Read Online Beneath Gray Skies by Hugh Ashton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hugh Ashton
Ads: Link
abusively, as Lamar Fitchman, which, by a strange coincidence, happens to be the name of the ringleader that our ‘Brian’ forced onto a train at Cordele heading for Little Rock. Shortly after imparting this information to the world, Mr. Fitchman apparently lost his balance, assisted by a straight right to the jaw from an irritated fellow passenger, and fell from the caboose, whatever that is, onto the track. The train stopped, but Mr. Fitchman was dead when they discovered him. He had, by the way, no wallet on him, and was identified by his aunt, who as I said before, is Mr. Pole’s ex-owner.”
“Oh dear,” repeated Dowling.
“Oh, I have more,” C replied, almost cheerfully. “The two thugs whom we left dragging their wounded comrade around the boulevards of Cordele apparently decided they hadn’t had enough to drink. Somehow they managed to drop their friend in the road or something as they refreshed their thirsty selves, but anyway, he died, and they were arrested for second-degree murder, which seems to be about the same as manslaughter over here. Of course, the tall dark stranger who goes round smashing strangers’ kneecaps with rifle butts is their main line of defense.”
“That’s how he won his Victoria Cross at Mons, of course,” remarked Dowling. “Killed a dozen Jerries in a machine-gun post with an entrenching tool. ‘Bloody Brian’ is what the Guards Brigade called him after that. He was the school fencing champion at Harrow, you know.”
“Well, he hasn’t lost his touch, has he?” C noted. “‘Bloody Brian’ seems to be about the right name for him. We must get the silly beggar out of there soon, before he faces the tender mercies of Confederate justice. The only thing that’s saved him up to now, I think, is the way the military over there is almost untouchable by civilian outsiders.”
Dowling shuddered to think of what he’d heard of the judicial system in the Confederacy. Tales of thirty prisoners crammed into cells meant for ten, and mass executions on an almost daily basis inside the labor camps were among the less grisly stories that came out of the South.
He changed the subject. “Sir, what are we going to do with this colored chappie Pole? It seems rather a liability to have him running round the place telling people about his savior ‘Brian’.”
“He’s coming here to London, Dowling,” C replied. “Bertie Flowers, once he’d got over the shock of the whole thing, took quite a shine to the bloke. He turned out to be well-spoken, perfectly literate, and even quite well-read—for an American, that is. Pleasant conversation, and a trained butler into the bargain, would you believe? And since he has a view of the CSA from the belly of the beast, as it were, I asked Flowers to send him over here. He’ll be working with you if he’s as good as they say he is.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dowling said, a bit doubtfully.
“Come on, you know Bertie from your days in Brussels—he’s good with his chaps, and hardly ever makes a mistake. You shouldn’t be prejudiced against this bloke Pole just because he’s American. But what are we going to do about that damned fool Finch-Malloy?”
Dowling thought briefly. “Sir,” he pointed out. “In only one day’s time, the
Robert E. Lee
sets sail from Savannah for Bremen.”
“And our lords and masters in the Cabinet rejected the notion of sending a submarine to torpedo the bloody thing somewhere in the middle of the ocean. It would have solved all our problems.”
“Whose idea was that?” asked Dowling, surprised. It was the first he’d heard of the plan.
“Winston bloody Churchill’s, that’s whose it was. Damn’ man thinks he’s still running the Admiralty. Actually, it wasn’t such a bad idea, when all’s said and done. We could easily have blamed the French or the Yanks or someone if they’d ever worked out it was a torpedo and not an accident. And
“Oh dear,” repeated Dowling.
“Oh, I have more,” C replied, almost cheerfully. “The two thugs whom we left dragging their wounded comrade around the boulevards of Cordele apparently decided they hadn’t had enough to drink. Somehow they managed to drop their friend in the road or something as they refreshed their thirsty selves, but anyway, he died, and they were arrested for second-degree murder, which seems to be about the same as manslaughter over here. Of course, the tall dark stranger who goes round smashing strangers’ kneecaps with rifle butts is their main line of defense.”
“That’s how he won his Victoria Cross at Mons, of course,” remarked Dowling. “Killed a dozen Jerries in a machine-gun post with an entrenching tool. ‘Bloody Brian’ is what the Guards Brigade called him after that. He was the school fencing champion at Harrow, you know.”
“Well, he hasn’t lost his touch, has he?” C noted. “‘Bloody Brian’ seems to be about the right name for him. We must get the silly beggar out of there soon, before he faces the tender mercies of Confederate justice. The only thing that’s saved him up to now, I think, is the way the military over there is almost untouchable by civilian outsiders.”
Dowling shuddered to think of what he’d heard of the judicial system in the Confederacy. Tales of thirty prisoners crammed into cells meant for ten, and mass executions on an almost daily basis inside the labor camps were among the less grisly stories that came out of the South.
He changed the subject. “Sir, what are we going to do with this colored chappie Pole? It seems rather a liability to have him running round the place telling people about his savior ‘Brian’.”
“He’s coming here to London, Dowling,” C replied. “Bertie Flowers, once he’d got over the shock of the whole thing, took quite a shine to the bloke. He turned out to be well-spoken, perfectly literate, and even quite well-read—for an American, that is. Pleasant conversation, and a trained butler into the bargain, would you believe? And since he has a view of the CSA from the belly of the beast, as it were, I asked Flowers to send him over here. He’ll be working with you if he’s as good as they say he is.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dowling said, a bit doubtfully.
“Come on, you know Bertie from your days in Brussels—he’s good with his chaps, and hardly ever makes a mistake. You shouldn’t be prejudiced against this bloke Pole just because he’s American. But what are we going to do about that damned fool Finch-Malloy?”
Dowling thought briefly. “Sir,” he pointed out. “In only one day’s time, the
Robert E. Lee
sets sail from Savannah for Bremen.”
“And our lords and masters in the Cabinet rejected the notion of sending a submarine to torpedo the bloody thing somewhere in the middle of the ocean. It would have solved all our problems.”
“Whose idea was that?” asked Dowling, surprised. It was the first he’d heard of the plan.
“Winston bloody Churchill’s, that’s whose it was. Damn’ man thinks he’s still running the Admiralty. Actually, it wasn’t such a bad idea, when all’s said and done. We could easily have blamed the French or the Yanks or someone if they’d ever worked out it was a torpedo and not an accident. And
Similar Books
