The Forgotten Story Page 9

  “Konnen the captain, eh?”

  Pierce strained to understand this tosspot. His accent was thick and tended to mesh with two other accents.

  “Know ’im?” Pierce guessed. “Only by reputation. Our own mayor, Moses Farwall . . .”

  “You mean Moses Formwalt, boy?” the deputy corrected.

  Pierce bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten the bleedin’ name wrong. One of the reasons he’d chosen Atlanta was because he wanted to use an American coastal state that was close to Louisiana, but also because he had read about the Georgia elections in a newspaper last winter, where Moses Formwalt had won.

  “Formwalt,” Pierce reinstated. “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said Farwall,” the deputy insisted.

  “I know what I said,” Pierce argued firmly. “In any case, those goddamn Injuns have done stolen the slaves from us. Mayor Formwalt was expecting a shipment in Savanna that never came. He’s mighty sore about it. He wants the Sea Warriors brought to justice in Atlanta and has offered a large reward to anyone who brings ’em in.”

  “Kann did he state this?”

  “When?” Pierce asked, expecting the question of “how much” rather than “when.” “Um, two months ago.”

  “Never ’eard nothin’ ’bout it in the papers. I read the Southern Newspaper every week and never saw nothin’ about any slaves being stolen or any reward being offered.”

  Pierce realized this cheeky fellow wasn’t the thickheaded hick he initially suspected.

  “Why would there be?” Pierce challenged him. “After all, ain’t slave imports s’pose to be abolished?”

  The deputy considered him a moment and then spat on his own floor. “In either case, je sais pas on how you bougs do things in Georgia, but ‘dis ’ere is Nahlans. I’ll have to send a message to the authorities in Atlanta ’bout ‘dis through the teleprinter. Can’t just hand off prisoners, especially high-profile inmates like these. Come on back tomorrow and we’ll see by then.”

  “Sounds good, deputy,” said Pierce before casually leaning against the desk with a smirk. “First, though, could we have a gander at ’em?”

  The deputy’s chair creaked when he pushed his weight into it. When he did, Pierce spied his Colt revolver in its holster by his hip. The deputy’s eyes narrowed as if trying to figure him out. He rubbed his beard with a cigarette wedged between his chubby fingers.

  Finally, his mustache rose when he smiled. “Wanna eyeful, huh, boy?”

  Pierce didn’t fancy being called “boy” any more than he did “laddie.” He kept his fake grin and winked at him. “I do, indeed.”

  The deputy stubbed out his cigarette into an overfilled ashtray. “All right.” When he stood, the chair creaked loudly with relief. “Follow me.”

  The deputy grabbed a set of keys hanging from his belt and headed over to an iron door. After shuffling through them, he jabbed one into the lock and twisted it.

  “Just you, boy,” the deputy ordered, pointing to Pierce.

  “You can call me Tucker,” Pierce stated, straining to hide how irked he was getting. “And why can’t we all go in?”

  “I’ll tell you, Tucker. It’s cramped enough in dere already. And ‘dis ain’t no freak show. Otherwise, I’d be chargin’ admission.”

  Dammit, a wrinkle in the plan. They were supposed to enter the jailhouse and talk their way into seeing the Sea Warriors. Depending on how many lawmen were inside—which, thankfully, was only one knobhead—Pierce and the others were supposed to overpower them, take the keys, and free the Sea Warriors. They would then lock the lawmen inside the cells and head for the Ekta, where the rest of Nico’s crew waited with rifles to infiltrate the ship.

  A simple plan, but a strategy Pierce felt confident in. Even so, going in alone with this heavy sack of shite deputy wasn’t anything Pierce couldn’t handle on his own.

  He turned to Nico and the others. “Ya’ll sit tight till I get back, ya hear?”

  Nico nodded with eyes full of worry.

  “Alrighty, deputy,” Pierce said. “Lead the way.”

  He opened the iron door and both men entered a short corridor. The deputy locked the first entrance way and faced another at the end of the hallway.

  The bulky man put the key into the lock. “Whereabouts in Georgia are you from?”

  Pierce was ready for this question. “Franklin.”

  “Still livin’ dere?”

