Lincoln's Wizard Read online

  Working quickly, he scooped out a blob of the sticky black stuff and smeared it inside the valve. The flow of gas slowed, but didn’t stop altogether. He’d need something to plug it. He turned to call down to Davis, but a gust of wind hit the lifeboat and it lurched beneath him. Braxton grabbed onto the net and tried to hold himself steady as the partially deflated gas bag twisted and bucked beneath him. The little can of pitch went spinning into the darkness after his coat.

  Braxton swore again. He was beginning to get good at it.

  “You alive up there, sir?” Sergeant Young called from below.

  “Yes,” Braxton called back. “Almost done.”

  Think, he admonished himself. There had to be something he could do. A thick blob of pitch still clung to the valve; he just needed something to seal it up with.

  He pushed himself back up to a sitting position, leaving a long, dark stain where his arm had been. Braxton held up his arm quickly, fearing the can had cut him during its unscheduled egress. All he found, however, was a trail of pitch running from his elbow to his wrist.

  He jerked his knife from its sheath and, working as carefully as he could, cut the sleeve from his shirt. Rolling it into a sticky wad, he jammed it into the brass valve. Turning it back and forth, he wedged the fabric plug in place then lowered his ear to the hole.

  He couldn’t be sure over the wind, but he didn’t think he could hear the gas any more.

  He let out the breath he’d been holding and sank down onto the gas bag. After what seemed like a quarter of an hour, he swung his feet down over the side and began to let himself back down the net. If he could find where one of the guy ropes met the net, he could shimmy down it to the relative safety of the lifeboat. Below someone grabbed his belt and hauled his legs in toward the boat. Braxton yelped and almost lost his grip.

  “We got you, sir,” Davis called. “Let go.”

  Braxton decided then and there that no sane person would let go. But if he didn’t trust his men now, how would he be able to trust them when a couple hundred Rebs were after them? He took a deep breath and released the rope.

  His body fell back, but at the same time the person holding his belt hauled him inboard. Strong hands reached out on either side and caught him, pulling him into the boat.

  “What happened to you?” Sergeant Young asked once Braxton was back in the confines of the lifeboat. “You look like you had to make a hasty exit from a whorehouse.”

  Braxton laughed, looking down at his coatless, sleeveless form. “For the cause,” he said. One of the men secured a spare coat from their gear and Braxton put it on gratefully. He hadn’t been aware of the cold up on top of the gasbag, the adrenalin had kept him warm. Now that his mind had time to register it, however, his teeth began to chatter. “Where do you think we are, Young?” he asked at last.

  “I’ve not a damn clue,” Young said, looking below. “If his highness, Air Marshall Sherman, was right, we’re still a ways east of the bridge.”

  “I thought you knew this country,” Braxton said, worried.

  “Oh, I do, sir,” Young said. “The clouds are clearing, so I should be able to find you a landmark or two. Then I’ll tell you right where we are. Right now, though, all I can see are trees.”

  O O O

  All Marcus Burnside could see were trees. Trees that were rushing up at him mighty fast. Genevieve banked left, favoring her good wing. That last barrage from that big Federal ship had torn a gash in her right wing. The wound would heal, but only if she didn’t tear it anymore.

  He felt Genevieve shudder as she leveled out and her damaged wing took weight again. Reaching up above the control collar, he patted her neck.

  “Easy girl.” His eyes swept the black landscape below for any sign of an open field. Finally the clouds were breaking up and the dim starlight illuminated a square patch, shining like silver among the dark fingers of the trees.

  “There,” he said, more to himself than the dragon. He grasped the pommel of the control collar and eased it left and forward. The collar made up the front part of the saddle and consisted of a flat wooden plate with a pommel, not unlike a cowboy’s saddle horn in the exact center. It attached to the saddle by a ball joint that allowed the collar to move in any direction. Beneath it, at the four compass points, pointed spikes were mounted facing downward over places where the dragon’s protective scales had been removed. The spikes weren’t sharp enough to hurt the dragon, but Genevieve could feel when Marcus moved the pommel and adjust her flight to her rider’s wishes.

