Chapter 30
Sweat dampened Devon’s shirt collar beneath his frock coat.
He’d armed himself well, a revolver on each hip, a knife in his knee-high cavalry boot and another up his sleeve, a cartridge belt around his waist, and another across his chest. A flask of brandy in hand, he patted his pocket, feeling for the small rubberized pouch of Lucifer matches.
Sleet pelted his face. The storm would help with the element of surprise. They had to take care of the guards at the back of the quartermaster’s depot without firing a shot. The two guards on the far end had already been knocked out and tied up.
Frieda had begged to come, insisting that having a woman along would distract the guards. But he’d refused. He’d put her at enough risk already. After tonight, the Reb authorities would hunt for her, jail her, or worse if they caught her.
Instead, he’d sent her to round up as many of the volunteers from the league as she could rouse. Not an easy task on such short notice in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve.
It was bad enough her father was down the street acting as a lookout.
But with only four of the volunteers answering the call, Devon needed every man he could get.
By now, Frieda should be on her way to friends who’d shelter her and her father behind a hidden compartment in their house.
The same house Devon had told Lucy about.
“‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen…’” Devon whistled the tune as he neared the back entrance.
A teamster with loose lips and a couple drinks too many had informed him the Rebs had been slow to ship out the rest of the gunpowder to the regiments in Louisiana, too afraid the ones in Texas might need it more.
“Halt.” A soldier stepped from the doorframe.
A second soldier rose to his feet with the enthusiasm of a slug. Both men wore their kepis down far enough that only their noses could be seen beneath the bills. A faint light glowed from the narrow warehouse windows under the overhang.
“Gentleman, thank goodness you’re here.” Devon clamored as if he’d had too much to drink.
He’d swished a shot of brandy in his mouth and dabbed a little on his coat for good measure.
“I’m in need of reprieve from the storm.
Got a little too friendly with my lady after a bit of Christmas rum, and her papa kicked me out into the cold.
” He swung his arm wide, barely gripping the flask between his thumb and forefinger.
“Ain’t no shelter here.” The first soldier tugged his collar up over his ears.
The slug reached out a hand to steady the flask. “Don’t want to drop that.”
Devon teetered. “Friend…” He leaned a hand on the sluggard, pressing the flask to the man’s coat. “All I ask is a few minutes inside before I become an icicle. Willing to share a couple drinks.”
“Can’t do that, sir. Orders.” The alert one rested his rifle against the jamb. “Best go make amends with the papa.”
“I wouldn’t mind a swig.” The sluggard tapped his hand to the flask.
Wind whipped at their backs. The pace of the sleet picked up.
Precious time was ticking away. Moyer or soldiers from Camp Web south of town could show up any minute.
Devon stepped in closer to the narrow shelter of the jamb.
All the better to block the soldiers’ view of Gunter creeping along flush with the building.
Devon slipped the flask into the sluggard’s hand. “Just a swig.”
“Obliged.” The man grinned.
“I don’t know.” The first one turned toward the door when another blast of wind swept by.
“It’s Christmas.” Sluggard swiped his mouth. His fingers stuck out the ends of his worn gloves. “The blasted officers aren’t out here in the cold.” He handed the flask off to the first man.
“Don’t you fellows have any keys to this place? I bet they have a stove in there.” Devon slipped his hand beneath his frock coat as a shadow moved on his left.
Gunter sprang, clamping his thick hand over the mouth of the first soldier, flipping him to the ground, and knocking him out.
The drinker turned. “What—”
Devon cracked the butt of his revolver against the man’s head. He crumpled.
“Check for the keys.” Devon riffled through his victim’s pockets.
“Found them.” Gunter held up a ring with three clanking keys and handed them to Devon.
The first key didn’t work. He fumbled with the second one. It didn’t quite fit. He jiggled it. The door clicked open. A dimly lit lantern swung from a cable strung over a rafter near the far end. Gunter came behind him, followed by Frederick.
Revolver in his hand, Devon called out, “Came in to get warm.”
No answer, and no light in the office near the street side of the building. Frederick, the dark-haired baker, who’d built his muscles working in a warehouse back east before he’d immigrated to Texas, moved through the building to verify no one else was there.
