Seth’s shovel made a dull “plunk” against something solid several feet down. We worked harder. In a few minutes we had exposed the top of a long wooden box.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s pry it off.”
But the badly rotted lid crumbled. We had to scrape it away. Underneath lay more dirt.
“I don’t fancy this part, mister,” said Seth. “What is it yer looking fer?”
“I’m not paying you to fancy anything,” I snapped. “Dig around the edges—and be careful.”
We exposed rotted fragments of canvas. Had everything been wrapped in a tarp, or just the body? We scraped gingerly. Once my shovel went too deep, and a fragment of something that might have been discolored bone appeared in the lantern glow. “Damn,” I breathed, and covered it up. Seth swallowed nervously and said nothing.
Then there was a clink. My blade hit something that sounded like glass. At almost the same instant a shrill cry sounded overhead.
Seth jumped backward, whispered, “What’s that?”
“Owl, I guess. C’mon, this is it!”
“Weren’t no owl.”
I bent low and scooped dirt with my hands. I pulled up a dirt-encrusted jar, roughly quart-sized. Rubbing it hard, I cleared a small area and brought the lantern close. Visible were the dark notched edges of coins. I restrained an urge to leap up and yell.
“This is it,” I told Seth, still looking uneasily overhead. “Let’s get ’em all.”
We found twenty-two jars intact, one broken. Seth’s eyes widened as he watched me pick bills and coins from among the glass shards. Since he knew, I went ahead and emptied the others into the two large canvas bags I’d brought for the purpose. Even without the jars, each weighed at least fifty pounds. How much would a hundred pounds of money buy? I wondered. We began filling the excavation.
Again the shrill cry sounded above, very close. It was a chilling blend of ferocity and terror—like the scream of a predator bird intermixed with human wails. My heart froze for a split second. Then I heard a more terrible sound: a branch snapping behind us. I smashed the lantern and dove into the grave, yanking Seth down with me. I snatched the derringer from my breast pocket. Beside me, the boy shook violently and moaned, “Lord! Lord! Lord!” A glowing light appeared in the maples bordering the road. “Stay out!” I yelled. “U.S. government property!”
“Douse that, you damn fool!” came an urgent voice, and the light vanished.
We waited, ears straining. After what seemed a long interval I heard crackling sounds to our left. I raised the derringer and snapped a shot off overhead. A pathetically feeble splat.
“You’re trespassing!” I yelled. “Proceed farther and my men will open fire!”
“By authority of the Irish Army,” a gruff voice shouted, “you’re under arrest!”
That blanked me for a second. Who was bluffing here? I realized they must be Fenians.
“Whose authority?” I yelled, trying to think. One thing was clear: Costigan had set me up.
“We’re armed, Snider!” the voice said. “You can’t escape.”
Seth loosed a quavering high-pitched moan. I clamped my hand over his mouth—and had a sudden desperate idea.
“Come after me, and I finish the stable boy!” I yelled, keeping my grip over Seth’s mouth, pressing his head hard against my chest as he struggled.
“Shh,” I whispered. “Your best chance is if they think we’re not connected, understand?” After a moment he nodded; I removed my hand. “I’m making a run for the wagon. You tell ’em I headed that way.” I poked his right arm urgently. “Got it?”
He nodded, trembling. I smelled his fear, a sharp, sourish, cheesy odor.
I stood cautiously and slung the bags over my shoulders. They were very heavy. I pocketed the derringer and picked up one of the empty jars. Bending low, moving as silently as possible, I started for the wagon. After a few steps I turned and hurled the jar as far as I could in the opposite direction. It smashed against a distant tree. Immediately I heard yelling and the thud of feet. A lantern flared, then torches. I was running, pumping frantically in the darkness, tearing and crashing along the row of maples.
“He’s headin’ fer the wagon!” Seth’s voice shrilled over the noise of my passage. Christ! First Costigan, now the kid. Whatever happened to thieves’ honor?
A bullet whizzed overhead, spattering twigs and leaves around me. I heard the bird cry out again, terrifyingly loud, and felt a feathery rush. I ducked instinctively, certain it was striking at my head. At the same instant a group of dark figures rose from around the wagon, and I realized they had been waiting for me. Frantically I tried to change course, reaching reflexively for the derringer. But I knew it was too late. With sickening clarity I saw the rifles leveling on me.
What happened in the next seconds is almost impossible to describe. A roar—not exactly a roar, but a sound, an emanation, a suggestion of a massed and horrible cry—came from the maples behind the riflemen. A figure appeared there. A figure in dark blue uniform with rows of brass buttons. It was stationary, but it emerged with the force of onrushing cavalry. Even in my agitated mental state I recognized it at once: the figure I had seen, its arm raised, when I collapsed on the station dock. It brandished a weapon now, a long gun—or was it a tree branch?—that threatened swift and certain annihilation. The arm holding it pointed directly at the group near the wagon.
They saw it too. “Holy Mother!” came a cry in high tones of terror. “They’re comin’ from the rear! Shoot ’em! Shoot the blasted thing!”
A volley of flame erupted into and through the figure. It didn’t waver, its momentum seeming to gather instead. It advanced on the frantic riflemen, and yet the figure itself was unmoving as bullets tore into it. And that was all I
