Page 20 of Blackmailed (The Browns of Butcher’s Hill #2)

P hillip tossed and turned in his bed, hearing strange sounds in his dreams—or what he thought were his dreams. He was floating between consciousness and nighttime visions and wondered if it was time for him to get up for his workday.

He reached for his pocket watch laying on the table by his bed.

It read one in the morning. He snuggled back down under the blanket and fluffed his pillow just the way he liked it.

His eyes drifted shut, and he heard it again.

Something was hitting the window in his room.

Phillip threw back the covers, scratched his chest, and pulled the curtain away from the pane.

He squinted into the darkness and saw a figure below.

He watched as they lobbed something at his window, most likely a pebble.

Who in the hell was it? He pushed up the sash and whispered loudly into the still night air.

“What are you doing? Trying to br?—”

“Phillip. It’s Timothy,” he said in the same hushed tones.

Phillip closed his window, pulled a shirt over his head, and padded down the steps. He opened the front door and motioned his friend inside. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

Timothy closed the door behind him. “I need your help. Reed and Randolph did not report to duty this morning.”

“I’m not sure I care.”

“I heard them talking the night before. They were going to pay Irene Littleman a call.”

Phillip stared at him. “And you think they’re dead or on their way to dead.”

Timothy nodded. “I know they’re a pair of horses’ asses, but I just can’t leave them. They’re fellow officers.”

“Why doesn’t your captain send in a patrol? That would shake them loose.”

“He won’t. He thinks they’re on some secret mission and isn’t convinced that she’s holding them.

I checked as much as I could with their duty sergeant before he got suspicious and stopped talking.

They had weapons with them when they left and told him they’d be back before sunup with the answer to the Colfax murder. ”

“Christ Almighty!”

Timothy nodded. “I’m going to see what I can see, alone, if necessary, but I’d rather have you with me.”

Phillip stared at him for a long moment. “Let me get dressed and leave a note for Uncle.”

After only a few minutes, Phillip followed Timothy into the night air and saw two horses standing side by side. He glanced at Timothy. “Pretty sure of yourself?”

“I thought if you wouldn’t go and I did manage to get them out if they were there, I’d have a place to put them.” He glanced at Phillip. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“You’ll have a worse feeling after you get a look at her guards.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Are we going in with pistols drawn or sneaking?”

“I think we should just try and get inside. Don’t know if that’s possible, though.”

“I say we go to the dock side of her hideout and see if we can find a way in. If they’re in there, chances are they’re on that floor rather than up near the tavern. Too much risk that someone would hear them.”

Phillip hung on to his horse, glad the beast followed Timothy’s without requiring much direction. The streets were quiet, and it was not long before they were at the docks. Timothy spied a man sleeping against a building a block or more from their destination who roused as they dismounted.

“Here’s a dollar,” Timothy said and handed the man the coin. “There’s another one for you if our horses are still here when we get back.”

The man nodded and tucked the money in a small pocket. “They’ll be here.”

The two men walked the massive dock, skirting the occasional sleeping man or roll of cable or rope.

They passed several double doors, many hanging open, and a few where they could see a fire lit on the earthen floor with bodies huddled around its warmth.

Because even though spring had arrived, the wind or even a breeze off the bay was chilly or downright cold.

This area of the Baltimore docks was considerably different than where the Wiest Cannery was located, twenty or more blocks away.

That neighborhood contained many other businesses, whose owners kept their walks and buildings clean and in good repair.

Not so where he and Timothy were now. Everything smelled of rotting fish, and the buildings were barely standing, other than the one they could see a half a block ahead.

Although it looked shabby, it seemed as though it was intended to look that way, while not being run-down at all.

He imagined Mrs. Littleman would want her property secure and nondescript.

She did not want inquisitive neighbors or do-gooders or even a pair of Pinkertons near her hideout.

“The windows are boarded over, and I don’t see a door,” Timothy whispered. They’d stopped behind a shed that sat near one of the docks that stretched out into the bay.

“I don’t think the fellow slouched against the building is a drunk. I think he’s a watchman,” Phillip whispered back.