Shelves of tents, boots, cooking pots, haversacks, rubberized blankets, and more lined the walls. Rows of crates stretched along the floor. Devon picked up a lantern and lit it.
Gunter found a crowbar and pried off one lid after another. Hardtack. Cartridges. Rifles. And in the center beneath a tar-covered canvas? A couple dozen stubby powder kegs stood next to fifteen larger barrels of gunpowder.
“Should we carry some to the cotton warehouse, or leave it here?” Frederick joined them. Melted sleet dripped from his coat
Devon scrubbed his hand over his jaw. He had no idea how long Morning Fawn would be able to stall whoever it was at Sweetbriar.
The safest plan would be to blow everything up here and get away as fast as they could.
But that would leave a goldmine of cotton in Reb hands.
A month ago, Moyer bragged he had over a thousand bales.
Now with the cessation of the shipments to Mexico, maybe it could be two thousand. Devon couldn’t leave it untouched.
“Gunter, help me.” Devon rubbed his damp hands on his dry waistcoat and picked up a keg under each arm. “Frederick, help him tip one of the barrels down. Then, Gunter, roll it outside and to the warehouse. Take your time.”
“Time’s vhat ve don’t have.” Gunter swiped his brow.
“Schramm will signal if he sees anyone approaching.” Devon headed for the door and peeked out.
Nothing, then a small light at the back of the cotton warehouse blinked three times.
Oscar’s signal. They’d taken care of the guards at the warehouse.
Devon gave a short whistle, then proceeded.
“I’ll be back. And while we’re gone, Frederick, you start pouring a line of powder. ”
Devon’s muscles strained against the weight of the kegs.
Gunter followed him. Wind whipped at Devon’s coattails and pelted his back and ears.
The tightly coopered wooden casks would keep the powder dry, but there’d be no option of pouring a trail of gunpowder down the hill toward the trees before he struck the match.
No, in both cases, the trail would need to be lit within the shelter of the buildings.
Close. Too close. Would there be enough time for a man to strike the match and get away?
Slick pebbles gritted beneath his boots. The ice was sticking to the ground now, not melting on contact. He hurried past the opening between the two buildings that led to the street, thankful for the cover of the storm.
He’d have to light one of the lines of gunpowder. He’d take a volunteer for the other. Get everyone clear if they had the time. Jeremy had agreed to come rescue Morning Fawn if anything happened to Devon and get her to Federal territory. Please, Lord, don’t let it come to that.
The barn-door-wide entrance to the back of the warehouse sat ajar.
He shoved it with his shoulder. A couple of lanterns swayed from the rafters, dimly illuminating row upon row of burlap-wrapped bales.
A narrow maze of pathways separated the cotton towers, and three iron hoists hovered silently overhead.
He handed Oscar and his brother a keg each. “Start here at the door and pour a line each between the main rows, then join them at the center of the building. Take off your coats—and your boots if you have to. Can’t get the powder wet.”
Gunter set his barrel in the center, then followed him out the door. Two more loads. Double quick. Oscar’s brother Jarvis joined them on the third trip. Sweat soaked Devon’s shirt.
Kegs and barrel in the center. Two lines of powder between the rows, meeting close to the door. Ready to light if the enemy showed up. But there weren’t enough kegs here yet, not if he wanted the towers to turn into unstoppable infernos.
Devon pointed to Jarvis. “Help us carry another couple of loads over from the supply depot.”
A bugle blast. Schramm’s signal. The hairs on Devon’s arms stood. He broke two matchsticks off the bundle and shoved them into Oscar’s hand. “Light it and get out.”
Devon took off at a run, followed by Gunter. He had to get to the depot. Blow those supplies sky-high.
Halfway there, he slipped on the ice. Pain coursed through his knee.
“Hey, you.” Someone yelled as he pumped his legs past the opening between the buildings.
Gunter halted at the corner and shouldered his rifle.
Devon lunged for the depot. The cotton warehouse should have blown by now.
Gunfire.
Frederick swung the depot door open. “What—”
“Get to the trees.” Devon flung his coat off and rubbed his hands against his shirt.
