The rumbling and splash of giant mortars pouring out concrete, the yells of the straw bosses and the scraping of shovels and clatter of iron wooden-wheeled barrows kept Sam from hearing the explosions that came a half hour later. He knew nothing of what had happened until von Richthofen came running toward him again. Sam felt as if he would come loose at the joints and
lump into a puddle. John had tested out the new guns on the Chancers. A hundred Mark I flintlocks had killed almost five hundred men and women in three minutes. John himself had fired and loaded ten times, using the last five bullets to finish off the wounded.
About thirty women, the most beautiful, had been spared. These had been taken to John’s palace.
Long before he reached the water’s edge, Sam saw the big crowd gathered around the grailstone. He sent Lothar ahead of him to clear the way. The crowd parted before them, like the Red Sea before Moses, he thought, but the Red Sea was before him after he got through the parting. The bodies were piled against each other, covered with blood, their flesh torn, bones shattered by the big-caliber bullets. In his ninety-seven years of life Sam had never grown accustomed to the silence of the dead. It seemed to hang over them like an invisible and chilling cloud. The mouth that would not speak again, the brain that could not think . . .
It did no good to remember that tomorrow these same people, in fresh and healthy bodies, would be up and doing somewhere along the banks. The effect of death could not be diluted with intellectualizing.
John was issuing orders about the disposal of the bodies to the soap and skin factories. He grinned at Sam like a bad boy caught pulling the cat’s tail.
“This is a massacre!” Sam shouted. “A massacre! Unjustified! Unforgivable! There was no reason for it, you bloody-minded, killing beast! That’s all you ever have been, you murdering dog, all you ever will be! Swine! Swine! Swine!”
John lost his smile and took a step back as Sam, his hands clenched, moved close to him. The huge massiveboned Zaksksromb, holding a big club of oak with steel spikes set in its end, started toward Sam.
Lothar von Richthofen shouted, “None of that—leave him alone or I call Joe Miller! And I’ll shoot the first man who makes a move toward Sam.” Sam looked behind him. Lothar was holding a big pistol
n his hands, and it was pointed at John.
John’s dark skin paled, and his eyes opened wide. Even the light-blue irises seemed to become paler.
Later Sam wished that he had told Lothar to fire. Even though the hundred pistoleers were John’s men, they might have hesitated if John had been killed at the first shot. They were surrounded by armed men and women, most of whom were not fond of John and almost all of whom were shocked by the slaughter. They might have withheld their fire. Even if they had not, Sam could have thrown himself down to the ground and the first shots might have missed. After that, who knew what would have happened?
But it was no good fantasizing. He had not given the order.
Nevertheless, he had to take some strong and immediate action. If he let John get away with this, he would lose everybody’s respect, not to mention his own. And he might as well resign his Consulship. In which case, he would lose the Riverboat.
He turned his head slightly, though not so much that he could not keep an eye on John. He saw Livy’s white face and big dark eyes; she looked as if she were going to vomit. He ignored her and called to Cyrano de Bergerac, who was standing on the edge of the inner circle, his long rapier in his hand.
“Captain de Bergerac!” Sam pointed at John. “Arrest the co-Consul.”
John was holding a pistol in one hand, but he did not bring up its muzzle.
He said in a mild voice, “I protest. I told them to get out at once and they refused to go. I warned them and they still refused—so I ordered them shot. What difference does it make, really? They will be alive tomorrow.”