Dead water - Barbara Hambly [117]
January dropped to the deck—the ruffian fired both weapons at once and missed with both, then turned and fled as the two planters, both completely unscathed, tore after him, whipping from their belts the bowie-knives that Southern manhood rarely went without.
Underfoot the Silver Moon lurched and heaved, the paddle driving forward and someone in the pilot-house—almost certainly Lundy—veering the flat-bottomed craft over the shallow mud of the shelving shore by the wood-yard and back to deeper water. Reaching the bow, January got a glimpse of one-eyed Levi Christmas down on the main deck below, crouching behind a crate with half a dozen ruffians while two or three more—including several of the rougher deck passengers—struggled with the deck-hands.
They were waiting at the wood-lot, thought January. A wave of self-disgust rolled over him that it hadn't occurred to him, after all the delays around Hitchins' Chute, that the wood-yard was the single place where the outlaws knew the boat would have to put in.
January wondered if Hannibal's pistol was even loaded. A moment later a bearded scoundrel in a faded shirt swung himself up over the promenade rail with a knife in his teeth and ran straight for the bow stair to the main deck, to take its defenders Davis, Gleet, and Cain from behind. The scoundrel had three pistols slung around his neck on ribbons, the way pirates of old used to carry them—he was reaching for one to shoot Davis in the back, when January shot him from a distance of less than eight feet.
Hannibal's gun was indeed loaded.
Davis whirled as the bandit fell, his own pistol at the ready. January ripped free both the bandit's unfired pistols and the powder-horn. He tossed one gun down to the young planter, and the next second Christmas and his ruffians emerged from cover and made a run for the stair, firing as they came.
Davis flattened behind a stanchion as a bullet tore a hunk of wood inches from his face. Cain fell back against the rail, clutching the spreading crimson stain on his chest, then pitched forward off the stairway to the deck. He was still trying to get up, when two of the attackers seized his arms and threw him overboard, one of them following him immediately, shot through the head by Davis. Gleet turned tail and charged up the stair, nearly colliding with January as half a dozen deck-hands rallied around Davis, armed with logs of firewood, push-poles, and an assortment of artillery that was illegal for any black man to possess.
“They'll try to take the engine-room and the pilot-house,” January yelled down the steps. “Anyone at the back of the boat?”
“Eli in the galley!” a deck-hand yelled back, so January dashed to the steps that ran down to the stern by the galley passway. No one was guarding either stern flight, nor the rear door of the engine-room in the passway. At the moment the only occupants of the deck were Sophie and Mrs. Fischer, in the midst of hauling the work-table out of the galley and dragging it to the rail as an improvised raft.
“Hold it steady, you imbecile girl!” Fischer screamed at her weeping maid.
“Don't do it!” January yelled, and both women whirled. Sophie was ashy with shock, but Mrs. Fischer raised the pistol she held to fix unwaveringly at January's heart. January halted, let his own pistol fall, and held up both hands. “You'll be safer on board,” he told her.
“Under the protection of this parcel of dolts?” Mrs. Fischer stepped close enough to scoop up the weapon.
“Madame, he's right, I told you! Please . . .”
Fischer didn't even glance at her servant, her eyes on January. “Get on the raft, you stupid wench, and don't argue with me!”
“Madame,” said January, “all you'll do by jumping ship is make yourself a target. . . .” As if to prove his words, a bullet