Lincoln's Wizard (9 page)

“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.

Finally Thomas shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the now-empty shore. Whatever the men were up to, they were on the wrong side of the river to bother him. Perhaps he’d tell the sheriff tomorrow.

Chapter Seven
The Downgrade

Edwin Stanton slipped his dressing gown over his nightshirt and put on his slippers before answering the door. Even though the insistent knocking had been sounding for a full minute, Stanton felt that a certain propriety was expected from the secretary of war.

Like other cabinet members, Stanton maintained a townhouse in the city, but he preferred to stay in the Federal House whenever he worked late, which was most nights these days. The assigned room was small, but entirely adequate, and had the advantage of being just downstairs from his work. As he opened the door onto a carpeted hallway on the eighth floor of the Federal House, he reminded himself that it was also the room’s primary drawback.

“Begging your pardon, Mister Stanton,” said the night porter, a stout graying man in an immaculately pressed coat. “I’m sorry to wake you, but Major Anderson was most insistent. He asks that you join him in the war office at once.”

“Damn telegraph,” Stanton muttered, stepping out into the hall and shutting the door behind him. “Ever since we started using the thing, every message is an emergency. What is it this time?”

“Colonel Anderson has not seen fit to take me into his confidences,” the porter said, turning toward the elevator. “But I believe he did receive a telegram just prior to ringing me.”

Stanton followed the porter along the carpeted hall. The gaslights had been dimmed to conserve fuel rendering the usually elegant hallway a dark tunnel. There being no point in pedestrian conversation at this hour, the only sound was the muted scraping of their feet on the thick carpet. It reminded Stanton, rather ominously, of a tomb.

What does Anderson want this time?

It was always something with the Colonel. If the man weren’t so damned good at his job, Stanton would have fired him.

The porter led him to the elevator then up past the presidential apartments to the top floor.

“I know the way,” Stanton said when the porter opened the doors.

“Very good, sir,” the porter said, stepping aside so Stanton could exit. “Good morning.”

Up here the lamps were lit, rendering the large widow at the end of the hall nothing more than a black rectangle. No trace of dawn existed without, yet he had no reason to doubt the porter’s salutation.

This had better be important.

The war office was one of the top floor’s large rooms, once part of the royal suite. The furniture had been removed and a large table brought in where maps were laid out complete with painted wooden blocks to indicate certain forces in the field. Around the edges of the room were desks where dutiful scribes sat day and night sifting through all the correspondence from the commanders of the various armies. A low buzz of conversation filled the room at all times, as if an enormous beehive had been concealed under one of the desks.

As Stanton opened the heavy door, the odor of paper, ink, and sweat washed over him. He reached for his handkerchief before remembering he wore his robe rather than his waistcoat.

In the center of this organized chaos was Colonel Lionel Anderson, a lean man of middle years who always seemed to be present whenever Stanton entered the war office, day or night. He had a handsome, if too-thin, face framed by a mop of blond hair running down to mutton chop side burns. Thick spectacles adorned his nose, common to those who did paperwork for a living, and, with his mutton chops, they made him look rather like an owl. There wasn’t a better man for tedious work, though, and Stanton valued his council.

Every other time Stanton had seen him, Anderson’s uniform had been immaculate, pressed and creased without anything out of place. This time, however, the man was hunched over the telegrapher’s desk in the far corner of the office with his coat unbuttoned. On top of that, there were usually only a few men manning the war office at night, but now a full staff of clerks were busily shuffling through the papers on their desks as if they were looking for something. Many of them also had the appearance of having dressed hurriedly, and more than a few yawned as they worked.

“Anderson,” Stanton called over the shuffling papers and hushed conversation.

The Colonel looked up from watching the telegrapher transcribe, pulling the paper out from under his pencil almost before he finished.

“Sorry to wake you, Mister Secretary,” Anderson said, moving through the chaos to the door. “But something strange was brought to my attention about an hour ago and I’m afraid I don’t know what to make of it.”

“It’s too early for formalities, Lionel,” Stanton said. “Just give it to me straight.”

