Rebel Fire (27 page)

There was something in his tone of voice that reminded Sherlock of John Wilkes Booth when he talked about smelling smoke—sleepy, not quite focusing on reality. Could the leech be secreting something else into his bloodstream apart from the anticoagulant, some kind of narcotic that stopped its victims from caring that there was a parasite attached to them and filled them with pleasant, hallucinatory thoughts? He filed the idea away for later—if there was a later. He still had no idea how the three of them were going to get away.

Sherlock's attention was drawn by a movement down by Balthassar's feet. The cougars were edging away from him. Their attention was fixed on the giant red leech, and they didn't like it. They seemed afraid of it.

“Sherman, Grant,” Balthassar hissed, then he said something Sherlock couldn't understand. The big cats stopped moving away, but their muscles were still tense.

The red leech appeared to be pulsing as Sherlock watched. Pulsing with Balthassar's blood, ingested from a vein behind his ear.

“You are wasting time,” Balthassar said. “Do you have any more questions?”

Sherlock tried to pull his attention away from the leech. “You said that ‘the Government in Exile of the Confederacy still seeks to establish freedom from the oppressive regime of the Union for those states who wish it,'” he quoted.

“Indeed.”

“But how?” Sherlock asked.

“Try to work it out. I will tell you if you are right.” As Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, Balthassar added: “Look on it as a way for me to get more information. If you can work it out, given that you know about Mr. Booth, then the authorities can undoubtedly work it out as well. I promise, if you can't work it out, then I will give you the answer.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. The longer he could keep Balthassar talking, the more he could put off the moment of their deaths. Maybe he could think of some way to escape in the meantime. Maybe Amyus Crowe would find them.

“So,” he said. “John Wilkes Booth's mind has gone. He's alternately hallucinatory and violent, and he needs to be drugged most of the time just so you can move him around. He's obviously no use as an assassin, or as anything else apart from a figurehead. So you need him as a rallying point, someone you can wheel out onstage to inspire the troops.”

Balthassar nodded, but the word “troops” had sparked an idea in Sherlock's brain, despite the fact that he'd only chosen it as a metaphor.

“You
are
rallying troops,” he said. “That's why you need Booth—to motivate your army. To show them that there's a direct connection between the War Between the States and what you're doing now!”

Again, Balthassar nodded. “Go on.”

“But I can't see you raising an army large enough to take on the Union's army. Not again. Not since you lost last time. So you need an army to do something else.” His mind was racing. “But what? If the army isn't going to fight on American soil then it must be aimed at invading somewhere else.” He tried to think back to some maps he'd looked at on the SS
Scotia
. “Mexico?” he asked.

Balthassar shook his head. “A good guess, but wrong. It was tried a few years back, but the plan fell apart due to lack of support. And besides, Mexico is hot and arid and has a standing army of its own that would resist us.”

“What then?” Sherlock asked, but even as he did so the answer sprang into his head. “If you have an army, then you need a land border for them to cross,” he said. “The United States only has two land borders: one with Mexico and one with …
Canada
?”

Balthassar nodded. “Well done. Yes, we have raised an army, several thousand strong, which is encamped not too far away from here. They have been finding their way here for several months, in dribs and drabs so as not to attract attention. With John Wilkes Booth as our figurehead—our
mascot
, if you like—we will march up and take the port of Halifax in order to prevent British resupply, then cut communication links between eastern and western Canada by capturing Winnipeg. We can then move through the country and capture Quebec and the Great Lakes region. Once that is done we can carve out a new nation where like-minded Confederates can join us and keep slaves, as God intended.”

“But why Canada?” Sherlock asked.

“Good land for growing crops, a temperate climate—at least near the border with America—excellent harbours for trade purposes, no army to speak of to resist our advance, and of course it is a British territory, recently confederated. And Britain refused to aid us in our battle against the Union.”

“The British government will never let Canada go,” Sherlock said, thinking of Mycroft.

