Reluctantly, he picked up the bag and turned his back on her as she indicated he should do with a twirl of the pistol barrel. She shifted to a one-handed grip and lifted the handle of the basket containing the squalling Stephen.
“We will use the back stairs and the servants’ exit,” she said, following the big man down the hall at three paces distance.
“Please do not shoot me, madame,” he said with a small voice.
“Please do not make me,” she said. The way was awkward in the narrow hallway with the weight of the basket in one hand and the heavy wool coat that fit like a tent over the brocaded dress and all the goddamned layers of petticoats. The boots had raised heels that she’d thought were so cute but now realized were impractical for getaways. This would have all gone so much easier in a pair of sweats and Nikes, she thought.
She turned at voices behind her. The three cigar smokers were coming to the top of the open stairway from the second floor. They’d seen her and were calling out in alarm. They looked as though they meant to catch up and subdue her.
Caroline raised the revolver, straightened her arm, and jerked the trigger. The result was deafening. The big handgun threw her arm up like a pump handle. She felt the shock all the way to her shoulder. Through the smoke, she saw an entire section of banister had been torn away at the top of the stairs.
The three cigar smokers were descending the stairs three steps at a time, leaving top hats behind in a rush to be out of the line of her fire. She fired two more shots in quick succession to let them know the first was not a fluke. She could hear splintering furniture and the crash of from the floors below, followed by the shouts of men and screams of women.
Through the clanging din in her ears, the rising sound of a baby’s wail. Her baby.
She looked down to see Stephen red-faced and howling in terror, with hands held fisted to his face. Caroline cooed words of comfort even though she could not hear them herself. She was probably shouting and adding to the baby’s fear. In a flash, she recalled her predicament and swung the gun down the hallway toward where she fully expected to see Patrice rushing her.
The big man stood at the far end of the hall, frozen in mid-stride with his back to her and clutching the carpetbag. His shoulders were hunched in anticipation of a fresh fusillade. Smoke was still drifting from the weapon she aimed at him. Caroline used all her strength in her free hand to thumb back the heavy hammer and saw that the revolver cylinder rotated and clicked into place.
“Move on!” It sounded to her like it was coming from miles away through layers of cotton. She was shrieking though it sounded to her like a whisper. Patrice trotted toward the end of the hall, and she followed with the pistol raised at the back of his skull.
They descended the tight back staircase and reached the servants’ mudroom and the doorway to the alley that lay at the bottom. She urged Patrice to step outside and set the carpetbag on the cobbles. She ordered him away, out of her sight. A waggle of the weapon sent him running away down the alley toward the rear courtyard as fast as his big feet could carry him.
Caroline dropped the revolver into a voluminous pocket of her coat and hefted the carpetbag. Struggling with her double burden, she made for the street at the far end of the alley. She prayed that whoever the registrar went to for help capturing the mad German spy was too busy with the war to come back to the hotel with him.
Her hearing returned in the cold sting of the wind coming down the narrow passage between buildings. Stephen was still wailing in the basket. Beneath the sound of his cries, she could hear the muffled rumble of cannon shells landing somewhere nearby.
“Goddamn you, Samuel,” she whispered as she stepped out of the alley and onto a sidewalk crowded with foot traffic. They were all running in one direction. She turned to look at the way they came to see a dense tower of dirty gray smoke rising over the buildings to join the low shroud of winter clouds.
Caroline found shelter for herself and the baby in a restaurant set in the middle of a block of apartments. They were out of the wind and the cold and removed from the chaos on the streets. Soldiers were trying to keep order. They blocked entry to certain upscale streets, bayonets gleaming in the cold winter light. The mobs were encouraged to disperse, to go home and huddle in their basements and cellars. Some men, young men mostly, stood to engage the troops in argument or simply hurl abuse. Those were rewarded with rifle butts and bootheels and left to lie where they fell while their comrades fled, calling back dire threats of the people’s vengeance.
Within the dim confines of the restaurant, the political discussions continued at tables crowded with refugees from the street. They were refugees of a certain class only. Two sturdy waiters stood at the door, judging customers by their dress and deportment. Those who failed to meet the pair’s standards were refused entry. Those who insisted on entry despite their appearance or manner of speech were discouraged with fists.
She took a booth at the rear and ordered a cup of tea, a glass of wine, and a plate of olives and hard cheese. It was understood that only paying customers would be tolerated. She selected enough from the scant menu to allow her a few moments to order her thoughts and dropped far more coins on the table than necessary to pay for her order. Stephen also needed to be fed, and she