  “Moved to Atlanta some time back,” he answered as the door opened. “Why? Got relatives there?”

  Pierce half expected him to answer yes.

  “Non, just makin’ conversation.”

  They entered the room beyond and Pierce felt he had returned to his vision. Three holding cells were directly ahead with only five feet of space between them and the exit. The moment he stepped in, he spied his longtime mates through the bars. Most were standing by then, alerted by the noise of the cell doors opening.

  “Dere dey are,” announced the deputy, moving aside. “Get an eyeful.”

  Pierce fought to prevent his face from betraying the sorrow he felt at the sight of his good mates locked up. The Sea Warriors were a free lot—freer than their landbound tribe, which had been shuffled around from one reservation to the next. They belonged out in the endless sea, not locked in cages.

  As the deputy moved aside, Pierce adjusted his rifle, aiming it at the wanker and discreetly thumbing the hammer back, which proved a bit of a challenge due to the way he was cradling it.

  Pierce approached the middle cell where he knew the chief was. “Which of you is Sea Wind?”

  He kept his hat low over his brow, allowing the shadow of the dimly lit room to conceal most of his face. He hoped that once he showed himself, no one would give him away. He already sensed the fat deputy suspected him of being a fraud, which caused Pierce to wonder why he’d allowed him in. If anyone so much as uttered his real name, it would undoubtedly spell out catastrophe for them all.

  “C’est moi,” answered a familiar voice that Pierce knew all too well.

  He watched as the great sea chief approached the bars. Pierce raised his chin to show his face. The chief stopped short upon seeing him. Pierce narrowed his eyes and, with a half smirk, winked at him.

  “You’re ’im, huh?” Pierce said softly. “Ya’ll are in some serious shit, y’know that?”

  The twig-like snap of a gun hammer clicking sounded behind him. “And so are you, Irishman,” declared the deputy.

  Pierce looked over at the deputy who was aiming his Colt revolver at him.

  “Found me out, eh?” Pierce said blithely in his own accent.

  “My maw maw is Irish,” the deputy admitted. “I can detect dat accent. Now, put down dat dere firearm or—”

  The rifle in Pierce’s arms went off, blowing a hole right through the deputy’s chest.

  He collapsed hard, his gun going off once before he hit the ground.

  Pierce sneered, “I’m British, you bloody git.”

  “Pierce!” cried Nico through the barred window of the door down the corridor.

  “I’m fine,” he announced, waving at him. “We’ll be out in a jiff.”

  “Landcross,” the chief called. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe? Why are you here?”

  “Long story, Chief,” Pierce said, rushing over to the deputy. “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re on your ship.”

  He searched for the keys, ignoring the shocked expression on the dead man’s face.

  He found them and hurried over to the cells. “How many lawmen are usually at the jailhouse?” he asked, trying one after the other.

  “When we were brought in this evening,” explained First Mate Wind in the Sails, “there were three of them.”

  “They must’ve popped out for a bit,” Pierce surmised, finally finding the right key. “We best hurry.”

  He clicked the lock open and hurried to unlock the other. Sees Beyond was staring at him through the bars.

&n
bsp; “You came for us?” she said with delight.

  Seeing her fine and dandy for the most part sent shudders of joy up his spine.

  He twisted the key in the lock. “I have, darling.”

  The moment he opened the door, she rushed out and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him tightly against her. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she sobbed in his ear.

  It felt good to have her in his arms, but if they were going to succeed in fleeing from New Orleans, they needed to make haste.

  “I can’t believe it, either, love,” he said, gently prying her off. “We have to crack on now, eh?”

  She nodded with a sniff and went to join the men by the exit.

  “Landcross,” grunted none other than Waves of Strength.

  Her contemptuous tone tempted him to slam the cell door in her face.

  “Waves,” he bluntly greeted her as she strolled by. “Pleasure.”

  She eyed him crossly and retorted placidly. “I’m sure it is. For you.”

  Her voice caused his teeth to hurt.

  “Landcross,” beckoned the chief. “Do you have people with you?”

  “Aye. A dozen, but not all of them are here with me at the jailhouse.” Pierce gave the chief the rifle and darted toward the door.

