rare these days to see meat slaughtered anywhere near that young: All three were plump and fat, brought up to feed for the trip. Finley, or the owners of the ship, must be charging a great deal for passage, Howie thought, if they could afford to offer prime tender meat.

The mare was frightened, and this was the reason she was making awful sounds in her throat. Usually, stock didn’t have the sense to know what was about to happen next, but sometimes they did. The mare knew. Her features were contorted and her blue eyes opened wide in fear. She stared at the ship’s butcher, sharpening his tools, as if she guessed exactly what they were for.

The butcher glanced at the mare in irritation, motioned impatiently to his helper, and pointed at the mare. The message was clear: Take the one making trouble first. The helper, a young cabin boy, loosed the mare’s rope from the railing and jerked her roughly toward the square chopping block near the stern. The mare screamed, dragged her chubby legs, and flailed out with her hands. The boy caught a handful of dirty yellow hair and tossed the mare roughly to the deck. The butcher took a step away from his block, drew a wooden club from his belt, and struck the mare at the base of the skull. The mare collapsed at once. It was over and done in an instant. The boy hoisted the mare upon the block and the butcher went to work, making the proper cuts swiftly with practiced ease. The two geldings didn’t move. One idly picked his nose. They both looked at nothing at all with dull and vacant eyes.

Howie tried to turn away from the horror. His body refused to work, refused to let him go. He had seen all this before, nearly all his life, growing up on Papa’s farm. Killing and dressing stock was something every boy learned about young. Only it wasn’t the same anymore. Not now. Not with what he knew. Now it was a scene that struck him with an awful, unreasoning fear. Coming on the pens outside of Tallahassee, he had fled into the woods and gotten sick. Now that scene was repeating itself again. He felt the churning in his belly, felt everything rising to his throat, and barely had time to turn and lean across the railing.

Breakfast came up in a single gush, racking his body with one painful spasm after another. He could feel the tears coming too, scalding his good eye and running down his cheek. Each new convulsion seared his gut. He wanted to scream, just like the young mare, but the sickness choked off his cries.

Howie felt a hand on his shoulder, felt another bring a cold wet rag to his face.

“It’s all right, boy. It’s all right now.”

Howie nodded dumbly. The spasms slowly ran their course. The man stayed with him until they passed.

“Here,” the man said, “you hang on to the rag. Soon as you’re able, go on down and get some rest.”

Howie muttered his thanks. When he looked over his shoulder the man was gone, walking quickly forward, and he recognized the skinny form and balding head of Dr. Sloan.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

H
owie lay just on the skirt of camp, belly flat against the damp forest floor, hardly daring to breathe, his eyes taking in every trifle—how the grass bent, and where the dim moonlight touched the ground. There was a guard between him and Colonel Jacob. He stood just outside the small clearing where the other troopers slept; he was quiet and almost invisible against a broad oak.

Howie knew he had to go for the head or no place at all. Anything less and the man would cry out. He didn’t let himself think about missing.

The bowstring sang and the shadow dropped silently to the base of the tree…

He’d thought about how to do it. Even a grown man used to moving fast couldn’t stop a quick knife across the throat. Only that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. It had to be the other way or it wouldn’t be right…

Colonel Jacob slept with his mouth open, one hand across his chest. Howie slipped the bone knife from his belt. He had already wrapped the butt with layers of cloth from his extra shirt. Grasping Jacob’s hair with one hand, he brought the padded hilt down solidly, just above the ear. Jacob stiffened slightly, but made no sound at all…

It took nearly an hour to make the thirty yards to the river. There was a clump of scrub oak masking the far shore and a sand wash behind that. He stripped Jacob, leaned him against a tree, and wired him securely to the trunk, pulling his feet straight out and wiring them as well. Then he stuffed the man’s socks in his mouth and used his shirt to make a tight gag knotted behind his neck.

When Jacob came awake, he gazed curiously at Howie for a moment before his eyes went wide with understanding. Then he jerked frantically against his bonds, moaning behind the gag.

Howie ignored him. He straddled Jacob’s legs, drew the bone knife from his belt, and started working on the colonel’s chest. He went carefully and slowly, making the letters neat, like his mother had taught him. It was hard to see in the dim light and he had to keep wiping the blood away to tell what he was doing. Jacob’s eyes bulged and sweat beaded his face, and Howie could hear the noises he was making but nothing came through the gag.

When he was through he went to work on the eyes, being careful to do just what needed to be done. He didn’t want Jacob to pass out and miss anything, or lose more blood than he had to. He was still conscious, Howie knew, but near out of his head, and that was good. That was the way it was supposed to be.