They bore north to Spring Island. Two flashes of light from the boat. Three answering flashes from shore. The signal and countersign. The coast, small as it was, lay clear ahead. Rather than shooting the watermen down as strangers with no business putting in to shore, the waiting guards emerged from the dunes to help moor the boat.
As picnic-wrapped food from the saltbox kitchen was passed to the guards, Ben detailed everyone to their places on shore for the night.
When Ben assigned the water side of the operation, they all heard, “I want me a sinkbox.”
It was Lorton Dyze. This was the only command he uttered, de facto head man though he was.
Ben said, “It’s barely calm enough for a low boat like that. And it’ll be a long cold night. Stay aboard the Varina Davis. If this flaw makes up, and you take a wave—”
“Fine. I’ll anchor shallow where I can stand if it comes to that.” Dyze gave Ben a wicked look, and with it he warned that favoring this old man’s years was a grave mistake.
Ben had sense enough to acquiesce. “All right. Wade will tow you out.”
With that, Dyze picked up his scratched and dented plaid Thermos along with his pump gun. He reboarded the Varina Davis with a new spring in his step.
Ben deployed Reverend Mosby on the dunes near the hotel. Anybody landing from the southwest waters would be seen from up there. Broad shallows and muddy flats would protect many of the other approaches. Ben pegged Chalk for a soldier who’d want to boldly hit the shore quick and hard. Anything to avoid slogging sob wet through a hundred yards of boot-sucking mud. No slow stealthy insertions for this adversary. Not his style.
Before Reverend Mosby ascended the dunes, he cleared his throat as he did at the start of any Sunday sermon. At the familiar sound, everyone immediately stood in a loose circle and bowed their heads. Ben was impatient as he centered down for the exercise in prayer.
The preacher kept it simple. “Lord, please protect us all tonight. May we Your children be blessed and preserved from the doings of evil men who would bring sadness and ruin to us with their sinning bloodthirsty ways. And if tonight is our last night on earth and we should perish, please take us home to Your bosom where we might abide in peace everlasting. God bless us every one.” With that nod to Tiny Tim Cratchit, everyone amened.
From Wade Joyce’s boat at the shoreline, Dyze called out, “And God bless you, too, Brother Mosby!”
Those were the last words they’d ever hear from Lorton Dyze, though his shotgun had volumes yet to speak.
Reverend Mosby hefted his Remington, and strolled off to his post. Orville Hurley took one of the sneakboats. Though a German shepherd, Adolf boarded like a born water dog, and lay down still in the stern. Ben issued Barking Betty for Hurley to place down lengthwise along the keel. Man, boat, and headache gun would roar out with a quarter mile of hot-leaded hell for anyone who came asking. Hurley would get off just one big fusillade before landing the sneakboat to mop up with Adolf. If his winter supper table was any indication, he’d make the market gun’s single shot count.
Ephraim Teach vaulted into the Varina Davis with Wade Joyce and Dyze. Ben assigned him the other sinkbox. As tough as he was, Teach was small enough to lay out flat in the bottom of the strange little floating hide. Ben also knew the man was one of the company’s few who did not smoke. He would not tip his position in the water either by sparking a cigarette, or sending out acrid signals for the enemy to scent. Hitting Chalk hard before he even reached shore was essential to Ben’s plan.
Sonny Wright and Sam Nuttle got the other two sneak-boats. He issued Wright the monstrous market gun, Vesuvius, which swallowed and belched powder and shot like a ferrous dragon. In Wright’s hands, Vesuvius would hack a scarlet swath through most any trouble with a pulse.
Sam Nuttle got Chanticleer, the battery gun with the eight fanned-out barrels. That day he’d made certain every powder charge in it was fresh and dry. Wade Joyce was to tow Wright’s and Nuttle’s boats around to cover the approaches to the west side of Spring Island, along with Ephraim Teach. Unfortunately, the waters were deep enough there for Chalk to make a straight-in attack.
Ben positioned Hurley to the south in his sneak boat. He also sited Dyze in his sinkbox, and Wade Joyce’s deadrise to help cover the southern waters where the beach lay closest to the old hotel. That building would be Chalk’s objective. Soon Ben would add more bait to the structure to be sure Chalk tolled in all the way for his plan to gel.
Ben dispatched Art Bailey and Ellis to the western side of the island to stand guard on land. They’d be ready to come running if the first trouble appeared from the south as Ben expected.
Knocker Ellis hung back a moment. “You’ll need your spotter on this.”
Ben was grateful for the thought, but said, “We’ll need our west shore covered by the best men.”
Ellis clearly disagreed, but didn’t argue. “Okay Ben. But listen to me. Letting Chalk live won’t make an angel out of him or you. You’ll never teach that one a lesson.”
“Not planning to teach him a lesson, Ellis. I’m going to burn down the school.”
Ellis smiled. He headed west on foot with Art Bailey, who shouldered his golf club as well as his gun.
That left just Ben, and he had work to do. First, he ran to the old Barren Creek Hotel to deal with the bomb. When he was a child, the hotel always gave him the willies. It had big windows like empty eye sockets in a weather-bleached bone face. It brought his father’s corpse to mind. Anyone foolish enough to enter the place would likely die of spider or rat bites. Ben’s concerns about the structural integrity of the building were worse than usual tonight. He had not risked stationing anyone inside it. The old walls would not protect a soul from incoming bullets. There was not a stick of sound wood in the entire place. No, he thought, not enough to wad a musket.
His decision to place the gold boxes upstairs effectively baited the inn as if it were a two-story crab pot. Jimmy crabs and their sooks always fled upwards when they got nervous. He hoped the invaders would act the same, though drawn by greed, instead of driven by fear.
The bomb was now located with the other treasure coffins in a second-floor front parlor overlooking the beach. Though Ben’s small brigade had tromped up and down the stairs with the heavy boxes just that afternoon, he still stepped carefully. Who knew when the warped old treads would finally shatter? Just his luck it would happen tonight.
He reached the parlor safely. Though Ben had confided his methods to no one, he was now a relative expert at dealing with the bomb’s timer. At least he could start it and stop it. His father’s letter had held the clue. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to reset the timer back to its original count of twenty-four hours. Now, after he restarted the thing, he carefully closed its box, and hoisted it up onto the parlor’s broad front windowsill. The panes of glass and mullions were long gone. Plenty of room.
He suspended the flat metal keycard to the bomb’s box from a splinter in the middle of the window. It dangled there from its chain in plain sight, dully glinting as it twisted in the diminishing breeze.
In that moment, Ben thought he heard a chuckle through the walls, possibly from the attic overhead. He held still for a moment, listening, thinking of his father, and trying hard not to spook himself. Quiet; nothing more. Probably the wind blowing through loose shingles. Ben descended the rickety stairs, collected his gear.