Glancing over at the rest of our group, I could see that they, too, were impressed by the speed and maneuverability of the wondrous little craft we were riding in: the Doctor, Mr. Moore and the Isaacsons were all taking turns peppering Lieutenant Kimball with questions what were often hard to hear over the ever-greater din of the boat’s powerful engines. As for me, I had no questions, only more emotions, ones as irresistible as the floating weapon we were traveling aboard. When we turned north to enter the waters of the Hudson and I saw all those spots on the waterfront where I’d so often come to brood about Kat, I turned those feelings loose, letting tears of sadness, rage, and determination mix with those what were being drawn out of my eyes by the powerful rush of air what was slamming ever harder against our faces.
“We’ve got you now, Libby Hatch,” I began to whisper to myself through clenched teeth. “We’ve got you, we’ve got you!”
CHAPTER 55
Just as the Doctor’d figured, the gigantic, two-story housing of the White Star Line pier provided us with the kind of cover an ordinary, open wharf couldn’t have. As the torpedo boats closed in on Tenth Street, the commander of our vessel ordered our little fleet to slow up some, and then we cruised quietly in toward the waterfront, slipping alongside the long, green shed of the pier and tying up on pilings near some ladders what led up from the water to a doorway into the structure. Leaving behind about half of the crews to watch over the boats-but taking all the additional sailors what’d been assigned to the job-we scrambled quickly up the rungs of those perilous approaches and then into the bottom floor of the pier: the baggage claim area, an enormous, open space what was usually a madhouse of crazed activity. Empty as it was that night, it had a very ghostly feel to it, and for the first time my feeling that we were on an unstoppable mission began to mix with a healthy dose of anxiousness. The few guards and White Star officials what were in the place had, it seemed, been alerted to our coming, as they cooperated with Mr. Roosevelt (whose face was all the identification he needed in New York City, just as it would soon be all over the United States and the world) by guiding us out to the front door without any questions at all.
As we walked, the Doctor pulled alongside me. “I have not,” he said quietly, “brought up the subject of your sudden departure from Ballston Spa, Stevie, given the events of the day. Nor shall I do so now. I ask only this: please stay close to someone larger or better armed than yourself at all times. It’s not that I doubt your ability to defend yourself, but this woman-”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I said, trying to reassure both him and myself as we moved out of the pier and into the darkness of the waterfront. “I got no ideas about going up against her alone. Though I might like to.”
The Doctor reached around to give me a quick embrace. “I know. But she is a creature of infinite resource. In fact, even with this force, I hope that we are adequately prepared.”
There were some gangs of longshoremen roaming the waterfront, but they knew better than to tangle with or mouth off to fifty or sixty armed sailors who looked as full of purpose as our men did. We decided to stick to West Street, what ran alongside the river, for the five blocks between the pier and Bethune Street, figuring that the Dusters wouldn’t be expecting anybody to enter their territory from that direction and we’d be able to at least get close to Libby Hatch’s place without being detected. We hadn’t gone two blocks, though, before dark, mysterious shapes began to move around on the inland side of the wide street. They appeared in pairs at first, but those pairs quickly grew to become packs, the way mangy, tight-ribbed dogs’ll do when they spot a possible source of food. It didn’t seem like they had any idea of why we’d come, because before long the usual idiot taunts and challenges began to echo out across to us: it was just gang members pissing on their territory to let other animals know it was taken, I knew that-but I also knew that, given our mission, it could quickly turn into something much worse.
By the time we’d reached Eleventh Street, the shadows across from us had grown to about fifteen in number, and they were feeling bold enough to start throwing rocks and bottles over our way. Mr. Roosevelt and Lieutenant Kimball weren’t standing for any such behavior, and they made as much clear pretty quick: as soon as the first missile landed, Mr. Roosevelt barked out, “Kimball!”
The lieutenant responded by turning to one of his officers. “Lieutenant Commander Simmons! Take ten men, sir, and deal with those persons!”
Now, I didn’t want to pipe up and tell those navy boys their business; but it seemed to me that this might’ve been a wrong move, being as the Dusters were not likely to be expecting such a response, and the forcefulness of it could very well tip them off to the fact that they weren’t just watching a party of sailors on shore leave making their way uptown for a night of gambling and whoring. Still, there was no small satisfaction in watching one of the torpedo boat commanders and his detachment move at double time across the cobblestones of West Street, sidearm and nightsticks at the ready, and plow into the burny-crazed, confused Dusters with such determination that what followed couldn’t really have been classified as a fight. One or two of the gang members took nice shots across the head, and a couple more got good swift pokes in the gut; but the rest, alarmed by the sight of the lieutenant commander’s pistol, just ran. Unfortunately, I knew only too well that they were running back to Hudson Street, to fetch reinforcements and weapons and let Goo Goo Knox and Ding Dong know what was going on.
“Here we go,” I whispered to myself nervously, as we crossed West Street at Bethune and the detachment what’d sent the first group of Dusters running rejoined us. All of a sudden the block and a half to Libby Hatch’s house was looking very long to me, now that contact had been made, and when I saw Miss Howard and Lucius pull out their revolvers, I decided to move in behind them. Cyrus, meanwhile, slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket and got his brass knuckles on: something ugly, we both knew, was most definitely coming.
We saw a few more shadowy figures bolt out of doorways and alleys on the north side of Bethune Street, and also out of the construction site of the new Bell Telephone Laboratories on our side. The sailors with us seemed to take all this scurrying as a sign that the Dusters had already gotten the message and weren’t going to be any trouble; unfortunately, we civilians knew better. Like most gangs, the Dusters didn’t favor any fight where they didn’t enjoy an advantage in both numbers and weapons, and it was pretty obvious that they were just regrouping, probably for some kind of a stand at Washington Street. This collecting of forces would, I was sure, only take place after a considerable amount of burny blowing, which meant that when we faced the gang they’d be wound up to the point where they figured they’d be a match for the entire U.S. Navy, let alone the few men what were now entering their territory.