Dead Man’s Hand (57 page)

Since people were inclined to obey my orders, I had the remaining fluorine bombs carried
to one of the abandoned hulks in the Bay, which was then towed out to sea and sunk.
And we made plans to ambush and capture the
Schrecken
once it returned to its base. Enough of the slaves had watched the airship’s landing
to know the procedures followed by the ground crews, and these volunteered to dress
up in Grenzer uniforms and lure the
Schrecken
to the ground, where it could be stormed by our army.

I also made a few little plans of my own. Some machinery was quietly slipped from
the factories and carried down to where the
New World
waited on the mud flats. A few Austrian engineers were likewise carried to my pirate
craft, rolled in carpets so they wouldn’t be lynched. If anyone noticed, they probably
thought I was just looting.

The Austrian flags went up again, as decoys, and plans were laid—and just in time,
for no sooner had we got over our hangovers than the thrumming of the great vessel’s
propellers was heard overhead, and the ominous black shadow began to circle the landing
field. Our false Grenzers trotted out to take hold of the cables and guide the airship
to its mooring… but then it all went wrong.

Half our army was still drunk as lords, and as soon as the
Schrecken
was within range, a great many of the fools opened fire. Once the musketry started
popping, Professor Mitternacht knew that something was up. The gun smoke gave away
the positions of those who had fired, and he maneuvered the warship to drop fluorine
bombs on the reckless marksmen.

Only a few of the more inebriated died, as the bombs were easy enough to avoid if
you knew to flee the area beneath the airship—and in addition there was a brisk wind
that whipped the gas away. I was in no danger myself, for I’d managed for once to
keep my crew in hand, and none of us had fired. But it was clear that the ambush had
failed, and I moved my men to a safer place while the
Schrecken
circled the city and dropped bombs on anyone it could see.

Though luckily enough there were few bombs to drop. Mitternacht had used up most of
his ordnance exterminating the Mad Emperor and his legions, and he was unable to land
and load more bombs from his factory. So here he was far away from home, with only
a small crew, and without any weapons more useful than a carbine.

He circled the city for two more days, doubtless trying to puzzle out a plan that
would bring San Francisco back under his control—and then
Schrecken
turned its great nose eastward and began the long journey back to Austria.

No doubt the city will hear the roar of those propellers again. Possibly next time
there will be more than the single airship. I can’t imagine Professor Mitternacht
taking defeat in his stride.

After Mitternacht’s departure, there was another great party that lasted the better
part of two days, and right into the middle of it wandered a deputation from Monterrey
that included the famous scout, Christopher Carson.

Carson—a tiny, unassuming little cove, by the way—had led a small party over Donner
Pass in the middle of winter—a remarkable feat in its own right—and brought the message
that an American relief force was under way.

We leaders met in the City Hall to listen to Carson’s message, beneath a portrait
of George Washington that had been found in the cellar and placed over the gilt double-headed
Austrian eagle that Mitternacht, that pretentious ass, had mounted on the wall.

It had taken nearly three months for news of Mitternacht’s arrival to reach the government
in Washington. The relief force, two brigades under General Winfield Scott and a naval
force commanded by Commodore Matthew Perry, would take months more to arrive. Experimental
weapons to be used against the airship were being constructed by the Swedish engineer
Ericsson.

Carson’s own journey west had taken months, and it was likely that the armada had
already begun its long voyage around South America.

An odd sidelight to this affair was that in addition to commanding the army, General
Scott was running for the highest office in the land. If he won, Alta California would
be a military zone commanded directly by the President of the United States.

I was far from delighted by this news—I rather suspected that the two Mexican War
heroes would disapprove of a pirate presence within their area of operations. Assuming
that I could keep Commodore Perry from hanging me out of hand, I doubted that it would
be as easy to escape from military prisons as it had been from Sutter the Younger’s
jail in Sacramento City.

What surprised me was the reaction of the Condor. I marked an expression of fierce
grief in his eyes as he heard the news, and I realized that Scott’s arrival would
mark the end of his adventure, as well. With law established in California, the Condor
would be superfluous.