  Genevieve snorted and dropped, trusting her rider. Dragon’s eyes were like the eyes of eagles, at high altitudes in good light, she could see a man on the ground over a mile away. Up close or in the dark, however, their vision wasn’t good. It was a real mark of how well they’d bonded that she let Marcus fly her at night.

  Bad eyesight notwithstanding, the dragon caught sight of the tobacco field as she dropped low over it. Marcus grabbed the safety straps on either side of the saddle and held on, landing was never graceful with dragons. Genevieve’s wings came up, checking her flight, and she dropped heavily into the plants with a crunch.

  Marcus patted Genevieve on her long scaly neck and she turned to look at him.

  “You going to be okay here?” he asked.

  She chuffed at him and began licking the wound on her wing, curling her long tail around her as she did so.

  Marcus slid to the ground and took stock of his surroundings. Genevieve needed to rest and heal, but he couldn’t leave her here in the open, exposed. Nothing could outfight a dragon in the sky one-on-one, but even the smallest Federal gunship could take her on the ground. Air-burst mortars were designed to drive dragons away from the flammable airships, but on the ground, Federal troops used piercing mortars that would make short work of a dragon, armored hide and all.

  There was a saying among the Southern Knights: a downed dragon was a dead dragon.

  Marcus walked beside Genevieve’s neck, rubbing it lightly with his hand. When he reached her head, she twisted away so he could scratch the soft skin behind the bony hood that protruded beneath her horns. A low rumbling started in her throat as Marcus dug his nails in and really scratched.

  “I need you to stay here, girl,” he said. A chill went up his spine when he said it. He’d seen several Federal lifeboats drifting away when the airships went up. Right now whole squads of Blue Bellies could be making their way toward him, intent on slaying the dragon that had destroyed their ships and comrades.

  Marcus pushed that thought from his mind. This tobacco belonged to a farm, and that meant a tobacco barn. Drying barns were big, hopefully big enough to get Genevieve inside where she’d be hidden from vengeful airships.

  “I’m going to go find help,” he said in a soothing voice. “Stay on the ground and don’t stray. I’ll be back soon.”

  Genevieve snorted and blew a smoke ring over him. He never really knew what she was thinking, but he’d always taken this particular gesture as one of affection and ownership, like a cat rubbing your trouser leg.

  He patted her neck and strode off through the wet tobacco, kicking up insects that had sheltered from the rain and filling the air with a rich, spicy smell. It didn’t take long to find the farmhouse, and it even had a sturdy looking barn behind it. The structure looked big enough for Genevieve, but it was hard to tell in the dark. He passed the house, heading instead for the barn. When he reached it, he could hear cattle lowing inside.

  “Hold it right there, young fella,” a voice came out of the dark. It was close enough that Marcus jumped. “Who are ya and what are ya doing here?”

  Marcus turned to find an old man standing at the corner of the barn. He was grizzled and stooped by many years, and dressed in a nightshirt and hastily put on boots. White, disheveled hair curtained his face, broken by the protrusion of a hooked nose, and he carried a double-barreled shotgun.

  “Easy, old timer,” Marcus said, raising his hands.

  “I asked ya, w
ho ya were,” the man said. Old he might have been, but his words, and more importantly his shotgun, never wavered.

  “Marcus Burnside, sir,” he said. “I’m with the Georgia First Air Cavalry, the Southern Knights.”

  Marcus stepped forward so the man could see his gray coat with its silver buttons and braids.

  “If you’re a Southern Knight, then where’s your dragon?” the man asked.

  “At the moment, she’s in your tobacco patch,” Marcus said. “But I need to get her under cover as soon as possible. Could we use your barn?”

  The shotgun dipped and Marcus breathed more easily.