“Well, sir,” Anderson began. “Did you change the orders we issued to Air Marshall Sherman without telling me?”

“Of course not,” Stanton said. “He’s supposed to be hitting Jackson, Mississippi at first light along with Hooker’s force.”

“Well, that’s not where he is,” Anderson said, leading Stanton to the map table. Anderson pushed a map of Jackson aside, revealing a larger map of Mississippi and Alabama.

“Just before midnight, Sherman and a small force were about here,” Anderson said, pointing to the northern part of Alabama. “A lone dragon rider attacked his air group. They lost at least two airships and were able to wound the dragon enough that it withdrew from the fight.”

Stanton stared at the map. Sherman tended to disobey orders when it suited him, but, damn it, the raid on Jackson was important. Weeks of planning following months of intelligence work had gone into it, and what did Sherman have to gain by sailing so far behind enemy lines?

I’ll have the man’s hide.

Stanton took a deep breath and seized control of his emotions. There would be time for anger later; right now he had to assess the facts.

“How do you know this?” he asked.

Anderson handed over the paper he’d taken from the telegrapher’s desk, it was filled with several dozen lines of tight, neat script.

“Just tell me,” Stanton said.

“One of the airships with Sherman, the gunship
Hancock
, developed engine trouble and wasn’t able to regroup with the others when the
Jefferson
lit her all clear beacon,” Anderson said. “This report is from her captain. He says that they drifted east for several hours after losing contact with Sherman. They finally got their engine working, but by that time they were approaching the coast. The captain made his way east under the cover of darkness until he reached our blockade. He’s currently docked above the gunship
Annapolis
and is requesting orders.”

Stanton swore, crumpling the captain’s report in his hand.

“Do we know what possessed Sherman to take my airships into enemy territory?” he growled.

“The captain didn’t know,” Anderson said. “But once I heard his story, I set the staff to work combing the reports and we’ve found something rather odd. Sherman bypassed Cincinnati to the south, passing briefly over enemy territory before taking on water, fuel, and supplies in Louisville.”

“He would have been seen for certain,” Stanton said, flinging the crumpled report away and starting to pace. The men at their desks looked up expectantly as he approached, then turned hurriedly back to their work as he passed. He’d circled half way around the table before turning to face Anderson across it. “He had to know a fleet movement that large would put every dragon rider along the line on alert. What is he playing at?”

“I’ve got the men looking for anything else, but right now that’s all.”

Stanton turned away from the table and continued his trek around it. As secretary of war he was supposed to be informed of any major movements of the air group. He was also to be informed of any new offensives. He passed Anderson, who waited patiently, and made another circuit of the table.

If Sherman’s fleet was seen by the enemy, then surely Stonewall Jackson and his dragon riders knew about it by now. Jackson would guess their target was his namesake, the town with the all-important supply depot. He’d mass his dragons there and burn Sherman’s fleet out of the sky. If that happened, there’d be no air support for Hooker’s raid.

But then what about the battle over Alabama? Why was there a dragon in that part of the state and what was Sherman doing there in the first place?

It didn’t make any sense, unless …

“He’s drawing the dragons away,” Stanton said. “That miserable son of a whore is trying to pull old Stonewall’s riders away from the fight before it starts.”

“Uh,” Anderson said, trying to follow the train of thought. “Can he do that?”

Stanton shook his head.

“It’s risky,” he said. “Too risky. Sherman’s already lost two of my airships, maybe more.”

“Why would he take the risk, sir?” Anderson asked. “All he had to do was stay away from the Rebel lines and Colonel Jackson wouldn’t have had any warning at all.”

“You’re right,” Stanton said, turning to face the smaller man. “Sherman was obviously up to something else. Not even he would do something like this unless he had orders from someone who …”

Stanton looked sharply down at the crumpled paper he’d thrown on the floor. “This has Pinkerton’s fingerprints all over it. Where is that old goat?”

Anderson looked at a young corporal at one of the desks.

“He’s at his home in town,” the corporal said after consulting a paper from one of his stacks.

“Send him a letter telling him I want to see him right away,” Stanton growled.

“Will he come?” Anderson asked.

