Having set chaos in motion in the main room, Alan was heading for the back when he heard the sound of the gunshot. He broke into a run and almost collided with Randolph, who was coming out of the whist room just as Alan was running in.
Randolph pulled Alan through the door into the whist room and slammed it shut. “Henry’s been shot!”
“Who shot him?”
“Some soldiers. They were in back waiting to ambush him,” said Randolph. “They shot Henry when he went out the door.”
“What about Simon?”
“He’s safe. He used his magic to block the door. You can hear the bastards trying to break it down.”
Alan could hear the blows hitting the door. Simon was shouting for a physician and officers were grabbing weapons, yelling that the tavern was under assault.
Alan had to shout to be heard. “Take Henry and Simon out the back. I’ll fetch a cab and meet you in the alley.”
“What about the soldiers?”
“Leave them to me.”
As Randolph started to return to his friends, Alan caught hold of his arm. “How is Henry?”
Randolph gave a grim shake of his head. “Not good.”
Alan returned to the main room where he was confronted by several officers. “Northrop! What the devil is going on back there?”
“Some damn drunken Guundaran lout has just shot one of my friends!” Alan roared angrily, making certain as many people as possible heard him.
He was thinking coolly and swiftly, as he would on the deck of his ship with battle raging around him. The confusion and turmoil worked to his advantage. He fanned the flames and stoked the fire by pointing to the Guundaran soldiers who had entered the front in pursuit of Henry.
“The cowards shot him in the back!”
Men began shouting and shaking their fists, hurling mugs and insults. Some drew their swords, and there was a general call to take the soldiers prisoner. The tavern owner was attempting to intervene, fearing a brawl that would wreck his establishment.
“Please leave, sirs. I have sent a boy to fetch the constable. These gentlemen are extremely angry and I cannot vouch for your safety!”
“We are here to serve a lawful warrant!” the army officer insisted stubbornly. “Our informant pointed out the guilty man.”
“Blood money!” Alan shouted.
The crowd surged toward the soldiers, swords raised, as the barmaids either ducked behind the bar or armed themselves with pewter mugs and plates.
The Guundaran soldiers were already backing out the door. Their officer remained, scowling. His long mustaches quivered and he had his hand on his sidearm. Alan had been disturbed to hear that the owner had summoned the constable. He needed to find a cab and he couldn’t do that with this stubborn bastard blocking the door. He shoved his way toward the front to speak to the officer.
“We do not want more bloodshed, sir,” Alan told him. “Please see reason. Your troops shot an innocent man—a pastor, at that. The constable will be here any moment. You could be the one facing arrest.”
The army officer considered a moment, then slammed out the door. Once outside, he placed a whistle to his lips and blew three times. The soldiers posted around back came running. He swore at them in ire as he led them down the street.
The patrons gave a cheer of triumph at the sight of their enemy retreating, and rushed out of the tavern onto the pavement to jeer at the soldiers as they were departing. Two constables arrived at about this time. The owner seized hold of them and began to air his grievances. The patrons returned to celebrate their victory.
Several cab drivers always stationed themselves in front of the Weigh Anchor, knowing that they could generally find well-paying and inebriated customers. Alan took advantage of the confusion to mount the box of one of the cabs.
“Here now, sir!” The driver glared at him. “What do you think you’re doin’?”
Alan flourished a banknote in the light of a street lamp. “I am going to borrow your cab. Don’t worry. I will return cab and horse in good condition. Here is money for the inconvenience.”
The driver glowered until he saw the denomination of the banknote. His eyes widened. He plucked it out of Alan’s fingers, handed over the reins, and swung himself down from the box.
“Where should I leave the cab so that you will find it?” Alan called.
“Don’t worry, sir!” the driver returned, heading for the tavern to celebrate his luck. “Miss Mab’ll find her own way home.”
Alan drove the cab around to the alley, where he found Randolph and Simon placing Henry on a makeshift litter, assisted by a naval officer Alan did not recognize.
Alan jumped down from the box. They had wrapped Henry in a greatcoat. He was ghastly white. His eyes were closed, his head lolled.
“Is he…” Alan couldn’t go on.
“He’s alive, Captain Northrop,” said the strange officer. He touched his hat and introduced himself. “William Perry, ship’s surgeon. Where do you propose taking him?”
Alan hesitated to tell him, wanting to keep Henry’s whereabouts secret. The surgeon guessed his dilemma.
“The gentleman requires immediate medical treatment or he will die, sir. My preliminary examination leads me to believe the bullet broke his left clavicle and is still embedded in the shoulder. He faces a high risk of infection and he has lost a great deal of blood. I would like to remain with him. Rest assured, sir, that my first duty is to my patient, not to the authorities.”
“Very well, thank you, sir,” said Alan, relieved.
The surgeon issued orders and, acting under his supervision, Alan and Randolph picked up Henry and conveyed him to the cab, handling him as gently as possible. Once he was settled on the seat, the surgeon climbed in with him.
Alan turned to his friends. Randolph was standing protectively alongside Simon, whose clothes and hands were covered in Henry’s blood. Alan eyed the crimson stains and had to take a moment to compose himself before he could speak.
“There are two constables out front,” he said. “I’m taking Henry to the Terrapin. He’ll be safe there. We set sail tomorrow. Simon, you should sail with us. I’ll take you to the ship. Randolph, fetch Mr. Sloan—”
“Randolph, take me home,” Simon interrupted, countermanding the order. “After that, you can fetch Mr. Sloan and bring him to my house. He’ll need to go through Henry’s papers.”
“Simon, it’s not safe for you in Haever—” Alan argued.
“I don’t plan to remain in Haever,” Simon stated. “I am going back to Welkinstead.”
“Simon, listen to me—”
“Don’t waste your breath,” Randolph advised. “You know you won’t goddamn budge him.”
“Indeed, you won’t,” said Simon. “Mr. Sloan can help me gather up Henry’s papers and destroy the rest. When we are finished, I will send him to join you and Henry on board the Terrapin. When do you set sail?”
“Tomorrow. Do you know this surgeon, Randolph?”
“Perry? He’s a damn fine sawbones,” Randolph stated. “I hear he’s looking for a posting if you need a surgeon.”
Alan already had a surgeon, but the man was probably dead drunk by this time of night. The mere fact that Perry was sober at this hour was recommendation enough. Alan went to the door of the cab to check on Henry.
“The gentleman is holding his own,” Perry reported. “I advise you to drive slowly, Captain. He should not be jostled lest the bullet do more damage.”
Alan climbed onto the box and gave a reassuring wave to Randolph, who was wheeling Simon down the street. Picking up the reins, Alan looked searchingly up and down the alley, fearing the soldiers might be lying in wait, hoping to still lay hands on their prey. They were apparently not that dedicated to their duty, however, for he saw no sign of them.
Alan gently slapped the reins on the horse’s back and told Miss Mab to take it easy. The cab rolled off at a pace that would have suited a funeral procession. Alan immediately regretted thinking of funerals and he leaned over the box to spit three times to take away the bad luck.