Afterwards, there was another celebration in honor of Carson, Scott, Perry, and that
guiding genius of the nation, Mr. Fillmore. The party was held in one of the great
rooms of City Hall, and there were rivers of liquor and a band playing jigs and polkas:
“Arthur McBride” and “Old Dan Tucker,” and that great anthem of the Gold Rush, “Oh!
Susanna.”

I accepted a cigar from a well-wisher and went into one of the galleries to smoke
it. I looked into the ballroom and saw the colorful throng at their sport, the last
great rollicking occasion we were all together: me, the Condor, the Masked Hidalgo,
the Highwayman, Shanghai Susie, and all the rest, in a great surging, dancing, laughing
mob. All rivalry forgotten, all animosity put aside.

Soon the army would come, I thought, and put an end to all this.

I saw the Condor standing aside, and I guessed his thoughts were very like mine. I
approached him. “I don’t suppose that General Scott will be needing any masked vigilantes
in his district,” says I.

“Well,” says he. “There is much of the West that is still without law.”

“You could go to Utah and thump the Mormons,” says I hopefully. I was hoping to direct
his activities in any direction other than my own.

He offered a thin little smile. “The Mormons are law-abiding, or so I understand.”

“Aside from being in rebellion against the United States—and then of course they have
a habit of polygamy.”

“The rebellion is more in General Scott’s line,” says he. “And how would I foil a
polygamist, exactly? Kidnap his wives? I’d end up with a bigger harem than Brigham
Young.”

I looked at him in surprise, for this was the first touch of humor I’d heard from
him. Yet there was no smile, no amusement gleaming from the blue eyes. Maybe he was
completely serious.

“Well,” offers I, “there’s New Mexico.”

His eyes glittered with interest. “What are your plans?” asks he.

“I expect I’ll be leaving the city in two or three days,” says I. “Beyond that, I
have no idea.”

Which was not strictly true. I knew law would come to Alta California sooner or later,
and I had considered shifting my base to another part of the world, anywhere from
the Russian colonies in Alaska to Taheetee, Hawaii to South America. I could keep
much of the gold for myself, distribute the rest among my men, then try to disappear
into the local population.

The problem, of course, was that gold fever is not confined to pirates. All it would
take was for one of the crew to get drunk and speak a few indiscreet words, and whole
armies would come after us—either the authorities with charges of theft and piracy,
or a mob of greedy robbers ready to cut our throats.

I had not made up my mind whence I would flee. I was leaning toward Australia—there
had been a gold strike there, and a swarm of strangers with gold in their pockets
might not seem too out of place. And of course the whole continent was a prison, so
even if they caught us, what could they do? Send us to England?

Still, I did not want to share even these half-formed plans with the Condor.

“You’ll be returning to your old habits, then?” says he.

“Aye,” says I. “It’s the river for us.”

There was a glint in his eye. “I will see you there, no doubt,” says he.

“Sir,” says I, “I would expect nothing less.”

He bowed, and so did I. And so, between us, the silent promise was made—we would have
our final battle somewhere on the Sacramento some time before General Scott arrived,
and it would settle matters between us once and for all.

“You know,” begins I, “if you hadn’t joined the wrong side, that time on the American
River—”

But that was as far as I got, because at that moment a man ran into the room shouting
“Fire! Fire!” and that was the end of the party.

San Francisco had been set alight. We were up the next day and a half fighting the
flames, and despite our efforts half of the city burned.

The Nihilist was suspected, though it had to be admitted that the city had already
burned two or three times without his efforts. Judging by what had happened in the
past, it would all be rebuilt quickly.

Once the flames were extinguished, I returned with my crew to the
New World
and pulled the boat off the mud. The miners returned to their diggings. And I advanced
my plans.

I would swoop back to San Francisco one night, I thought. We’d swarm aboard an ocean-going
ship, then tow her out to sea and set sail. I hated the thought of abandoning the
New World
, so we’d tow her as we sailed away.

For Hawaii first, I thought. Hawaii was a sovereign kingdom and might not honor a
foreign arrest warrant.