Stanton laughed and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Pinkerton will take his own sweet time, just so I don’t forget I have no real authority over him. And, that being the case, I’m going back to bed. Call for me if there’s any news of import.”

Anderson saluted and Stanton left the war office. He’d have to speak to the President in the morning—later in the morning he reminded himself. Pinkerton … the man held on to his secrets like a drunkard clung to his jug. Tonight it had cost Stanton at least two airships and possibly even the attack on the supply depot in Jackson.

Something would have to be done.

O O O

“Are you finished yet?” Braxton called up at Davis, who was running fuse lines to the dynamite charges carefully placed under one of the railroad bridge’s four main supports. The work had gone more quickly than he expected but they were running out of time. Already he could see smoke rising from a camp where some bargemen had stopped for the night.

“Hold your horses, Captain,” Davis said. “I’m almost done.”

Braxton checked the horizon for the tenth time that minute. The sky was already fully light and any minute now the sun would break over the treetops and wash over the bridge. When that happened, he and his men would be easily visible to anyone who might happen along.

“Come take a look, sir,” Private Thompson said from high up under the cross-ties.

Thompson was a young lad from Pennsylvania with coal black hair and an infectious smile. Small and wiry, Thompson slipped easily between the tight lattice of beams that supported the rails. After his recent adventures on the lifeboat, Braxton didn’t fancy a climb, but it was better to check the men’s work than not have the bridge fall properly. He took hold of one of the supports and hauled himself up.

When he reached the junction where Davis had placed one of the wrapped bundles of the cigar-like dynamite, Braxton realized he really didn’t know what properly prepped dynamite was supposed to look like. Still, it was in the right position, though he could see that from the ground.

“Done here, sir,” Sergeant Young shouted. “Is everything ready up there?”

Braxton was about to reply when a shrill whistle sounded from their sentry on the far side of the bridge.

“Someone’s coming,” Young said, keeping his voice low. “Everyone keep still.”

Braxton stopped and listened. The minutes stretched by with no sound beyond the quiet breathing of his men. After what seemed like a quarter of an hour, he gave Sergeant Young an inquiring look. The Sergeant just shook his head and shrugged. Braxton was about to call the all clear when the sound of horses’ hooves clattered onto the ties at the far end of the bridge.

“Get down,” he hissed to Thompson. “They’ll see us through the gaps.”

Thompson grabbed one of the beams and swung down below it, hanging from one arm as if it were nothing. After a moment, he wedged his foot into the intersection of two beams so he could stand, then he motioned for Braxton to follow.

The boy must have been raised in a circus.

As the clopping of the horse and the clatter of wagon wheels came closer, Braxton laid his chest across the nearest beam and swung his legs out and down. His foot caught the next beam and he let his grip slide. When his hands reached the edge of the upper beam, his foot slipped sideways on the sloping beam and pain lanced through his ankle. He grabbed on as his feet swung over the twenty-foot drop. It wasn’t as bad as when he climbed the church steeple, but he still didn’t fancy the fall.

As Braxton hauled himself back up with his arms, Thompson reached out, grabbing Braxton around the waist, guiding his feet back to the beam. His ankle stung when he put weight on it. It took a few seconds before he could make his hands release the upper support beam, and when they did, they were trembling.

“Thanks,” Braxton whispered, eliciting a crooked grin from Thompson.

“I tell you I saw it,” a voice cut in, disturbingly close, and Braxton clapped his hand over his mouth. The steady clatter of the wagon had gotten louder and now the horses’ hooves clopped overhead.

“You’ve been hittin’ the bottle, Tom,” a second man said. “No one is fool enough to sink a perfectly good boat.”

“I did too see it,” Tom said. “They was right across from me on the far side of the river. Must have been smugglers or some such.”

“Well,” the second man said as the cart rumbled overhead. “Anyone who’d sink their boat on purpose must be up to no good. You’d better tell the sheriff when we get to town.”

What Tom thought of this idea was lost as the wagon bumped and rattled off the bridge and onto the near side of the river. Braxton breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived as the sun broke over the trees and illuminated the bridge.