Chapter Forty-six

John Latimer regained consciousness and discovered two unpalatable truths. The first was that he could not move his arms or legs, the second was that he was in some kind of barn that smelled of decay and many years of disuse.

As he grew more lucid, he realized that he was hog-tied, his ankles and wrists tied tightly with rope, and that he was in some kind of cage with a dirt floor, iron bars in the front, and a padlocked timber door. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom of the place, he made out a couple more cages and an open area and, dusty and cobwebbed, what appeared to be a preacher’s podium.

But he quickly understood that was not the case. No matter how sinful they may be, a preacher’s flock was not kept in barred and padlocked cages.

Prisoners had been held in the barn. But what sort of prisoners? And why the large and substantial podium? Then it dawned on him. It was an auctioneer’s podium, and he’d been locked up in a place where slaves had been held in cages and then sold, and it hadn’t been used since the end of the Civil War, hence the smell of rot and abandonment.

He’d been knocked on the head, rendered unconscious, and was now trussed up and thrown in a pen like a rat in a trap. Was Rupert Bentley-Foulkes about to take his revenge?

The answer to that question was not long in coming.

A padlock rattled on the outside doors, and one of them opened and, after a few moments, closed again. From his position on the floor, Latimer saw two men step toward him. One was the man who’d clubbed him, the gunman Mr. Chang called Brack Cooley. The other man, slim, tall and refined-looking, he didn’t know, but he had the bearing of a soldier . . . and a suspicion began to form in Latimer’s mind that he was now just moments away from being shot.

The door to his cage was unlocked, and a grinning Cooley opened a pocketknife and cut the rope that bound Latimer’s ankles. He kicked the recumbent man in the ribs and said, “Someone wants to talk with you, Latimer. On your feet.”

Latimer’s “Go to hell” earned him another kick, and Cooley, a big man and strong, hauled him to his feet and dragged him out of the cage. He was pushed in front of the soldierly man, who had already taken his place on the podium. “Is your name John Latimer?” the man said.

“I rather fancy that you already know it is,” Latimer said.

“Yes, your name is John Latimer, formerly a captain in the Fifty-first Lancers. I am Captain Rupert Bentley-Foulkes of the Eightieth Regiment of Foot.”

“I heard Lieutenant Tom Bentley-Foulkes mention you,” Latimer said. “You were his brother.”

“I was his brother. He is dead.”

“I know.”

“And you were responsible for his death.”

“As his commanding officer, yes, the responsibility was mine.”

“Do you know why you have been brought before this court?”

“What court? I see only you and a gunman thug.”

“Latimer, you are charged with cowardice in the face of the enemy. The officers who will sit in judgment of you will join the court tomorrow. In addition to that duty, Lieutenant Granville Wood will act as trial counsel and Lieutenant John Allerton for the defense. Both these gentlemen were officers in the Fifty-first. Do you know either of them?”

“No.”

“Then that is all to the good,” Bentley-Foulkes said.

“I don’t recognize this court,” Latimer said. “As far as I’m concerned, you and the rest of your cohorts are a common lynch mob.”

“I suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head, Latimer,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “This is a very serious matter indeed, and if you are found guilty, you will be shot.”

“I imagine that is a foregone conclusion,” Latimer said. “Bentley-Foulkes, your brother was an insubordinate fool who threw his life away. It’s he who should be facing a court-martial.”

“And that is very unlikely since my brother is dead and his body was never recovered. Two months later my mother died of a broken heart, Latimer, and her death was also a result of your . . . as your judge I must say alleged . . . cowardice.”

“I am sorry to hear about your mother,” Latimer said.

“Yes, shed crocodile tears for her. She means nothing to you.”

“She does, more than a man like you can realize,” Latimer said.

“Mr. Cooley, take the prisoner away,” Bentley-Foulkes said. “Latimer, your court-martial will commence tomorrow at dawn. If found guilty, which I don’t doubt, you will be shot at dusk.”

Latimer’s feet were again tied, and Cooley’s farewell was a grin and another kick in the ribs. The outer door opened, closed, the padlock rattled, and he was left to the growing darkness without food or water, his only companions the restless rats that rustled in the corners.