“Drunk or jealous. What’s the play?”

“We don’t stink enough to be drunk. I think we have to go with jealous.”

“It’s your turn to take a punch,” Timothy said, a smile in his voice, as he took a rag and a glass bottle from his coat pocket.

“I don’t suppose you can miss me and let me take a fall,” he said.

Timothy looked at him, smiling, he imagined, as he could not make out his friend’s face in the darkness they stood in.

“I can call on her if I want!” Timothy said as he walked briskly toward the watchman. “You don’t pay her any mind.”

“I said leave her alone. She’s mine!” Phillip said to his back, hurrying to catch up.

“Doris likes me better,” Timothy said with a laugh. “Especially in the bedroom.”

“I’m going to kill you!” Phillip said and threw a wild punch at Timothy that missed him completely. As he did, he got himself directly in front of the watchman, who was just now struggling to stand.

Timothy turned and hit Phillip with a roundhouse punch to the chin, making him stagger backward and land on top of the watchman, who was shouting and cursing now.

Phillip turned over quickly and grabbed the man from behind while Timothy tied his wrists and waved the rag soaked with ether under his nose. They quickly dragged him to the shed they’d hidden behind and closed the door as the man slumped unconscious.

The two men walked back to where the man had been sitting. Timothy watched the dock while Phillip felt for the doorway. “Here. There’s a latch here. Are you ready?” Phillip whispered.

Timothy nodded as Phillip moved the small brass bar, and the well-hidden door creaked open.

They both stepped inside, taking time to let their eyes adjust to the darkness and acclimate themselves to the room they were in.

There was little light, but Phillip could make out shapes, boxes and crates, mostly.

Littleman would not want her stolen goods to be damp and decrease the value, Phillip thought as he realized the room was warm from a large coal stove spewing heat.

There was no one else in the room, but someone would have to feed the coal to keep that stove burning. They had limited time.

Timothy pointed to a door by a set of steps.

He tried to turn the knob, but it was locked.

Just then they heard a door at the top of the stairs open and heard a man arguing with another one over who would be shoveling the coal.

Timothy and Phillip crept to the stacked boxes and managed to get behind some sitting at an angle.

They crouched and watched the massive man come down the steps, making each one groan under his weight.

He walked right past them, opened the stove door with a rag, and shoveled coal inside.

Phillip could see his face clearly and recognized him from his trip to the Water Tavern with Uncle Patrick.

He held his breath and ducked his head when the man turned from the stove and dusted his hands.

The big man walked to the door to the dock and banged hard on the wood. “Stay awake, boy,” he said in a loud voice and turned to the steps, muttering to himself about the sorry state of young men in 1868.

He never glanced their direction and merely lumbered up the wooden steps, calling out when he got to the top, “Thomas! Let me up.”

As the man shouted to unlock the door at the top of the stairs, Phillip and Timothy heard rapping and a voice from the behind the locked door where they believed the Pinkerton men were held.

“Jesus and the saints,” the man said as he rumbled back down the steps. “What do you want now?”

“Medical attention. He needs help.”

Phillip and Timothy heard the quiet plea and glanced at each other, recognizing Lieutenant Randolph’s voice. Phillip wondered how badly injured the captain was, but they would know soon enough when they rescued them.

“Won’t matter to the fishies if he’s bloody or not when I pitch him in the bay. Unless, God forbid, there’s a shark nearby!” the man said and laughed heartily as he climbed the steps again. “A shark!” he repeated and laughed again. “Open up, Thomas!”

They waited more than thirty minutes after the door closed and the key turned, hearing the scrape of chairs against a wood floor and a clink of glass on glass.

Hopefully, they’d drink enough to let them drift off to sleep.

Phillip looked at Timothy and stood up slowly, his knees protesting the long, tense crouch.

Phillip knelt at the locked door and pulled a small leather case from his coat pocket.

He picked two thin metal tools from the pouch and worked silently on the lock until it clicked open.

He opened the door slowly, and Randolph hurried away from the door, fear written plainly on his face.

Phillip held a finger to his mouth and shook his head as Timothy went past him to see the captain.

