Chapter Thirty-five
“My dear Captain Bentley-Foulkes, my frigate didn’t cross the Atlantic for the sole purpose of picking up a man accused of cowardice in the Afghan War,” Commander John Pickering said. “I mean, the Admiralty is extremely parsimonious and has better things to do with its money.”
“My information was that John Latimer wrote to the War Office and demanded a court-martial,” Rupert Bentley-Foulkes said.
“And so he did,” Pickering said. “And the War Office contacted the Admiralty and their lordships contacted Admiral Kent of the home fleet and Admiral Kent discovered that the steam frigate Hephaestus, commanded by yours truly, was bound for New Orleans on a courtesy visit. Admiral Kent than contacted the War Office and the War Office then contacted Latimer and told him to present himself at the Port of New Orleans and surrender to me.” Pickering, resplendent in the blue and gold of Her Majesty’s navy, smiled. “We British take good care of our heroes. We take good care of our cowards as well.”
Bentley-Foulkes and Pickering sat in a bar on Bourbon Street, the open doors and windows doing little to alleviate the stifling heat of the day. Outside, a loaded dray rumbled past and Bentley-Foulkes waited until it passed before he said, “What are your plans for Latimer?”
“Plans?” Pickering said, looking puzzled. “I don’t have any. I could clap him in irons, I suppose, and lock him up in the hold, but since his cowardice hasn’t yet been proven, I’ll probably let him have free run of the ship. After all, he’s still a British army officer.”
“And if he doesn’t show up?”
Pickering shrugged. “Then he doesn’t show up, it’s no concern of mine. I’ll report to my superiors that Latimer either changed his mind or was killed by savages. Another glass of rum with you?”
“No, I must be leaving,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “I wish to thank you again for meeting with me.”
The commander waved that off. “One officer to another, it’s just professional courtesy, old boy. But why your interest in Latimer, an obscure army captain who disgraced himself in a meaningless skirmish in a now-forgotten little war?”
“I haven’t forgotten. Latimer’s dereliction of duty cost the life of my brother,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “I want to see justice done and the coward shot.”
“I rather fancy that to see justice done, you’ll have to return to England and attend Latimer’s court-martial,” Pickering said. “After so many years have passed, it promises to be a very dull affair. And even if he’s found guilty, I doubt the chap will face a firing squad. A sharp rap on the knuckles and a ‘Don’t do that again,’ is more likely.”
“That will not be the case,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “Latimer will pay for his crime.” He rose to his feet. “Good day to you, sir.”
“And you, too, Captain,” Pickering said. “We’ll be docked for another week, so stop by the ship for lunch and I’ll show you around. The Hephaestus is a new armored frigate and one of the most powerful fighting ships in the world.” He grinned. “There’s nothing better than a courtesy visit to show the Americans a thing or two about the power of the Royal Navy and the future of warfare at sea.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Bentley-Foulkes said, distracted. “Jolly good.”
Commander Pickering nodded, then, as the young man turned to leave, he said, “I hope you find the justice you’re looking for, Captain.”
* * *
“The navy ship has no orders to wait for John Latimer to surrender himself,” Rupert Bentley-Foulkes said. “Colonel Grierson at Fort Concho was misinformed by someone in London, some junior Admiralty clerk I suppose.”
“And if he doesn’t appear?” former lieutenant Granville Wood said.
“Commander Pickering said he’ll be written off as having changed his mind or dead, killed by savages.”
“Are we savages?” John Allerton said, his young face earnest.
“No, we’re not,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “We’re judges.”
Brack Cooley, a dark, brooding figure, looked out the window of Bentley-Foulkes’s hotel room into busy Lafayette Square, where children played with hoops and fashionable ladies with white parasols promenaded with their gentlemen.
Without turning, he said, “How do we play it?”
“At all costs we must make sure Latimer doesn’t board the warship,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “If he does, we’ll have lost him.”
“I can kill him anytime you say,” Cooley said.
“I want him to have his court-martial first,” Bentley-Foulkes said.
“And then I kill him,” Cooley said.
“And then you execute him, yes.”
“Kill, execute, it’s the same thing,” Cooley said. “Either way Latimer ends up dead.”
“We must get to him shortly after he leaves the stage,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “There’s an old coaching inn on Broad Street, and the proprietor says that’s where the Patterson and other stages stop. Lieutenant Allerton will take a room at the inn and keep the place under observation, so we can grab Latimer when the opportunity arises.”
“Just remember that Red Ryan is riding shotgun,” Cooley said. “We’ve got to make it look good.”
“If the worse comes to worst, you can handle Ryan, can’t you, Mr. Cooley?” Bentley-Foulkes said.
“Sure, I can, but I’d rather he didn’t get involved. He’s good with the iron, and in my business that kind of man is best left alone. No profit in it.”
“Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “The main thing is we kidnap Latimer shortly after he leaves the stage and then bring him to justice.”
“As I told you already, I can take care of Ryan,” Cooley said. “I just don’t like complications, and he’s a complication.”
“You will kill him, Mr. Cooley, and that will simplify matters considerably,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “Until then, we must be discreet.”
“I’ll earn my money, Englishman,” Cooley said. “Don’t worry about that. When you decide Red Ryan has to go, then he’s a dead man.”
Bentley-Foulkes said, “On open ground not too far from here, Lieutenant Wood stumbled on an abandoned slave warehouse that’s situated well away from prying eyes. I’ll show it to you, since you must bring Latimer there.”
Wood smiled and said, “It’s supposed to be haunted by the ghosts of dead slaves, and that’s why everybody shuns the place. The good folks of New Orleans are superstitious.”
“Ghosts or not, the court-martial of Captain John Latimer will be held there,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “If he’s found guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy, he will then be shot.”
Cooley nodded. “And I’ll do the shooting.”
“Yes, you will. As I told you before, Mr. Cooley, I won’t have the blood of a coward on my hands.
“Hell, it doesn’t bother me none,” Brack Cooley said. “I’ve shot cowards afore.”