Chapter Text
“When’s the last time we busted out these numbers, huh?”
Hosea turned around from the parlor mirror to see Dutch standing there in his finest black coat and trousers, the collar of his white shirt stiffly starched, gold watch chain hanging from the pocket of his blood red waistcoat. Hosea recognized it, of course. It was the outfit Dutch had worn to Hosea’s wedding, and it caused a brief pang to sting Hosea’s heart. Oh, how he missed her!
“Look at that,” he smiled. “He cleans up alright.”
Dutch shrugged assuredly. “Gotta make sure your plan goes off without a hitch.” He crossed the floor to Hosea and straightened his bow tie. “You don’t look too shabby yourself.”
Hosea only ever wore this blue suit for robberies of upscale establishments. It likely wasn’t the best option for the Lemoyne heat, however. Hosea could already feel beads of sweat starting to form under his collar. Maybe he was already getting nervous.
Dutch could see it. He slipped his hand behind Hosea’s neck, firmly, reassuringly. “Now, what have you been telling me this whole time?” he said. “This plan is the right plan. If it’ll be done, it’ll be done this way. And it will be done.”
Hosea wanted to say “I know,” but he couldn’t make himself do it. Instead he just nodded, looking vaguely downward as he felt the warmth of Dutch’s hand leave his neck. “The hardest parts’ll be up to you,” he said. He brushed a bit of dust off of Dutch’s lapels. “You’re gonna have seven boys out there all lookin’ to you for what to do next.”
“I know.”
“I know you know. Just…” Hosea sighed and rested his hands on Dutch’s shoulders. No matter how much time passed, it would always be there. There was still that small, heavy bit of fear in his chest that something important was about to be lost. It would never go away, because it could come to reality at any moment, as it had before. “We’re doing this to keep our family safe,” he said. “Please… remember that.”
“Of course,” said Dutch. “I promise.” He reached up and touched Hosea’s face, a brief, simple gesture. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Each let his hands fall to his sides. Dutch pulled out his pocket watch. “Still got some time,” he said. “Everyone getting ready?”
“Think so,” said Hosea. “They should be.”
“Better make sure,” Dutch smirked. He started for the door. “You find Arthur, I ain’t seen him this morning. I’ll check on the boys outside.”
Hosea nodded.
“And - Hosea?”
“What?”
“Relax.”
It was hard to tell if Dutch’s unease from the previous night had dissipated or if he was just as nervous as Hosea. He always was such a good actor.
Arthur wasn’t in his room. He wasn’t by the campfire or at Pearson’s wagon either.
Hosea found him sitting on the edge of the dock with Charles sitting beside him. Charles held a small block of wood and his knife, whittling something, while Arthur sat with his journal open on his lap, one leg tucked up and the other dangling over the side, the tip of his boot just breaking the surface of the water as he swung it gently back and forth.
It was clear to Hosea what they were doing. After all, he’d just done it himself. Under the pretense of washing some dishes at Pearson’s wagon, Hosea lingered, keeping one eye on them.
As far as he was ever aware, there were only two people whom Arthur had ever deliberately sought out so often for no other reason than the pleasure of their company: Mary Gillis and Charles Smith. Hosea could even recall a time, nearly ten years ago now, when Arthur had shared with Mary a similar moment to the one he was now sharing with Charles. They had found some solitary spot away from the bustle of camp (beneath a large tree, if Hosea remembered correctly, large enough to hide them from anyone who wasn’t specifically looking for them) to sit and talk hours away together, almost unaware of the passage of time.
Now unfortunately Arthur rarely had hours to spare, as did Charles, and when they did the passage of time was painfully insistent. But Hosea had still noticed small moments here and there when little escapes such as the one happening now were not possible - a few extra minutes around the campfire after a meal, a cup of coffee shared in the morning, a request or volunteer to accompany the other on an errand that might have been a one-person job if Hosea had asked Arthur to take Bill with him.
What was interesting now, though, was that as the two of them sat there, little wood shavings falling from Charles’ knife into the water, Arthur’s pencil scratching across the pages of his journal, they weren’t speaking at all. They were sitting in perfect, complete silence. And yet, by Arthur’s relaxed shoulders and Charles’ easy posture it was clear neither of them felt any discomfort about this.