  Pierce unlocked both doors and swung open the second door.

  “C’mon,” Pierce ordered while heading out with everyone else behind him. “Let’s get the hell out of—”

  His voice trailed off the moment the vigilantes entered.

  Chapter Ten

  Will She Get Us to France?

  Pierce stopped so suddenly that he nearly pitched forward. There was a pair of gents wearing badges, one reading “Deputy Marshal,” and the other “Sheriff.” Pierce had seen both men in his vision. Those standing behind the lawmen wore the red bands around their arms. The strong smell of alcohol poured off them. A cold illness grew in Pierce’s gut when he realized these men had come to perform their wicked deeds upon the Sea Warriors, including rape and murder.

  “Who are you?” demanded the deputy marshal with a slight slur.

  They hadn’t seen the Sea Warriors behind Pierce, as they had remained out of sight in the short corridor. Pierce may have been spotted, but they still owned the element of surprise.

  He glanced at his cousin, Nico, standing in the middle of all of this.

  In his best Southern drawl, Pierce said, “Dunno who these boys are, but I’m ’ere havin’ a look at y’all’s Indians.”

  Nico thankfully caught on. “We only just arrived,” he responded in an accent that was a cross between American and French, passing himself off as a longtime immigrant. “We wanted to request an overnight stay for our prisoner ’fore taking him back to Saint Landry. Dere was nobody ’ere when we came inside.”

  For the moment, there was no alert. The thick walls of the jailhouse had muffled the rifle blast enough to keep these men from hearing it.

  “Where’s Alex?” the marshal demanded.

  “Your deputy?” Pierce thumbed behind him. “’Bock dere. Countin’ de shillings I’d given ’im.”

  The marshal looked at him queerly. “Shillings?”

  Pierce had used the term intentionally after hearing Chief Sea Wind click back the rifle hammer.

  “Aye, chum,” he said in his natural accent. “You bloody well heard me.”

  The vigilante Pierce had spoken to on the Ekta pointed at him. “You’re that Brit from earlier.”

  He gave him a salute. “That I am, wanker.” He looked over his shoulder. “Chief.”

  Chief Sea Wind wasted no time. He leaped out from the corridor and aimed his weapon.

  Pierce pulled his gun. “Nico!”

  The drunken lawman and vigilantes were caught completely off guard. Pierce, Chief Sea Wind, Waves of Strength (who had taken the late deputy’s pistol), Nico, and his crew all trained their weapons on their enemies and opened fire.

  In the years since Pierce and his family had moved to the islands, gun technology had evolved greatly. Gone were the days of single-shot flintlock pistols, for they had given way to revolving cylinder firearms. Pierce’s Oak Leaf handgun had become outdated, yet it didn’t stop his bullets from taking down their targets.

  Seconds into this unexpected gunfight, most of the vigilantes and the so-called lawmen were down, yet there were more outside. Pierce knew if they tried barricading themselves inside the jailhouse, it would only lead to a standoff, allowing the law to draw in more enforcement to assist.

  “Out! Out!” Pierce yelled while firing at some people coming in. “We can’t let them trap us in here!”

  Everyone apparently understood the danger. The Sea Warriors gathered weapons from the departed and charged out the door. A couple of lawmen and vigilantes had run out into the middle of the road to get a better aim. Bullets smacked the wall of the jailhouse and shattered a window. Guillaume received a bullet in the arm and Hai was hit in the stomach. Pierce grabbed Nico by the collar of his coat and shoved him away before he was shot and then returned fire. He managed to strike a man in the chest and Waves of Strength got a second in the head. The rest of the lawmen and vigilantes had taken cover nearby. They shot at the group, but Pierce and the others were already on the move.

  Pierce tried wrapping Hai’s arm behind his neck to carry him on.

  “No!” the man shouted. His gunshot wound bled profusely, drenching his hand, which was covering it. “Leave me, Landcross,” Hai demanded, pushing him away.

  Realizing it was pointless to argue with the ex-Cohong, Pierce clasped him on the shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”

  He darted off, hearing Hai shout as he unleashed a volley of gunfire.