“But—”
“I’ll light it.” Heel against the doorjamb, Devon dug a Lucifer out of the waterproof pouch. His hand shook.
A different bugle. Shots rang through the air.
Devon struck the match, his heart pounding. Dear God in heaven, please don’t let this be the end. Take care of Morning Fawn. He bent and dropped the flickering flame onto the black powder. A sizzle. It caught.
He spun on his heels and bolted into the storm.
Ice pellets, slicked grass, blistering wind…
He ran with all his might. Shots, men yelling, men coming after him.
Up ahead, Frederic fell. A boom rocked the air, throwing him forward and to the ground.
But not the charge he’d set—farther away.
His head rang. He scrambled to his feet.
Something tore into his arm. Still, he ran.
No time. Not far enough away. He dove for the incline, just a small slope.
Maybe it’d be enough. Landed on his belly and slid downward—
Boom! Boom. Boom. His hip slammed into a tree. Time stopped. No more men. Smoke filled the air and clogged his lungs. No more sound. Only a ringing deep in his head. He had to get up. He had to move. His life depended upon it.
He crawled to his knees. Pebbles and sleet stung his palms. A board lay in front of him. From the warehouse? He stood. Pain shot through his thigh. He’d crawl. Stay hidden that way. Hand and knee, hand and knee, he plunged forward into the brush.
Snags clawed at him as he moved toward the river. He gained his feet. The pain didn’t matter. If he didn’t get away, he’d never feel pain again.
The hill sloped to the water. He half tumbled and rolled. Shots. He could hear again. The water—he heard that too. He shivered, pushed to his feet, and ran.
A woman stepped out of the shadows. Morning Fawn?
No. Dark cloak and hair. Frieda. “What are you doing here?” He grabbed her arms.
“You’re bleeding. You’re hurt.” Her voice raked the air.
“I told you to get to the safe house.”
“I found someone to loan me a boat.” She pointed to the water where a canoe slushed against the bank.
Fire glowed back up on the hill, despite the sleet. Bells rang. And in the mix, gunfire snapped through the air. He shoved her toward the canoe.
Frieda stepped from the bank. One foot landed in the canoe, one in the water.
The canoe tipped sideward, spilling her into the river.
He jumped into the frigid water, righting the boat and shoving her onto the bank.
Every second was an unaffordable loss. He heaved himself over the edge, then from a squat, held out his arms and braced her as she stepped from the bank. The canoe rocked as she boarded.
“Halt.” Someone crashed through the underbrush.
Devon grabbed the paddle and struck wood to water. “Lie down,” he commanded Frieda.
She crouched.
A shot struck the wooden side, splintering the wood. Then another winged his sleeve.
If they wounded or killed him, they’d get her too. If he turned himself in and bought her time—
Another shot grazed the wood.
“I give up. Don’t shoot.” He threw the paddle down and lifted his hands. “Don’t shoot.”
“Don’t.” She stirred.
“Try anything, and I’ll put a bullet in your back.” Moyer’s voice boomed.
“Stay still,” he hissed to Frieda. “You can swim, right? When I get up, I’m going to tip the canoe. I’ll swim for shore. You keep swimming with the river, underwater and in the shadows. They’ll chase me—”
“No.” Horror gripped her words.
“You. Do. It.” He pushed his arms higher. “Standing,” he called to Moyer and the noose.
Moyer thrashed through the cattails, moving closer along the shore. “Wait.”
Dear God, help us. Devon stood. The canoe wobbled.
“I’ll shoot—”
Devon lunged to the far side. The canoe flipped. Gunfire. A sting to his ear. He slugged toward the shore, pumping his wavering limbs, swimming with everything he had left.
He swallowed water, coughed it out, forcing himself forward.
Had the shots stopped, or had he gone deaf again?
His hands struck reeds, and he pulled himself up.
Maybe he should just hover. No, they’d seen him.
They’d be coming. He drug himself onto the bank.
He had to get up, keep going, keep them coming after him and not Frieda.
He pushed up on all fours.
A fist hammered the side of his head. He dropped to the ground. A boot slammed into his ribs. He curled inward, slipping his hand inside his boot for the knife.
Moyer kicked it from his hand and dove in with his fists until all light faded.