That was one major difference between Mary and Charles when it came to Arthur. One of his largest sources of anxiety concerning Mary had been that he “never knew what to say.” He had lamented that fact to Hosea often enough. But now something had lifted that pressure off of him, allowed him to sit quietly with that man beside him, sharing time and space and company. Yes, Mary had made Arthur feel happy, no doubt about it, but Charles made Arthur feel safe .
Alright, that was enough time.
Hosea spent the remaining time after shooing Arthur and Charles away to get ready by helping hitch the horses to the two wagons they would be using, the stolen stagecoach he and Abigail would ride into town on, and the plain covered wagon that would hold the money that was sitting in the vault at that moment. As he walked through the main camp he passed Abigail in her long dark dress, kneeling down to be at eye level with her son, her hands on his shoulders.
“You be good to Miss Mary-Beth, now, you hear?” she was saying.
“Can’t I come with you, Mama?” Jack asked.
“No, you can’t,” she said firmly. “Your father and I will be back soon. Your job is to stay here and be good. Can you do that?”
Jack nodded solemnly, but Hosea could see his bottom lip starting to tremble.
Hosea found John sitting at a table, cleaning his pistol. “You ready?” he asked him.
John glanced up at him. “Just about.” He continued cleaning his gun, then looked back up at Hosea when he realized he was still there. “What?”
“You should say goodbye to your son,” Hosea intimated.
“Huh?”
Hosea sat down next to John and indicated Jack sitting in the dirt some distance away, playing with rocks and sticks. “That little boy has no idea what we’re about to set off to do, and he doesn’t need to,” he said. “But what he does need to know is why we’re doing it.” He gave John a meaningful look. “Why you’re doing it.”
John’s face turned serious, and he holstered his gun. He looked across the way and watched the little boy play. Hosea could see his eyes moving across him. He was doing what he always did whenever he laid eyes on Jack, searching the child for pieces of himself, half afraid of what he would find.
The fear was unwarranted. Young Jack was the best of both his parents combined. He had his mother’s freckles sprinkled across his nose and his father’s deep brown eyes, Abigail’s kindness and curiosity and John’s bravery and loyalty. Abigail, he knew, was trying her hardest to keep him from inheriting something else of theirs, though - their poor childhoods. At this she was succeeding tremendously so far, given the circumstances. But the way John looked at his son made his worries all too clear - that, due to no fault of her own, she would fail.
John sighed. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” said Hosea.
“What difference would it make?”
“For you? That I don’t know. But for him?” He pointed at Jack, who was staring up at the sky, watching the clouds. “All of it.”
John watched him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Yeah, alright.” He stood up, slowly, and Hosea did the same. John turned back to him. “I am trying, you know.”
Hosea nodded. “Well.” He patted John on the shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “Don’t stop.”
John gave him one single tight nod, then started toward where Jack was playing. His shoulders rose and fell in a deep breath and, as he approached, Jack lifted his head, and his round eyes lit up.
Charles and Bill were seated in the driver’s seat of the covered wagon, Javier, Lenny, Micah, and John were mounting up, and Dutch was giving The Count a last once-over with a brush by the time Arthur came pushing through the double doors of Shady Belle.
“You got everything, Arthur?” Dutch called to him.
“Sure.”
“So,” said Hosea, climbing into his spot on the seat of the stagecoach with Abigail beside him. “We rob ourselves a bank and within six weeks we’re living life anew in a tropical idyll spending the last of our days as banana farmers?” When no one laughed at his joke he changed his tone. “Let’s get out of this godforsaken place and go rob ourselves a bank!” With whoops and shouts and flicks of reins, they sped off down the dirt road, Hosea and Abigail in the lead, Charles and Bill behind them, and the others on horseback bringing up the rear.
That far in front of them, Hosea could only barely hear Dutch’s voice over the pounding of hooves and the rattling of wagon wheels, saying something about how someone, probably John, was “devoid of imagination” and how they would “take it from the people who take it from us.” When he said “The plan, one last time,” he raised his voice even louder.