  Bystanders watched as two dozen Indians, a few Frenchmen, and an Englishman ran frantically through the streets of New Orleans. Pierce only hoped they wouldn’t run into any more trouble.

  Rain began falling, and the winds picked up the closer they got to the water. The half-mile dash to the pier wasn’t a long one, yet it left everyone winded.

  “Bloody hell,” huffed Pierce. “I . . . haven’t run . . . like that in . . . ages.”

  The Ekta was just within eyesight.

  “Do you think anyone else is on board?” Nico wondered.

  “I’ll go see,” Pierce said. “Wait here.”

  Pierce jogged to the deck, keeping his eye out for any guards. He reached the ramp, searching for signs of any remaining vigilantes. He went up the ramp with his gun drawn and hurried along as cautiously as he could. Everything was dark, except when flashes of lightning illuminated the surroundings. Only a few lamps burned, and the dock lanterns below offered little assistance. He hadn’t seen any of Nico’s crew on the way to the ship and wondered if they were still on watch.

  He panned his gun around and heard footsteps coming from the stern. He backed up before falling over something behind him. He landed so hard his insides reverberated.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, sitting up.

  The body of a man with a red band tied around his arm lay underneath his legs.

  “Shite!” he screeched, scooting away.

  He shot to his feet and saw someone out of the corner of his eye. Aiming his pistol, he quickly redirected it when he saw it was only Tai Choy.

  “Took you long enough,” complained the Pākē.

  Honestly, Pierce was unable to discern whether he was joking or not. “You lot killed all who were on board?”

  “These men stayed behind after some others came around earlier and invited them to go drink. With most of the vigilantes gone, we decided to intercept.”

  Pierce couldn’t stop himself from grinning. That decision had saved them loads of time.

  “Brilliant, lad,” he praised Tai, patting him on the arm. “We’ll throw the bodies overboard after we’ve made way.”

  He ran over to the side railing, whistled sharply, and waved his arms about. Moments later, everyone was heading up the ramp.

  Pierce met h
is cousin at the bottom of the ramp and embraced him. “Cheers, Nico.”

  In truth, he wished the lad could join him. Nico, though, had his own journey to make and if all went well, they would meet again on the island.

  “Good luck, Pierce,” Nico said.

  Nico and his crew were about to walk away when they stopped short. A band of uniformed soldiers was approaching.

  “There they are!” yelled the vigilante with them.

  Pierce grabbed Nico and pushed him up the ramp. “Chief! We need to weigh anchor right now!”

  The Sea Warriors scrambled into action. They raised the anchor, cut the rope holding the vessel to the dock, and lowered the canvas. A few had bolted down into the hull to fetch firewood for the steam engine to get the fans going, but Waves of Strength ordered them to stop, for the natural winds would serve them just fine.

  Soldiers started running up the ramp when Pierce threw a lantern at them. It crashed in front of them in a ball of flames, halting them on the spot. Nico, standing beside him, blasted his gun, forcing the troops to retreat. The rest of the soldiers unleashed potshots, striking only the Ekta.

  “To the ship!” a soldier yelled out.

  That order made Pierce cringe. The Ekta was an old Spanish galleon with little tech other than the fans and the rotary cannons. Whatever vessel the soldiers were about to board was probably an up-to-date Man-o-War built for battle and conquering.

  Thunder cracked as loud as any explosive gunfire. The Ekta began pulling away from the dock with the help of the storm gusts. Chief Sea Wind took his place at the helm, shouting orders in his native tongue. Once they were farther along the Mississippi River, the sailors hoisted the sails before the gales tore them apart.

  They sailed on toward the canal that would bring them into Lake Pontchartrain. Chief Sea Wind claimed it was better than sailing a large ship like the Ekta through the narrow waterway leading into Lake Borgne. Either way, they were in for a dicey and dangerous voyage.

  The ship rocked against the high waves as the gusts grew in force. The giant Mississippi River was pitch black. Pierce only hoped that Wind in the Sails could navigate them through. Regardless, it was the least of their worries. As he’d predicted, a great military craft was coming for them. In the darkness, it was impossible to make out the details of their pursers. Only in the brief bright flashes of lightning did it reveal steam stacks.