The Choir Boats by Daniel Rabuzzi Page A

Shots were
fired. Someone shouted to Barnabas’s left, someone else to his right.
More shots. A chorus of yells. Barnabas leaped forward, forgetting
his pistol. His only goal was to free Tom. But Tom was gone, all was
dark. Barnabas slipped, fell heavily to one knee. Something whizzed
by his ear. He pulled out his pistol.
    “Barnabas?” Sanford was nearby. The two merchants made their
way to the far end of the ruins. After the shots and the cries, St.
Clare Minoresses was quiet.
    “Mr. Harris?” said Sanford, holding his pistol before him.
    “The same, sir,” came the reply. Others had gathered to Mr.
Harris. Even in the dark, Barnabas caught a glimpse of magenta on
a skullcap.
    “Salmius Nalmius,” said Barnabas. “Did we bag ’em?”
    “No.”
    “Come, sir,” said Harris. “It’s no good here. Best we return home
before the watch arrives.”
    Back at Mincing Lane, Barnabas sat staring into the small fire in the
partners’ office, a hand on Yikes. With his other hand he held the
key in his pocket.
    “The Cretched Man had at least five men with him,” said Harris.
“We had more. How did his men get away? We had them surrounded,
men posted in Goodman’s Fields and Heydon Square, as far up as
the Whitechapel High Street. No one passed.”
    “The Cretched Man can find doorways that others overlook,”
said Salmius Nalmius.
    Sanford thought of weapons against those who walked through
oblique doorways. Jawbone of an ass? Jericho trumpets?
    “No one hurt?” said Nexius Dexius.
    “No,” said Harris. “Except Mr. Fletcher, who has a big gash across
his forehead. Nothing serious. He is being tended to in the kitchen
as we speak.”
    Barnabas spoke, still staring at the small coals. “We failed. I
failed. They’ve taken Tom.”
    Sanford put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find him,” he said.
But, in truth, no one could think of how. The next step, if there was
one, would come from the Cretched Man, or it would not come at all.
Barnabas stared into the flames as the others departed.
    In the kitchen, the maid and the cook finished winding Fletcher’s
forehead with an old piece of linen. The maid had nearly fainted
when he came in, his face covered in blood.
    “How did I get this?” said Fletcher. “Well, I’d like to say I duelled
that scarlet devil myself to win this . . . but, to speak less dramaticably, that is, fully accurately in all respects, well, I tripped and fell
on a stone.”
    The cook smiled in relief. Mr. Fletcher, she thought, is just fine —
no one hurt bad would ever talk like he did now. The maid, shaken
by all the blood, was not so sure. Roaming the streets after dark in
pursuit of kidnappers could be left to others, it seemed to her, now
that Mr. Fletcher had been injured in the cause.
    Harris walked in as Fletcher was finishing. “Humbleness,” he
said, “is a great virtue but it can be overdone. Our Mr. Fletcher led
the charge against the enemy, braving the bullets. The ground was
rough uneven: falling over a rock was all too likely.”
    The maid looked with redoubled admiration at Fletcher, who
shot Harris a look of gratitude. The cook shooed everyone out of
the kitchen. As she banked the fire, she murmured a prayer to St.
Pancras, since his feast-day was just ending. “We’re in trouble, that
no one can deny,” she said. “Sweet saint, whose feast was ruined by
that eel-rawney, that witch-man, please help us save Master Tom.
And help preserve that Mister Fletcher from harm, for my niece’s
sake.”
    In her room, Sally held a mirror to her face with one hand, and
covered the bottom half of her face with the other hand. She nearly
saw Tom: the flashing hazel eyes, the high cheekbones, the dark hair
that never sat where it was supposed to. She began to cry. “Tom’s
taken. We cannot get him back in London. What will we do?”
    Isaak licked her face, jumped down to lunge at a dust mote.
Watching Isaak attack invisible foes, Sally laughed in her tears.
“We’ll go to