“Can you walk, Lieutenant?” Phillip whispered, noting the man’s arm hung at an odd angle.

He nodded. “Don’t think the captain can.”

Timothy pulled the unconscious man over his shoulder with a grunt and straightened.

The captain groaned, and Timothy went straight out of the fetid room and toward the door to the dock.

Phillip got Randolph to his feet and wrapped an arm about the man’s waist, hurrying him along.

He stepped out onto the dock just as the watchman shouted to the second floor.

Although the man staggered, not yet shed of the ether and its effects, and his hands were still tied, his shouts would wake the dead.

Timothy walked as fast as the weight he carried allowed him as Phillip hurried past him to get the injured men on the horses.

Phillip heard shouts from behind them and helped Randolph on the horse, turning to the decrepit man who’d watched their horses and tossing him a coin. “You best get out of here.”

The man limped away to a space between the buildings, and Phillip hurried to Timothy, who was struggling to get the captain across the horse’s back. “Is he alive still?” Phillip asked.

“I think, but not sure. Let’s get out of here,” Timothy said and climbed on the horse’s back, holding the captain in place with one hand and hawing the horse with his other.

Phillip hurried to his horse and climbed up behind Randolph as shots were fired from behind.

He reached around the lieutenant for the reins with one hand and pulled his pistol at the same time.

He dug his heels into the horse’s sides and glanced over his shoulder, aiming as much as he could on a moving animal.

He caught one of the big men in the shoulder by some miracle and raced his animal around the next corner and out of range of pistols.

He caught up with Timothy and slowed his horse, blowing great breaths in the night air. “Where to?”

“Marine Hospital. Let’s hope someone’s awake there.”

Phillip followed Timothy down the empty street at as fast a pace as they could while he held tight to Randolph, who’d slumped in his arms. The large brick building looked closed up tight, but Timothy pounded on the doors until an orderly opened it and glared out at him.

“Sweitzinger with the Baltimore Police Force. Got two injured men from the Pinkerton Detectives. One’s in bad shape. Needs attention right away,” Timothy said with a voice that did not invite disagreement.

The orderly looked at Phillip holding Randolph and Captain Reed slumped over Timothy’s horse. “Bring them in. I’ll get the doctor on overnight.”

Phillip and Timothy wrangled the men inside and into the capable hands of several men and women who’d come to assist. One stopped and touched Phillip’s shoulder, eliciting a hiss of pain.

“You’ve been shot, sir. Come this way,” she said as Phillip suddenly understood the words and their meaning and the pain he was feeling in his upper arm.

Phillip submitted to a woman in a dark blue dress covered with a starched white apron, her hair under a cap, who pulled off his jacket and stuck a finger through a hole.

“Don’t know if this can be salvaged,” she said.

Phillip pulled his shirt away from the long gash on his upper arm with a hiss. The nurse washed the wound with hot water and applied a foul-smelling ointment that burned enough to make him wince out loud. Timothy walked in the room and took a look at his arm.

“That’s going to leave a mark,” he said.

“I’m not worried. Women love a scar or two,” he said and glanced at the nurse who was wrapping his arm in gauze.

She shook her head. “I work in the Marine Hospital. Do you think that’s the first time I’ve heard something that ridiculous? Keep this clean and dry and change the bandage until it’s scabbed over.” She gathered her things and went out the door.

“She told you, didn’t she?” Timothy said, watching her as she made her way down the hallway.

“Have you heard anything about the Pinkertons?”

“The lieutenant will recover. Broken arm and several busted ribs as well as a fractured ankle.”

“Fractured ankle?” Phillip said. “I’ve got to give him credit; he was moving along out on that dock. Probably so afraid to go back to Littleman’s that he didn’t even feel the pain.”

“The captain may not make it. The doc said he’d know more if he’s alive in the morning, although the sun’s coming up now.”

Phillip pulled on his torn and bloody shirt. “I need some sleep.”

Timothy helped him stand up. “Are you able to ride?”

Phillip nodded. “As long as my horse follows yours, I’ll be fine. Don’t have to be at the cannery until noon.”