“Hosea and Abigail draw out the police, we go in calm and fast. John and Lenny secure the front doors, Javier takes the side exit. Bill, Micah, and Charles control the crowd. Me and Arthur deal with the bank manager and vault. Got it?”
Replies of “got it.”
“Gentlemen, let us go ahead,” Hosea shouted back.
“How long do you need?” asked Dutch.
“Not long. Fifteen minutes or less,” Hosea replied. “You’ll know by the noise.” He turned and gave a wink to Abigail. “Any problems, we’ll see you in camp.”
“Good luck, gentlemen,” Abigail called over her shoulder.
“Ride on!” came Dutch’s voice, and with a hi-yah! Hosea flicked the reins and the carriage pulled away from the rest of the group.
“Do you really believe that in six weeks’ time we’ll all be lounging on a tropical beach somewhere?” Abigail asked.
“Well, we can’t stay here, that much is obvious,” said Hosea. “But Tahiti…”
“So you don’t believe it.”
Hosea chuckled. He didn’t believe it, of course. He doubted anyone really believed it, even Dutch himself. The idea of shipping off all twenty members of the gang out of the country to be deposited on a remote island that no one knew much about with absolutely no plan except a vague “become mango farmers” idea was positively absurd to him. That night, when the way for the gang had been paved financially, he would bring out the big map of the United States and he and Dutch would roll it out on the dining room table at Shady Belle and they’d decide where the coming weeks would take them. Montana, perhaps, or maybe even as far west as California or Oregon. Arthur would like that, he thought. To be back where those flowers he liked grew.
“To be honest, I don’t think I’ll believe any of us are making it out of this mess until we actually have,” Hosea said. “We have to go somewhere, and we need money to go anywhere. And to keep us alive once we get there.” He looked over at Abigail next to him, dark hair tied back in a neat bun underneath her best hat. “So how about let’s you and me worry about making something blow up first, and we’ll figure out what comes next later. Okay?”
Abigail shrugged, unconvinced. “If you say so.”
At this point Hosea was driving the carriage under the large metal sign designating the St. Denis city limits. He reined in the horses and they slowed to a trot as the cobblestones of the city streets rumbled under the carriage wheels. “Now remember, just like we practiced,” he said. “Shouldn’t be any trouble, but keep your eyes out just in case.”
“Relax, I know what I’m doin’,” said Abigail.
“I know you do,” said Hosea. “Now just-” He raised his voice conspicuously. “Just calm down, dear, let’s - let’s keep our heads on straight.”
Abigail got the hint and began to play along. She raised her voice to match Hosea’s. “Don’t you tell me to calm down, Daddy, I swear to god-”
Hosea pulled the stagecoach over to the side of the road and parked it next to the Bastille saloon. The horses had barely stopped before Abigail was clambering out of the seat and heading for the saloon. “Now hold on just a minute-” Hosea began, climbing down the side, but Abigail had beaten him to it.
She burst through the double doors of the saloon, a look of pure murderous rage on her face. “Where is he?” she screamed, much to the surprise of the patrons of the saloon sitting at the bar and tables. “Where is that no-good, two-timing, numbskull of a man of mine?”
Hosea pushed through the doors behind her and stopped, wide-eyed, when he saw every single person in the saloon looking at them. He waved a hand and gave an awkward laugh. “Hi there, folks,” he said nervously. “Don’t mind us, we’re just -” He grabbed Abigail’s arm. “Lizzie, honey, let’s just leave. We don’t want to disturb these fine folks, now, do we?”
Abigail wrenched her arm from Hosea’s grip. “I ain’t leaving unless I’m dragging that worthless bastard out with me by his ear!” With that, she flounced through the saloon, skirts swishing, toward the stairs.
Hosea chuckled uneasily, his gaze flitting between the discomfited looks of the saloon patrons. “I am so sorry, ladies and gentlemen, just mortified, I am,” he said, placing a hand on his heart contritely. “You’ll have to excuse my hot-headed daughter and her, ah - poor taste in men, she gets that from her dear departed mother - Lizzie!” He started for the stairs after Abigail, who ignored his cries.
