Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm (25 page)

‘No.’

‘It’s only a matter of time.’ Crowe shook his head angrily. ‘Sherlock, how on earth could you be so careless as to let him follow you?’

‘He heard Matty and me talking about Edinburgh before we even set off,’ Sherlock said nervously. ‘He had some kind of listening tube in the cottage.’

‘Ah.’ Crowe nodded. ‘Clever.’

‘He kidnapped Rufus on the train,’Matty added, ‘and then he kidnapped me and Sherlock, but we escaped.’

‘Escaped?’ Crowe’s face twisted into a grimace. ‘Ah doubt it. He let you go.’

Matty was affronted. ‘Sherlock broke the legs of those two men – Fillon and Payne.’

Crowe shrugged. ‘If that enabled him to follow you here, Scobell would consider that a small price to pay.’

‘He was torturing me for information,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘It would have been easier just to keep on torturing me until I talked rather than trade two of his men for the information.’

Crowe didn’t look any less angry, but his hand moved away from the pistol. ‘Perhaps,’ he conceded. ‘Are you sure you weren’t followed here?’

‘Very sure,’ Sherlock said firmly.

‘What’s so bad about this Scobell bloke?’ Matty asked. ‘Apart from the fact that he likes hurting people. There’s blokes in
this
country who like hurting people. Can’t imagine this Scobell is much worse.’

Sherlock nodded in agreement. Matty’s words put him in mind of Josh Harkness, the blackmailer whom Mrs Eglantine had been working for. Harkness had been a nasty piece of work; could Bryce Scobell be that much worse?

‘There’s a load of different examples ah could give you,’ Crowe replied, ‘but ah’ll let one suffice.’ His eyes seemed not to be looking at Sherlock, or any of the others, but to be fixed on something that only he could see. ‘Scobell was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Confederate Army. He weren’t right in the head, even then. Ah don’t think there’s a word for what he was, what he
is
. Not
evil
, exactly, but he don’t have emotions like guilt, or regret, or shame like the rest of us. He don’t even feel things like anger or happiness. He just seems to sail through life with a complete indifference to anythin’ except his own survival. He’s convinced that he’s the most important thing in the world, and that everythin’ else exists to make his life easier an’ better.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Ah first heard about him when he was sent to deal with an uprisin’ among the native tribes. They’d taken advantage of the confusion surroundin’ the War Between the States an’ they were attackin’ families, settlers, anyone they could isolate an’ kill. Scobell was under the command of Colonel John Chivington at the time, and they were sent with a troop of militia to stop the Arapaho an’ the Cheyenne from mountin’ these attacks.’

Virginia came into the room with a tray containing five glasses and a plate of oatcakes. None of them had even seen her leave, so caught up were they in her father’s story. She gave the beer to Crowe and Rufus Stone, then passed glasses of water to Sherlock and Matty. Everyone helped themselves to the oatcakes.

‘This was about five, six years back,’ Crowe went on. ‘Chivington used to be a pastor in the Church, but his forbearance for his fellow man didn’t extend as far as the Indians. He hated them with a passion most men reserve for scorpions an’ rabid dogs. Scobell, his second-in-command, didn’t hate them, but he regarded them as a lower form of life that didn’t belong in his world. Between the two men there wasn’t a single friendly thought. Under Chivington and Scobell, the militia attacked not just the Cheyenne and the Arapaho but the Sioux, the Comanche and the Kiowa as well.

Crowe sipped at his beer. Nobody broke the heavy silence in the room.

‘The Indians were gettin’ the sharp end of the stick,’ he continued, ‘an’ they decided they wanted peace, so a meetin’ was arranged with the authorities. The Indians left the meetin’ thinkin’ they had a peace treaty, but nothin’ had actually been signed. Few days later, a chief named Black Kettle camped his people near Fort Lyon. They weren’t doin’ anybody any harm – they was just followin’ the buffalo along the Arkansas River. They lived off the buffalo, you see – used them for meat, for clothes, for oil, for everythin’.’

Crowe halted for a moment and looked out through the window. His hand moved towards the gun, but whatever he had seen must have been innocent – a bird, maybe, or an animal crossing the open ground – because he pulled his hand back and started speaking again.