“They probably won't even care,” Balthassar scoffed. “Just think of the logistics of shipping their army three thousand miles for a battle, especially when we control the ports. No, there will be a few years of diplomatic bleating, of course, but we will control Canada.”

“With you as president?” Sherlock asked. “A man in a china mask?”

Balthassar's head jerked to one side. Sherlock's words had hit home.

“John Wilkes Booth, perhaps,” he answered tersely. “With the proper guidance and medication, of course. Or perhaps even General Robert E. Lee. There are plenty of candidates. But I will be the power behind the throne.”

The sudden motion disturbed one of the smaller leeches. It fell from his face and hit the table with a quiet
plop
. Balthassar glanced at it. “Old,” he said, “one of my longest-serving partners. I think it's time to retire you, my friend.”

He picked it up from the tablecloth and popped it into his mouth, then swallowed like a man eating an oyster.

Sherlock noticed that the leech had left a red smear on the tablecloth. He kept his gaze fixed on that red smear. He had a feeling he might throw up if he didn't fixate on something. Anything.

“I must say,” Balthassar murmured in his fragile, whispery voice, delicately replacing the porcelain mask on his scarred and leech-infested face, “you have demonstrated an uncanny ability to predict my plans from a few scattered facts. Either that, or my plans are considerably more obvious than I had thought. Either way, I cannot afford to delay. If you—a mere child—can work them out, then surely the Unionist government can work them out too. I think that our advance into Canada needs to start within the next few days. Thank you for your assistance.”

“And what about us?” Virginia asked. Sherlock was proud of how level she kept her voice.

“Oh, I have no need of you now,” Balthassar said. There was no trace of anger or vengeance in his voice. There was barely a trace of anything at all. He might just as easily have been discussing the price of tea leaves. “You will be disposed of.”

“How?” Sherlock asked.

“Ah.” Balthassar's porcelain face was impassive. “There, I confess, I may have misled you. I have a fate in mind for you which will solve three separate problems I have, but it does involve quite a lot of pain and suffering.” He gestured to the brutal Rubinek. “Captain, please take our guests to the new enclosure. My latest acquisitions need to be fed.” He turned back to Sherlock. “My collectors of rare and unusual creatures made sure they had eaten before they were captured,” he said conversationally, “and it takes them several weeks to digest their food, during which time they are almost comatose, but they have had a long journey from Borneo and their current behaviour suggests they are hungry again.” He paused, and Sherlock suspected that he was smiling beneath the mask. “I anticipate that they will draw huge crowds when I display them. By feeding you to them I get rid of you, I dispose of your bodies, and I also make sure my pets have a decent source of good quality meat to keep them satisfied for a while.” He paused for a moment. “I am told they take their food underwater and store it beneath rocks until it becomes … tender. We will all enjoy watching that process.”

Before Sherlock could say anything, two more men had moved from the shadows at a gesture from Rubinek. The three men took Sherlock, Matty, and Virginia by the shoulders, pulled them roughly from their chairs, and started pushing them along the veranda.

Despair filled Sherlock. Despite everything, it looked as if they were going to die a particularly nasty and painful death. He didn't know what Balthassar's latest “acquisitions” were, but he doubted they were going to be anything as innocent as squirrels or parrots. Whatever they were, they were likely to be big and have sharp teeth. More cougars? No, he could get those locally, and would not have to hunt abroad for them.

He caught Matty's eye as they were pushed along the veranda. Matty was looking scared, but he smiled briefly at Sherlock.

The three of them were pushed off the edge of the veranda to the hard-packed earth, and then shoved towards the area of cages, paddocks, and fenced-off enclosures that Sherlock had seen from the train. They seemed to be aiming for a walled area off to one side. The wall looked freshly built. Adjoining one side was a balcony with a view down into whatever was enclosed by the walls. Steps led up to the balcony, and Sherlock found himself shivering when he saw a wooden plank that stuck out from the balcony and ended over whatever lay beneath.