“I know you’re up there!” she shouted up the stairs as she climbed them. “When I catch you, John Marlowe-”
“Lizzie!” Hosea pleaded, following close behind her. A quick glance behind them was proof enough that their ruse had been successful - the various looks of disgust and discomfort confirmed that nobody was going to be coming up those stairs anytime soon.
Abigail continued the commotion upstairs (“I oughta take this two-dollar ring off my finger and shove it right down your lying throat - don’t you touch me, Daddy-”) until she and Hosea reached and climbed the stairs to the roof.
Hosea shut the door behind Abigail. “Nicely done.”
“Easy as pie,” she replied. She scanned the area, left to right, before reaching behind a crate, finding the small device just where they had left it some days prior. It was a short, thick length of pipe, sealed on both ends with metal caps, with a thin piece of string sticking out from a small hole drilled in the top. Hosea had gotten the pieces from Seamus and spent a careful afternoon assembling them while Dutch had been in his room. He had taken great pleasure in imagining the surprise on his face when he learned just what this “distraction” he had been planning entailed. He checked his pocket watch. Right on time. Standing on the roof of the saloon and shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, Hosea could just barely see the roof of the bank and, across the street, the forms of five men, standing, waiting. He smiled to himself.
Abigail had placed the device upright on the roof floor, the string standing straight up. Hosea reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches. He held it out to Abigail, bowing magnanimously. “Care to do the honors?”
“With pleasure.” Abigail took the box and struck a match. She lit the string and the two of them ran back to the door, ducking inside as the fuse burned down, the spark disappearing inside the pipe.
Hosea was holding the door open between them and the device, and Abigail peeked around it. “Is it goin’?”
“Just give it a minute.”
Right on cue, the bomb exploded with a tremendous bang that echoed through the streets. Abigail quickly took cover behind the door again, holding her hat firmly to her head. When the debris had settled, Hosea moved the door out of the way for them to see the thick plume of black smoke billowing into the air and the clamour that was already forming on the streets below. Hosea grinned from ear to ear. “How’s that for a distraction?”
“Damn right,” said Abigail, still holding her hat on her head with one hand.
Hosea allowed himself one more moment to admire the smoke dissipating in the sky. “Beautiful,” he said to himself. “Alright, we better get movin’. C’mon.”
They hurried back down the stairs to find veritable pandemonium in the saloon. Patrons were rushing out of their rooms and down the stairs, the front doors bottlenecking them as they poured out onto the street. Hosea went with the crowd to the stairs, Abigail close behind. He had only taken a few steps downstairs when he noticed, against all the people trying to get out of the building, two men trying to get in. Two men in red vests, grey coats, and black bowler hats. Two men Hosea instantly recognized as agents Milton and Ross.
A pit opened in the bottom of his stomach. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind in an instant. The Pinkertons weren’t supposed to know they were even in St. Denis. Had the St. Denis police tipped them off? Did they know they were going for the bank?
Had Hosea been right?
It was at that moment that Milton, in pushing through the people streaming out of the saloon, looked up through the glass doors and made direct eye contact with Hosea on the landing.
Hosea abruptly turned on a dime and all but pushed Abigail back up the stairs. “What’s the matter?” she asked in confusion. Hosea took her arm and hurried her to the back of the building.
“Out the window. Now.”
His sudden severity surprised Abigail. “What?”
Hosea pushed open the window at the end of the hall. “Don’t be seen. Get out of here. Steal a horse. Get back to camp, quick as you can.”
Abigail’s brows knit together. “Hosea, what’s goin’ on?”
Hosea put a hand on her back, ushering her to the window to sit in the window jamb. “Do what I tell you. Go. Now.” He helped her get herself through the window and watched as she carefully lowered herself down and dropped to the alleyway below. She brushed the dust off her skirt and looked up at him expectantly, but he waved her away. “Git!” he hissed. Abigail complied and, with a quick glance back up at Hosea, darted through the alley and out of sight.
Only now did Hosea carefully sit on the edge of the window, lifting a leg over to exit himself. He was waiting, though, in the back of his mind. He knew he wouldn’t get far. So it wasn’t a surprise at all when he heard the familiar voice behind him.
“Making your escape, Matthews? Or are you planning on doing society a favor?”