‘They reported to Fort Lyon, just like they was supposed to, and then camped on Sand Creek about forty miles north. Their camp was in a dip in the ground, surrounded by low hills. Not long after they arrived, Chivington and Scobell rode into Fort Lyon and told the garrison commander that they was goin’ to attack Black Kettle’s tribe. The garrison commander told them Black Kettle had already surrendered, but Scobell persuaded him that this was an ideal opportunity to rid the world of more Indians. He seemed to be able to influence people like that. Next day Chivington led his troops, most of them drunk, I’ve heard, and surrounded the camp. On Scobell’s advice, Chivington took four artillery pieces with him.’

Virginia slipped into a seat next to Sherlock. Somehow her hand ended up in his. He squeezed it reassuringly, and she squeezed back.

‘Seeing the militia gatherin’ around him, Black Kettle flew a white flag of peace over his tent. Without givin’ any warnin’, an’ without consultin’ with Chivington, Scobell gave the order to attack.’

Crowe paused, and the momentary silence in the room was like something heavy and alive.

‘It was a fire storm of death an’ destruction descendin’ on them from the skies,’ he whispered. ‘Men, women, children – all of them massacred by the artillery fire an’ by rifle fire. They had no chance to defend themselves. An’ when the artillery had run out of shells an’ the rifles had run out of bullets, Scobell led his men into the camp an’ they killed every last one, by beatin’ them with the butts of their rifles, an’ with their knives. Every last one.’

‘Someone must have taken action,’ Sherlock said, shocked. ‘I mean, Chivington and Scobell broke the peace treaty.’

Crowe laughed harshly. ‘What peace treaty? There weren’t any signed bits of paper to refer to.’ When Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else, Crowe raised a hand to stop him. ‘Chivington was hauled up in front of a military tribunal a year or two later and forced to resign from the Army. Scobell went absent without leave, an’ has been on the run ever since.’

‘But . . .
children
?’ Virginia whispered. ‘Why? It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘When he was asked at the military tribunal why children had been killed, Chivington replied, “Because nits lead to lice.” Funny thing is, ah reckon ah can hear Bryce Scobell’s voice there, speakin’ through Chivington. Ah reckon Scobell had much more influence over his superior officer than people thought at the time.’

‘And I’m guessing,’ Rufus Stone said, ‘that you were sent to bring Scobell back to face justice.’

‘That, or mete out some justice of mah own choosin’,’ Crowe said evenly. ‘Ah was given that authority by President Andrew Johnson himself.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah nearly caught Scobell three times, in different places ’cross the States. Ah lost several good men in firefights along the way.’

‘What happened?’ Matty asked, breathless.

Crowe stared over at him. ‘Ah’ll give you an example of what Scobell is like,’ he said. ‘Cincinnati, three years ago: ah’d tracked Scobell down to a room in a boarding house. We surrounded it and burst in. He’d already left, but the woman who owned the place was sitting there, on the bed. She was holdin’ a stick of dynamite an’ a match. When she saw us, she struck the match and lit the dynamite.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘We only just cleared out of the room in time. The explosion killed her, of course. Found out later that Scobell had kidnapped her daughter – said he’d kill her if she didn’t act as a livin’ booby trap for us. An’ she believed him.’

‘What happened to the daughter?’ Matty asked.

‘Oh, he let her go. He had no further use for her. Course, she was left without a mother, but Scobell didn’t care nothin’ about that.’

Sherlock stared at Amyus Crowe. There was something the big American wasn’t saying.

‘Why did he change tactics?’ Sherlock asked. ‘It started out with you chasing him, but it ended up with him chasing you. What happened?’

Crowe stared levelly at Sherlock. ‘There ain’t much gets past you, is there, son? You’re right. Something did happen. Ah said ah lost some men in firefights an’ traps an’ the like. Scobell lost somethin’ too. He lost . . .’ He paused, and looked up at Virginia. ‘Ah’ve never told you this, Ginnie. Ah reckon you’ll think the less of me for what ah’m about to say, but that can’t be helped. It’s the truth, so help me God.’

He took a breath, obviously having to force himself to continue. Sherlock found that he was holding his breath, waiting for what came next.

