Froelich's Ladder (16 page)

“Good. Lemme tell you how it works. Me and Nantz is debt collectors—”

“
Expert
debt collectors,” Nantz interrupted, his eyes on the caravan.

“Right you are—expert debt collectors—and Danny’s debt is due. So we’re gonna straighten him out while you wait here. You be sure to keep your pretty mouth shut.” Leaning forward, he snarled, “Understood?”

Josie acquiesced, hugging her arms around her chest. Together, the two men approached the caravan, carelessly treading on strewn equipment. Danny was still engaged in whatever activity was delaying him; apparently, the noise he created had prevented him from overhearing their conversation. When the two men reached the steps, they swiftly breached the door, first Nantz and then Carmichael. There was a moment of silence, after which the caravan began to shake, all three voices competing at once.

Josie considered fleeing. Whatever business they had with Danny surely wasn’t her concern. But before she could decide one way or another, all the men came tumbling out—seemingly at the same time, though the door couldn’t accommodate their combined breadth.

“I can pay!” Danny keened. His face had been bloodied and his shirt was torn. “I can pay!”

“If you could pay,” Nantz reprimanded him, “we wouldn’t have to be here, now would we?”

“My things—”

“Trash,” Carmichael sneered, stepping on a glass ampoule to illustrate his point.

With his hair falling over his eyes, and his waxed moustache flecked with spit, Danny chanced to look upon her.

“The girl!” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at Josie.

“What about her?”

“She owes me!
She
can pay!”

The triumvirate now faced Josie—Danny from his hands and knees, while his assailants loomed over him. The reek of desperation made her head swim.

 “I fixed her boot,” Danny appealed to Carmichael. “She gave me her I.O.U. Take that as payment!”

“Did you? Give him an I.O.U.?”

When Josie failed to respond, Carmichael rolled his eyes. “Did you spit in your hand or not?”

Unable to form a sentence, let alone give voice to it, Josie emphatically shook her head.

“Oh, Danny,” Carmichael said. “Danny, Danny, Danny. You ain’t an Irishman, are you? No honor, those lousy Irish.” Then, wielding his cudgel, he brought it down on Danny’s ankle, producing a terrible crunching noise and causing him to scream.

“She’s my wife!” Danny shrieked. When this educed a momentary reprieve, he started to babble—rolling onto his back and clutching at his injury. “She’s my wife—I’ve got the license to prove it! Just go inside and check—it’s in my caravan.”

Carmichael glanced at Nantz. “Say—how many’s he made for you, Nantz?”

“Licenses? Three, at least.”

“I’ve got one that says I married my dog.” Resting his cudgel against his shoulder, Carmichael paused to reflect. “Not that I’d mind. She was a good dog.”

“Belle?” Nantz asked.

“No, Lulu—the one before. Belle couldn’t be bothered to lick her own a—.”

Danny was still muttering to himself when the next blow caught him in the ribs. Josie felt weightless, her arms and legs buoyed by the air, as she watched the two men beat him to death. When he protected his face, they swung at his arms and legs. With every wound, Josie felt herself to be less corporeal, until finally she’d become a ghost, a silent, bloodless spectator. She never uttered a word; certainly, she never spoke in Danny’s defense. Floating away, she felt herself rising up, up, up, past the branches and the laundry lines, up until she got snagged in the highest limb.

Th
e Sergeant Major had always favored his right hand. Since losing it, he’d favored his left hand or nothing at all.

Penmanship could be frustrating, if not messy (he frequently smeared the ink), but he managed—drafting endless inventories of Fort Brogue’s supplies and writing letters to his younger sister, Clara, in Cincinnati, in which he joked about the awful weather. He parted his hair on the left, like the portraits of his late mother’s father. He cinched his belt backward and trimmed his nails with his teeth. Most time-consuming of all were the tasks that required two hands, like lacing his shoes. More often than not, he was reduced to tears of frustration. But if one devoted sufficient thought to it, one could forecast an entire day. By doing so, the Sergeant Major hoped to identify any pitfalls and to plan around them.