Slowly, Hosea stood and turned around. Milton stood at the top of the stairs, Ross behind him, two other Pinkertons behind both. Milton had his pistol raised, pointed at Hosea’s face.
“Put your hands up.”
“I’m unarmed. As you can see.”
“Put. Your hands. Up.”
Hosea slowly raised his hands, showing Milton his palms.
“Where are the others?”
Hosea shook his head. “No others. It’s just me.”
Milton tsked. “And there went your one chance.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No.” Keeping his gun trained to Hosea’s head, Milton crossed the floor and grabbed Hosea by the back of his shirt collar.
Hosea’s mind was still racing. The bank robbery would be well underway at this point. Maybe if he could just buy some time…
“How did you know to come here?” he asked Milton.
Milton chuckled callously. “Oh, Mr. Matthews,” he said. “You have much more pressing matters to be concerned about.”
Milton dragged Hosea down the stairs and out the front doors, Ross and the other Pinkertons trailing behind them. A wagon was parked outside. The two Pinkertons climbed into the driver’s seat and Ross and Milton got into the back, forcing Hosea along with them.
“Drive,” commanded Milton, and the horses started, turning a corner and taking them around the block to the street the bank stood on. Pinkertons lined the street, positioned behind several large crates that had been placed there. Looking up, Hosea could see more Pinkertons standing on the balconies and roofs of the buildings across the street from the bank, and his heart sank. This was no stroke of luck or pure coincidence. This had been anticipated and planned for long in advance. They had known they were coming.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you,” Milton growled, “that if you speak one single word or step one toe out of line, I will kill you.”
Lips drawn tight against his teeth in vexation, Hosea could only nod.
As the wagon pulled in, Hosea caught a glimpse of two men pushing through the doors of the bank. John and Lenny, who had been standing guard outside. They shouted indistinctly to the others inside, and, as Milton pulled Hosea out of the wagon, he could see the hurried shapes of men inside approaching the windows.
“Come out, it’s over!” Milton was yelling. He shoved Hosea in front of him, into the street, the barrel of his pistol pressed to the back of his head. “Dutch, get out here! Get out here now!”
Through the large front window of the bank, Hosea could clearly see Micah, Arthur, and Dutch, peeking out from behind cover and into the street. For a fraction of a second, he caught a glimpse of Dutch’s face, contorted in anger behind his bandanna, before Dutch pressed himself against the inner wall again.
“Mr. Milton…” came Dutch’s voice from inside, shouting across the street. “Let my friend go, or folks… they are going to get shot unnecessarily.”
“Your friend?” Milton laughed scornfully. “Why would I do that?”
“Come on, Milton!” Dutch persisted.
“It’s over,” said Milton. “No more bargains. No more deals.”
Even from across the street, Hosea could tell Dutch’s mind was going a million miles an hour. “Mr. Milton…” he said. “This is America. You can always cut a deal.”
What would it take for Dutch to stop trying to bargain his way out? What would have to be on the line? His face to the road, Hosea looked up. He could see Arthur’s eyes darting from Milton to Dutch to him, his brow low and set, and back to Dutch.
Milton’s voice was full of contempt. “I’ve given you enough chances.” He cocked the gun, and Hosea felt himself flinch.
“Alright!” Dutch blurted, a hint of desperation betraying itself in his voice. “Alright… Mr. Milton, I will come out there. Give me one minute… and I will come out there.”
Hosea hadn’t been expecting that. He tried to raise his head to get a better look at what was going on in the bank, but the barrel of Milton’s gun pushed it back down again.
“You get ten seconds,” said Milton. “Ten… nine…”
Hosea could glimpse movement from inside the bank. Bill rushing to the back of the room. Dutch handing the saddlebag over his shoulder off to Micah.
“Eight… seven… six…”
For as long as he had known him, Hosea had known Dutch’s greatest strength and his greatest failing to be one and the same. He was willing to do anything.
“Five… four…”
What would be the consequence this time? What new direction would Dutch send the gang spinning off in? Hosea couldn’t predict it. He never could.
“Three… two…”
When it came down to the wire, when all other options were exhausted, when lives were on the line, what would Dutch van der Linde do?
“One.”