Separate stairs led downward, into darkness. Sherlock wondered momentarily what was down there, but his speculations were broken when Rubinek pushed him up the stairs to the balcony. His two followers pushed Matty and Virginia after him.

Sherlock could see down into the enclosure. From that vantage point it looked more like a pit. The area inside the walls was rocky and uneven, with vegetation growing out of cracks between the rocks and a pool of brackish water taking up about a third of the space. There was no sign of anything living in there, but Sherlock didn't find himself particularly comforted.

Rubinek manoeuvred Sherlock to the start of the plank. The other two men herded Matty and Virginia together a few feet away.

“Go on,” he said. “You know what to do.”

“And if I don't?” Sherlock asked.

Rubinek raised his hand. He was holding a small pistol, barely larger than his palm, with two barrels, one above the other. “What's in there don't particularly mind whether you're dead or alive,” Rubinek said. “And neither do I.”

Sherlock looked back towards the house. He had expected Balthassar to follow them and watch from the balcony, but the tall man in the white suit was still on his veranda. He had spread a map across the table and was consulting it. He appeared to have already forgotten about Sherlock and his friends.

Reluctantly Sherlock walked out to the end of the plank. It dipped beneath his weight. The drop to the rocky floor of the enclosure was about ten feet.

“Jump,” Rubinek ordered. Now that Sherlock was following orders, Rubinek slipped his tiny revolver back into his jacket pocket.

“I'll break my legs!” Sherlock protested. “That's hard rock down there!”

“So?” The man patted his jacket pocket. The threat was clear.

Sherlock glanced into the enclosure, looked across at Virginia, then took two steps back before running towards the end of the plank and jumping into the enclosure.

He used the springiness of the plank to push himself out as well as up, angling himself so that he arced towards the pool of water. He hit, sending a massive splash up into the air. The water had been warmed by the bright sun, and Sherlock struck out for the edge before anything that might be living in the water could get him. He scrambled out quickly onto the rocks, dripping wet, and looked around. Nothing was coming for him yet.

He looked up at the balcony. Virginia was at the end of the plank, looking scared. Matty was just stepping onto the plank, but he stumbled and fell back against Captain Rubinek, who pushed him roughly back onto it.

Sherlock quickly glanced around in case something was sneaking up on him. There was a splash from the pool, and then another, as Virginia and Matty joined him. He reached out and pulled them both to the rocks when they surfaced, spluttering.

“What's in here with us?” Matty asked, breathless.

“I'm not sure,” Sherlock replied, looking around. Up on the balcony, Rubinek and his men were leaving. Whatever was going to happen in the enclosure, it wasn't classified as a spectator sport.

“They're not watching us,” Virginia pointed out. “We've got a chance to escape.”

“The walls are too high to climb,” Matty said dubiously.

Sherlock looked around. “There are loose rocks around. Maybe we can pile them up and climb up so we can reach the top of the wall.” He thought for a moment. “No good. They could see us from the house as we climb over the wall. We need to find a way out where they can't spot us.”

A scrabbling noise from the far side of the enclosure caught his attention. He glanced that way, heart pounding in his chest. What was in there with them?

For a moment he couldn't see anything, but then a nightmare head appeared from a dark gap between two rocks. It was long and narrow, with small eyes set on either side. The creature's skin was a dirty grey-green, and folds of it hung down from that long jaw. The mouth opened as Sherlock watched to let a forked red tongue flicker out, tasting the air, but inside he could see a row of vicious teeth the size of his little finger, curved backwards so that any prey caught by them would not be able to tear itself free.

Matty gasped, and Virginia let out a stifled moan.

“What
is
it?” Matty whispered.

The creature moved further out into the open. Its body was as long as Sherlock's, half of it made up of a long, muscular tail. It walked on four legs that splayed out sideways from its body. Its feet terminated in hooked claws that skittered on the rocks as it moved. The grey-green skin seemed like a baggy fit, hanging loose beneath it and swaying as it moved.