If the evening meal were to be soup or stew (easily gleaned from the kitchen staff), he’d dine with his men; but if dinner would require the use of a knife and fork, he would dine alone. There wasn’t any shame in having his food cut for him, but the association was that of a helpless child or a doddering old man. It was poor for morale, as well as for his self-esteem. Happily, soups and stews were a mainstay of the military. If it could be served in a cup, it could be served on the battlefield.

Another potential embarrassment was the necessity of saluting. In the U.S. Army, a soldier always saluted with his right hand, and a salute was always returned in kind. In order to avoid these situations, the Sergeant Major had refused every promotion put to him since the Battle of Vicksburg. For as long as he remained a non-commissioned officer, no enlisted man would be required to salute him; so long as nobody was saluting him, he didn’t have to salute back.

Everything happened in sequence, each event the product of its circumstances. To wit, the day of Miss Josephine’s disappearance had been ordinary from the start: breakfast alone, with his copy of the family Bible. Bound in white leather and embroidered with gold thread, the book was ostentatious but remained open of its weight, which the Sergeant Major found to be useful.

He was drinking coffee when he received the news: Miss Josephine was absent from her room, and no one knew where to find her. (Of the other turrets, not counting the Sergeant Major’s and Miss Josephine’s, a third housed Myers, and the fourth was reserved for guests, should a person be so misguided as to spend the night at Fort Brogue.) Absorbing this information, the Sergeant Major had thanked the dispatcher. And then, rather than hurrying, he’d calmly finished his cup—continuing to read until the Israelites had fled from Egypt.

Making his way across the parade ground, he encountered a half-dozen soldiers, running drills. The men’s jovial encouragement was suspended while he passed them, everyone standing at rigid attention, so he performed his best Myers Walk—stiff-kneed, and leading with his chin. This was greeted by much hooting and derision, though he managed to maintain a dispassionate expression. Only after he’d passed did he allow himself a smile.

When the Sergeant Major arrived at Miss Josephine’s turret, Harrison, the lieutenant who’d been assigned guard duty, was looking especially forlorn, his eyes fixed on the ground and his shoulders slumped to diminish his outsize height.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” the Sergeant Major said, attempting to make eye contact. “I gather we’ve had an eventful morning?”

“Yes, sir. No, sir—I don’t think. But that’s why, sir—so this morning—”

“Why not take a deep breath and tell me what’s happened?”

Stealing a glance at his superior, Harrison sighed. “Yes, sir—all right. So, last night was usual—Miss Josephine turned in before dark, and no one’s come or gone since.”

“And you were standing sentry this whole time? You’re absolutely certain she didn’t leave?”

“
Certain
,” Harrison replied, a little too emphatically. “All night long.”

“And this morning?”

“This morning, when she didn’t come down for breakfast, I went up to check her room. I didn’t want to barge in, so I knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. Finally, I called to say I was coming in. And the room was empty!”

The Sergeant Major gave a curt nod. He’d seen enough in the past year to gauge the Lieutenant’s aptitude, which he’d rate on the low end of the scale. However, it wasn’t a lack of caring that made Harrison inept. He truly desired to be a soldier, even if he possessed none of the necessary attributes.

“Isn’t it possible,” the Sergeant Major now proposed, “that you fell asleep at your post?”

“No, sir, I never—”

“And isn’t it also possible,” he continued, “that Miss Josephine decided to go for a walk? Or, what does she call it—a lunt? Lunting?”

Harrison shook his head, as if to prevent the word from gaining purchase. “I don’t know anything about that. Like I said, I knocked on her door and she was gone.”

“Perhaps you’re concerned about getting in trouble. I think it’s time we had a talk, Harrison, about the importance of telling the truth—”

Upon hearing a bump, they both reacted simultaneously, the Sergeant Major arresting his thought and Harrison
glancing up the stairs. Typically, Miss Josephine had a light footfall—heavier if she were wearing riding boots. This sound had been ponderous, like the canter of a horse. It was followed by another, and then another, the sound echoing from the turret above.

“Harrison,” said the Sergeant Major, his eyes never leaving the stairwell. “You’re quite certain the room was empty?”

Opening and closing his mouth, the lieutenant stammered, “I—I—”

“Get men. Be quick.”

“How many?”

“Three. Do it now.”