  “Cover?” the man said. “Are there Blue Bellies about?”

  “There might be,” Marcus said. “I took down two Federal airships near here.

  “That’s good for you, young fella, but if there’s Blue Bellies around I’ve got to get my kin underground. No telling what they might do if they come lookin’ for food.”

  “Do you have a horse I could borrow?” Marcus asked as the old farmer turned away.

  “Thought ya wanted my barn?”

  “I do, but as soon as I get Genevieve settled, I’ve got to get to the nearest telegraph office and report the Federal airships. I don’t believe Colonel Jackson knows they’re here.”

  The old man thought about it, then nodded.

  “Let the cows out into the south pasture, but keep that dragon of yours away from ’em or they’ll be off their milk for a week,” he said, pointing off behind the barn. “You’ll find my horse inside. If you take the road east from here, you’ll find a rail station after about five miles. You can send your message from there.”

  With that the old man turned and whistled. A young woman carrying a baby came running from the house and crossed the intervening space to steps that disappeared down to a root cellar. An old woman followed, walking stiffly in the damp air. Her gnarled hands hung down where her fingers were grasped by two little children. There were no men; they had all gone to serve in the war.

  “Good luck to ya,” the old man said as turned to follow his family to the safety of the underground shelter.

  “You, too, old timer,” Marcus said, then turned his attention to the barn.

  O O O

  Braxton fought the urge to pace for the tenth time in the last quarter hour. There just wasn’t room for it in the tiny lifeboat. The good news was that the wind continued to blow them east. The bad news was that they still had no idea where they were, and dawn was coming fast.

  “Captain?” Sergeant Young asked from the bow.

  Braxton leaned around the sleeping form of Private Wilson so he could see Young.

  “I see something, sir,” he said, keeping his voice low lest it carry to someone on the ground. “I think that’s the Tennessee River.”

  Braxton leaned over the side. The solid tree cover had given way to rolling hills and flat fields. A farmhouse sat squat on the edge of a little wood, but no lights shone yet in its windows. He looked along the line where Young pointed, and sure enough, a dark black patch of midnight seemed to wind its way through the countryside.

  “I see it, too,” he said. “Can you tell where we are?”

  Young stared over the side for a long time before he answered.

  “I think that’s Coalwood Bend,” he said pointing at something only obvious to him. “That means the bridge should be … there.”

  At the sound of his declaration, several men whom Braxton would have sworn were asleep, lunged up and crowded the rail. Unbalanced, the little lifeboat tipped dangerously.

  “One at a time,” Braxton hissed, diving into the port side of the boat.

  “You heard the captain,” The Sergeant said. “You men see to your gear.”

  “I see it, too,” Corporal Davis said. “We’re going to drift right by it.”

  “If we land here, it’ll only be a few miles walk to the bridge,” Young said. “There’s nothing but small farms and grazing land on this side of the river. Chances are we can hide the boat without being spotted.”

  With the men back in their places and the boat level again, Braxton dared to look over the side.

  “Will the wind take us across the river?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Young said. “But not until we pass the bridge.”

  “What if we set her down in the water?” Braxton said. “We can scuttle the boat and then there’s no risk anyone will find it.”

  “There won’t be any cover on the water,” Sergeant Young said. “Anyone looking is sure to see us.”

  Braxton looked up at the dark sky. Dawn was at least an hour off. “We’ll risk it,” Braxton decided.

  Young opened his mouth to argue but closed it again, apparently thinking better of it.

  A quarter of an hour passed as the lifeboat drifted slowly past the railroad bridge. The bridge was an old one, with dozens of trestles rising up to support the tracks in a latticework of support. The trestles converged on pylons driven into the river bottom, that was their weakest point. If his unit took out two adjacent pylons on either side it would cause a cascading failure that would bring the whole bridge down.

  “We’d better start losing altitude,” Young said. “If you still mean to hit the water, sir.”