‘Bryce Scobell had a wife an’ child. Ah don’t believe he ever loved either of them. Ah don’t believe he’s capable of love. But ah think he came closer to real emotion with them than with anyone else. Maybe it was more like possessiveness – ah don’t know for sure. But the thing that happened was, we cornered Scobell an’ his bodyguards at a farmhouse in Phoenix. They started firin’ when they saw us, an’ we fired back. In the crossfire, two of mah people were killed, and so were Scobell’s wife an’ son. We’d had no idea they were there. Scobell escaped, like he always did, but he took an oath that day that he would make me pay for what ah’d done.’ He grimaced. ‘A month later a message arrived for me. It was from Scobell. He told me that he’d kill mah wife an’ mah child an’ he’d make me watch. He told me exactly what he’d do. It weren’t . . . the kind of thing that would occur to any normal, God-fearin’ person, but ah knew Scobell – ah knew that once he set his mind to a thing, then that thing would happen. With the permission of President Johnson ah took a leave of absence from mah duties an’ came here.’

‘And now he’s followed you,’ Sherlock said in the silence that followed Crowe’s admission.

‘As ah said, once he sets his mind to somethin’, that thing happens.’

‘You could have asked for help,’ Rufus Stone pointed out. ‘Mycroft Holmes would have provided guards for your cottage, I’m sure. If not, we could have recruited some people locally to help.’

‘For how long?’ Crowe asked. ‘Even if Mr Holmes provided us with round-the-clock bodyguards, he couldn’t keep them there forever. At some stage they would have been taken away an’ placed on more important duties.’ He shook his head. ‘Bryce Scobell is a patient man. Patient, and very, very clever. He would have waited until everyone had gotten bored an’ tired, an’ then he would have struck.’

‘But you’ve faced dangerous men before,’ Sherlock pointed out. He was confused. He didn’t understand why Amyus Crowe hadn’t stayed to fight. Crowe had always seemed to Sherlock to be a man who confronted difficulty rather than running away from it. Secretly he felt a bit disappointed. ‘I was there in the tunnels beneath Waterloo Station when you took on that man who wanted to kill me. You nearly broke his neck, and you didn’t seem the slightest bit frightened. What’s so different about Scobell?’

‘Ah
have
faced dangerous men before,’ Crowe agreed. ‘Ah’ve gone up against some of the toughest, hardest men in the world in mah time, but Bryce Scobell is a different bucket of catfish entirely.’ He sighed. ‘It’s difficult to describe, but there’s something . . . not human about him. Most people are wary of bein’ hurt, of bein’ damaged, an’ that gives you an advantage in a fight, but he ain’t. He just don’t care. Ah’m not sayin’ he don’t
feel
pain, cos he does, but he just shrugs it off. It don’t interest him. An’ he don’t
remember
the pain neither. If you punch a normal man in the face enough times he’ll stay back, not wantin’ to get hit again, but Scobell – hit him the first time an’ he’ll remember the fact that he was hit, but he don’t seem to learn from the pain. He don’t seek to avoid it next time. Knock him down an’ he just gets up again, an’ again, an’ again. He keeps comin’ back at you, like some kind of mechanical creation.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah’m not makin’ much sense, ah know, but facin’ Bryce Scobell is like facin’ some dark force of nature. He’s unstoppable. That would be bad enough if he was stupid, but he’s one of the cleverest men ah know. He thinks several moves ahead, like he’s playin’ chess, an’ he gathers people around him who are like him.’

‘I don’t understand about the names tattooed on his skin,’ Virginia said suddenly. She had been quiet up until that point. ‘Why would he
do
that? What does it
mean
?’

‘It’s a fixation with him,’ her father replied darkly. ‘Ah was told that when he joined the Confederate Army he only had three names, tattooed on his arm. Someone asked him what they were. He said they were the names of men he’d killed.’ He paused and shook his head sadly. ‘He was only eighteen. He’d had them indelibly inscribed on his skin, along with the dates. Said he wanted to make sure he never forgot them.’ He shrugged. ‘Course, in war you rarely know the names of the men you kill, so he’d leave a gap an’ do his best to find out who they were, where they were from, based on their regiment. After the end of the War Between the States he spent a considerable sum of money tryin’ to get the names of all the Union soldiers who died in particular places, at particular times. He even tried to find out the names of the Indians he killed. Had Black Kettle’s name tattooed right across the nape of his neck. He’s obsessed with the idea.’