He was gone and back in a matter of seconds, with three amiable recruits at his heels. They were unarmed, pulled from their training exercise, and for that the Sergeant Major was grateful; in such a confined space, a bayonet could be lethal; never mind the damage that a bullet could inflict.

Leaving the forlorn lieutenant at his post, they bounded up the stairs. The young soldiers stalled when they reached the door—kicking and slapping with their palms, until the Sergeant Major was able to force his way through. He hadn’t visited Miss Josephine’s quarters since she’d moved in. Initially, she and Myers had shared accommodations, an arrangement that no sensible person would’ve brokered. Once provided her own space, she’d seemed to be more contented. Doubtless, she’d found the turret room cozy enough, what with her mementos and collection of books. The Sergeant Major had meant to ask her for a recommendation, in fact—something that Clara might’ve favored, not knowing for himself what a girl might enjoy.

“Miss Josephine?” he now called through the door. “Can you hear me, Miss Josephine? Are you there?”

When there was no reply, he tried peering through the keyhole. The Sergeant Major could see the window frame, opposite the door, its view obscured by clouds. The room was rounded, with no feasible place to hide. Still, he could hear a vague scuffling noise, as if someone were moving just beyond sight.

Then he saw a figure that approximated a man, with deranged eyes and a hideously long beard. The fiend was nude, with skin the color of chaw spit, sunken cheeks, and a hairless crown. His shoulders and back were spattered with bird droppings. And though he was hardly more than skin and bones, his limbs were grotesquely long.

Horrified, the Sergeant Major fell back on his haunches. If Miss Josephine was inside, then her life was in peril. Possibly she was already injured, having been silent for so long.

“No one goes in there,” he rasped, as the three other soldiers helped him up. He saw panic in their eyes, a desperate longing for his trademark assurance. Instead he ordered them, “No more pounding on the door. You do nothing—just make sure that nobody leaves. Do you hear me?”

Rushing down the stairs, he passed the lieutenant on his way to the postern gate. The young man started, lost in thought. It made the Sergeant Major wonder: if someone had been fleet of foot, how likely was it that Harrison would’ve heard him?

“What? Where—”

“You stay there!” the Sergeant Major barked at him. “Just you wait!”

As always, the view beyond the postern gate threatened to leave him breathless—the vast and untamed continent coming to an abrupt end, with only a fingernail of sand to distinguish its shore. While the wind tousled his hair and blew up his trouser legs, the Sergeant Major followed the fort at right angles until he reached Miss Josephine’s turret—little more than a ledge for him to stand upon, before the land dropped steeply toward the ocean. If the intruder hadn’t climbed up the stairs, as Harrison claimed, he would’ve had to come from this direction. Clearly, the Sergeant Major wasn’t expecting to find anything so obvious as a ladder, but it was necessary for him to check.

Looking up, he spied Miss Josephine’s window, partially concealed by a bank of clouds. The perspective threatened to give him vertigo. From this angle, he could see where the weather had impacted the wood—the saltwater mist that drifted up from below, and the storms that arrived almost daily. What good was a fort, he thought to himself, no matter how steadfast, if it couldn’t resist one man?

Retreating behind the fortifications, to where the wind was less pervasive, he sought out Harrison again. Grabbing the lieutenant’s shirt with his one good hand, the Sergeant Major hissed, “Don’t you dare lie to me—you fell asleep on watch, didn’t you?”

With a look of horror on his face, Harrison gushed, “No, sir, I swear! I didn’t!”

“Did you even check upstairs? Because someone—
something
—is in that room with Miss Josephine, and he bloody well didn’t fly in. So if he didn’t come up the stairs, you tell me—how’d he get in there?
How
?”

Harrison was close to tears. His only response was a feeble shrug—which, insufficient though it may have been, forced them both to acknowledge the odd choreography: a one-handed man accosting a significantly taller youth. Thus anchored to the present, the Sergeant Major released his grip, absently patting Harrison on the chest. The lieutenant wasn’t lying; at least, he didn’t
think
he was. And despite how the turret had actually been breached, the fact remained: Miss Josephine had become someone’s hostage. Nothing else mattered.

“What’re we going to do, sir?” Harrison whimpered.

“Tell Myers,” the Sergeant Major replied. “Call him back from town. And, by God, you’re coming with me!”