Matthew woke and tested his bindings in utter darkness. They cut into his wrists and held his legs tight.
This isn't Fairmont's building. It's closer to the water. The smell of the sea covered everything. A rat scurried across his legs.
Matt pushed himself up and sent a rat flying when tried to climb into his lap. He had lived on ships and waterfronts too long to be afraid of rats. They were just nuisances. What frightened him was Fairmont going to so much trouble to get weapons into the south.
I know all the contracts, legalities, and other details of wartime trade. All that ended with the surrender.
"The war will not last forever," his uncle had told him. "When it ends, we will get out of shipping weapons. It has been a good cash haul, but the company you keep is as bad as slave traders, sometimes worse. Better we get back to fancy furniture and luxury goods."
All our suppliers accepted the end of the contracts, but this one. Fairmont shipping must still have a buyer. They wouldn't go to all this trouble if they didn't. Holdouts maybe? Don't matter. No weapons are going to get through any southern port with the Union Army overseeing things. The buyer must be in Galveston, L.D. shipping, maybe? They paid in gold, not confederate dollars.
Workers came in and out after the sun rose. They carried crates back and forth around Matt in an orderly fashion. He called them a few times to get water, but his requests were ignored.
Stiletto came for him several hours into the morning. He cut Matt's feet loose and led him to an office on the far side of the building on the upper floor.
He stopped at the door–had to be pushed in. Four men waited for him. They were all dressed in deep blue uniforms, not union blue, and nothing he recognized as British either.
"Young man," the one who had more gold braid than the rest said in a businesslike manner. "You have caused us a lot of trouble. We have been counting on your uncle's services. Now that he is being difficult, we are way behind schedule."
"That is not my problem," Matt said. "The war is over. There is no reason to be moving weapons to the south anymore."
The man smiled thinly. "Who said anything about your silly little war? You don't seem to know who you are dealing with. We have our own agenda. Your little war was just a useful distraction to cover our work."
"Now," he said, pulling a piece of paper out of a drawer in his desk. "You are going to write a note to that brother of yours. You are going to tell him you are well and that you will stay well as long as the next shipment of weapons leaving London tomorrow gets to Galveston. He will escort the cargo. As soon as we hear he has left, we will send you to America with the next shipment. I know that does not follow your plans to attend Cambridge this year, but the League is more interested in your seamanship skills."
He shoved the paper across the desk to Matthew. Another man dropped a pot of ink and a quill within his reach. Matthew took a measure of the men around him and had to stifle the urge to physically shutter. These men were colder and meaner than any wharf thug or Caribbean pirate he had ever come across. The look in their eyes scared him to death.
Matt picked up the quill and started writing. As he did, he saw something out the dirty window that gave him a moment's hope. He deliberately ruined the page with an inkblot and asked for another sheet. The leader gave an irritated grunt and pulled out another sheet of paper for him. Carefully, Matthew penned his message to Mark and prayed his brother understood.