And if they did, I would escape. I had grown very good at escaping.

But first, I wanted to keep my promise to the Condor, and I found that a perfect opportunity
beckoned. The miners had been hoarding their gold in the Sierras while Professor Mitternacht
was ruling his little kingdom of Tyrolia-on-the-Bay, and now that supplies were coming
into the port again, they were eager to go to what remained of San Francisco and help
themselves to its comforts.

It was announced that commercial steamboat service would be resumed with
Great Columbia
, the first grand boat to leave Sacramento City for San Francisco carrying passengers.
There would be fireworks, speeches, and a band.

Of course it’s an ambush. They
want
me to attack; they wave the gold beneath my nose to make sure I take the bait. The
boat will be packed with militia.

I will intercept
Great Columbia
, of course. And the Condor will defend it. And so we will meet, perhaps for the last
time.

So here I am, now, standing on the bridge, the
New World
lurking on the sweet gold-bearing waters of Steamboat Slough with steam up and weapons
ready, waiting for our sentries on shore to signal
Great Columbia
’s arrival. I’m prepared to hear
Ky-yeee
as the Condor arrows out of the sky to engage me in final battle for plunder and
freedom. And maybe, when I finally beat him and have him at my mercy, I’ll finally
have answers to some of my questions.

What are you?
I’ll ask. A crusader for justice? A madman in a cloak?—but not simply a madman, but
rather a madman who has so infected Alta California with his own brand of lunacy that
an entire host of strangers are now donning masks and swirling capes and brawling
over the flood of gold coming down from the Sierras? Fellow lunatics who, like me,
would have simply gone about our lives if we hadn’t somehow been chosen to share the
Condor’s dream?

Without the Condor, the Nihilist wouldn’t have burned the city, and Professor Mitternacht
wouldn’t have choked all those people with his gas. I would be a miner up to my knees
in cold muck, thinking simple thoughts of a warm fire, a bottle of whiskey, and maybe
a girl.

Who are you?
I will demand. It’s time I knew. Southern planter or Mexican caballero or fiend from
Hell, I will know his name. I will know his station. I will know what drove him to
this.

He will not want to tell me these things. But I will make him.

I will not kill him. I am not fated to be the one who ends the tale of the Condor.

But I am game for other methods. If I must, I will hang him upside-down over a burning
pit, and that may loosen his tongue.

For he has assigned me this part, and I will play it till it breaks me. Or him.

I see the flag signal now, my lookout waving frantically.
Great Columbia
is on its way.

I call out orders.
Up the anchor! Fill the boilers with fuel! Full speed! Stand by the guns!

And then I smile.
Cast off the airship!

For I have not been idle since I made off with some of Professor Mitternacht’s gear—and
the Austrian engineers I’d abducted were very happy to cooperate with my plans once
I’d explained that the alternative was to be strung up by their former slaves. The
result is that I now have a modest airship of my own, powered by what my engineers
are pleased to call a
Lichtätherkompressor
, the Aetheric Concentrator, which I gather works by compressing an invisible fluid
alleged to fill the universe. Which may sound like airy German metaphysics to you
and me, but it seems to lift my little aerial barge with fair efficiency for all that.

The
Commodore’s Fancy
isn’t as massive or magnificent as the
Schrecken
—it’s only a platform fifty feet long—but it’s still one of two flying machines in
all the world, and my heart gives a great surge as we lift off
New World
’s Texas deck, and suddenly we see the great winding watercourse of the Sacramento
below us, the ash and willow and cottonwood, and the beautiful picture below us.

See how the smoke boils from the stacks of the
New World
, the fine white foam flies from the paddle wheels! Hear the whirr of the airship’s
great propeller! Ahead, see the white gingerbread lace of the
Great Columbia
, the decks packed with miners bringing their gold to the markets! See the sun glinting
from the muskets and weapons of the militia, who think to ambush me even as I ambush
them! See their confusion as the
Commodore’s Fancy
darts toward them! No doubt they think of Mitternacht’s fluorine bombs and tremble.