and Bob joined them, standing back from the thoroughfare as the cart approached. Six wild-eyed horses careened in a manic zigzag towards them. They roared past, shedding more barrels from the back of the cart in their wake. They watched the horses and cart weave uncontrolled through the congestion ahead until, finally, the cart rocked over and shed the last of its load. One of the cartwheels collapsed under the burden. Splinters of wood and shattered spokes arced into the sky; a twisted metal wheel rim spun off on its own tangent. They watched the cart still dragged along on its axle by the panicking horses until it was lost from sight.
‘The cart that killed you,’ said Liam. He cheerfully patted Lincoln’s back. ‘Well, not this time, anyway, Mr Lincoln.’
Bob nudged Liam. ‘Remember the secondary objective,’ his voice rumbled quietly.
Liam nodded. He offered Lincoln his hand. ‘Been a pleasure to meet a future president, so it has.’
Lincoln nodded and grasped his hand firmly. ‘I shall … endeavour to do my best, Mr O’Connor. Good Lord willing.’
‘You’ll do your country proud,’ he smiled. ‘I know you will.’
Bob leaned forward. ‘Secondary objective?’
‘Right … right.’ He looked at Sal. ‘We have to go. Something else we need to take a look at.’ He shook Lincoln’s hand and smiled. ‘Look after yourself, Mr Lincoln.’
‘I will that, sir.’
‘Sal –’ Liam gestured up the street – ‘we need to check that out, right now.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll catch up.’
A final farewell from Liam and a terse nod from Bob and they were striding swiftly up Powder Street following the trail of chaos to find its cause.
Sal and Lincoln looked at each other. ‘It’s been a funny old week, hasn’t it?’ she said.
The tall young man’s laugh sounded like a growl. ‘To say the very least, ma’am.’
‘You know …’ she started, knowing it was wrong to say much more to him – certainly wrong to warn him of the grim fate that awaited him only days after the North’s victory. ‘Never mind.’
Lincoln cocked a brow. Curious. ‘What? You were about to tell me something.’
She shrugged. ‘Just that … that your face ends up on the five-dollar bill.’ She smiled. ‘How cool’s that?’
‘Five-dollar bill?’ Lincoln looked surprised. ‘They’ll have paper money of such value?’ He shook his head, amused by that.
Sal glanced up the street. She could still see Liam and Bob. She didn’t want to lose them, though. ‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘So should you.’
‘Indeed.’
She reached out, grasped his hand and squeezed. ‘Good luck. I’ll look you up on the Net and read all about you when we get back home.’
She offered him a little wave, turned away and then jogged up the street towards the other two. Lincoln watched the three of them go until they finally disappeared among the growing crowd of people filling the street, curious to see what had caused all the commotion.
Well then, Mr Lincoln, what now?
He looked down at his mud-spattered trousers and flapping boots, and decided that whatever his future – his destiny – was, he stood a better chance of realizing it not smelling of pig poo. He strode towards the quayside and the sedate Mississippi River, a glistening mirror-smooth surface that reflected the setting sun.
CHAPTER 89
2001, New York
Captain McManus walked slowly down the curved trench, stepping as best he could on dirt and not on the limbs, torsos, faces of dead men. These chaps, even mutineers, deserved better.
He held the white flag above him, a handkerchief tied to the tip of a bayonet. In his other hand he carried a lantern to be sure that the men huddled inside the bunker at the end of this long, curved trench could clearly see his approach.
The bunker was little more than a mound of piled dirt and sandbags over a framework of wooden beams, something clearly erected in haste by these men. It stood in the looming shadow of an enormous bridge support, alongside something else, another hump, like an eskimo’s igloo but made of tumble-down bricks instead of blocks of ice.
Why here? Why a last stand right out here in this godforsaken wasteland? It would have made far more sense setting up a defensive position in among the ruins of the factory buildings on the far side. Fighting passage by passage, room by room, his men would have taken a heavy toll reclaiming the ruins from them.
Instead they chose this open ground? It made no sense.
He stepped past a thick cluster of bodies, many of them British.