  Startled out of his contemplations, Braxton realized that they had passed the bridge and were heading out over the river. He stood and used his knife to slice a small hole in the gasbag. The lifeboat lurched beneath him and he had to grab on to the ropes to keep his footing. He had the sensation of his stomach being left behind as the little boat dropped out from under his feet. It reminded him of the elevator in the Federal House in New York.

  “Cut another hole,” Sergeant Young said after a moment. “We’re coming down too slow; we’re going to miss the water.”

  Braxton reached up and plunged the blade of his knife into the belly of the canvas bag again. This time the lifeboat dropped at an alarming rate. Trees on the riverbank rose up over them as they descended and the gentle gurgling of the sluggish river reached Braxton’s ears.

  “Hang on,” the Sergeant called.

  Braxton dropped down on his seat and grabbed the gunnel for support. A moment later the boat slammed into the water with a splash that soaked them all. Davis was launched into the river by the impact and began flailing wildly.

  “I don’t think he can swim,” someone said.

  Sergeant Young stood up, leaned outboard, and hauled Davis, coughing and sputtering, back into the boat with one hand. Braxton made a mental note never to play at fisticuffs with the Sergeant.

  “Paddle for shore, men,” Braxton said.

  The lifeboat had been equipped with paddles and the men began hauling for the southern shore. Braxton scanned the near bank, but there were no signs of anyone. A few moments later the little lifeboat ran aground.

  “Get her unloaded, men,” Sergeant Young said as he stepped out and hauled the boat up higher onto the bank.

  The men hauled their weapons and the dynamite out of the lifeboat while Braxton sliced open the gasbag, letting the last of the hydrogen out of it. He cut the ropes that bound it to the boat and dragged the bag into the water where the current swept it away.

  “That’s all the gear, Captain,” the Sergeant said.

  Braxton nodded.

  “Then scuttle this boat,” he said. “No one’s going to mistake it for a simple river boat.”

  “You two,” Young said, picking two of the men. “Take axes to the bottom, but be quiet about it.”

  The men climbed back in the boat and began hacking at the floor of the lifeboat. Braxton was concerned about the noise it made, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. In a few minutes they had opened a wide hole in the bottom. With that done, they climbed out and pushed the boat out into the current. It bobbed away a few yards before dropping below the water and out of sight.

  “All right,” Braxton said. “I hope you’re all rested because we need to be finished with that bridge before
the sun comes up.”

  “You heard the captain,” Sergeant Young said. “Let’s get going.”

  As the men moved out, Young came and walked by Braxton.

  “I wouldn’t disagree with you in front of the men,” he said in a whisper. “But chopping up that boat made a terrible racket, and sound carries well over water. We’d better watch ourselves. If someone heard that, they’ll come looking.”

  “I didn’t see anyone,” Braxton said. “I think we’re safe.”

  O O O

  Thomas White didn’t remember what had awakened him, but he did know that his bladder was full. He staggered up out of his little bunk and stepped out onto the deck of his barge. The crew were snoring happily on shore where the remnants of their fire had burned down to nothing.

  He ignored them as he walked across the deck to the river and began relieving himself over the side. He’d had too much to drink the night before and the splashing sound made his head hurt.

  It wasn’t just that, though. A rhythmic pounding took him, hammering on his sore head like demons in Hell’s foundry. Somewhere, over across the water, someone was cutting firewood.

  Thomas looked at the sky. It’s still night; why is some fool up at this hour chopping wood?

  He peered out across the water and saw two men climbing out of a boat on the far shore. As soon as they were out, they pushed the boat into the river and it sank.

  In his addled state, this strange sight made absolutely no sense to Thomas and he stood there for several minutes trying to make out what it meant. Finally his mind latched on to an idea.

  “Smugglers,” he said to himself. “Has to be.”

  He wondered what they might be doing here. Bringing in niceties for the fine folks of Decatur? There’d be more money for embargoed goods in Atlanta or Charlotte.