Free Strange Yesterday by Howard Fast

such pistols. My father was a man—but you would not understand. Come, let us go!”
    Her mother would have risen, but the expression upon her face quelled her. The older woman was broken. When John Preswick had entered the room, there was a regalness in her manner, in her bearing, unequaled even by her daughter. But something had occurred, something that passed by him. In a heap, she huddled in a chair, sobbed into her hands.
    As they went through the doors into the chamber with the staircase, he said: “I should not care to bind you or to gag you. If you will give me your word—?”
    â€œI shall not scream or attempt to flee, although that should be customary and even absolute in the second act. But is it the second act?” There was a very short, thin smile upon her lips.
    â€œVery well then.” He wondered to himself whether, had he been she, he would have been able to smile. He knew that smile—how, he could not say.
    One of the men was awaiting him; the other was gone. John Preswick asked of the money as they went out. It was safe. And of Lennox, he asked. He would already be aboard the ship. John Preswick nodded, and they left the house. If it had not been so dark, he might have noticed a small bronze plate set into the molding beside the door, upon which was inscribed: J OHN P RESWICK : SILKS AND TOBACCO .
    But the night was dark and the plate was small and John Preswick had other things upon his mind, divers business, as kidnaping (rape, one might say), robbery, assault; so it happened that the inscription remained unnoticed by him.
    In his place at the rear of the sedan chair, the second seaman was waiting; the one with John Preswick took his position at the front. Drawing the curtains, John Preswick motioned to the girl. “The seat is soft,” he told her. “It was the best chair I could find.” After she stepped in, he closed the curtains, and as the men set off, he walked at her side.
    â€œInez Preswick,” he mused to himself. “That is her name, and for a Jewess it is rather strange.” But it was something of a common name. The same name was his—here in a three-storied house in Cherry Street, and there at the Steer’s Horn. Shrugging again, he demissed the thought and trudged along beside the chair. It occurred to him, a bit later, that Lennox was an extraordinary man—not only had he timed the thing beautifully, but it had worked itself without any hitch. That such a business could have been done without a sound in the very heart of New York was almost beyond belief. Even now he expected to hear the guns of the watch whip through the night.
    But it did not come until they were almost at the docks, and then they quickened their pace to a run, springing towards the waiting boat. Behind them, the relayed calls of the watch echoed past the darkness, nearer and yet nearer. As they put down the chair, John Preswick drawing her rudely out, she said: “I shall scream now.” He laughed in her face.
    Once she cried out; then he clapped a hand over her mouth and sprang with her down to the longboat. Two men were at the oars, and the two who had been with him, joined them; the four pairs of arms sent the boat flashing through the water. The cries were almost upon them as they passed Castle William, sliding out into the bay. Lanterns flashed. If a boat was following, it would soon be lost in the night. The bay was wide.
    At the prow there was a bundle which he thought might well be Lennox, who had disappeared with great dispatch. John Preswick grinned.
    â€œWhere are you taking me?” she demanded, afraid for the first time.
    Without replying, he laughed. One hand was upon the tiller, the other clenched about her arm. The breath of the four men straining at the oars hissed; the shouting upon the docks grew fainter; at last it died away completely.
    â€œYou are hurting me,” she said to him.
    Apologizing brusquely, he released her