They all hit the dirt, and Lazarus drew his Starblazer. He could see men moving about down in the valley, and his first thought was that they had walked into a trap planned by Vasquez. But then he saw their uniforms. They were blue. Long dusters with stars and stripes on the arms. Some wore hats with crossed sabers. Yankees.
“We got you surrounded, Vasquez!” somebody cried out.
Hok’ee flipped open the carousel magazine in his Jericho and fed in a band of ammunition.
“No!” said Lazarus. “There’s too many!”
“Boy, you never seen Hok’ee and his Jericho in action!” said Vasquez. “He can wipe out a squad in ten seconds flat!”
“They have snipers concealed in the bushes,” Lazarus insisted. “He’ll be killed before he pulls the trigger.”
Vasquez poked his head above cover, then ducked immediately as a bullet ricocheted near his ear. “Alright, Hok’ee. Cool it while we think this over.”
“This is the Unionist Partisan Rangers!” called up the voice again. “Come down with your guns holstered!”
“Rebels! How the hell did they find us?” Vasquez demanded.
“Let’s do as they say and see what they want,” said Katarina. She stood up slowly and slid her long pistol back into its holster, concealing it with her dress. Lazarus watched her, half expecting her head to get blown off at any second. She raised her arms and called down, “We surrender!”
“Woman’s not as tough as she puts on,” Vasquez mumbled. “But she has a point. I don’t see any other way out of this.”
“Maybe we can bargain with them,” Lazarus suggested.
“Maybe. But you keep your yap shut about what I’ve got in this here box. I didn’t dig it up for these blue boys to get hold of.”
They stood up together. After much encouragement, the reluctant Hok’ee joined them and they made their way down the cliff towards the partisans.
They were a rag-tag group. Uniform was only adhered to in the navy blue of their garments and a few Union insignias, for they wore a variety of dusters, cavalry trousers and tatty coats. Their leader, a tall, thin black man stepped forward. “My name is Lieutenant Clay Thompson of the Unionist Partisan Rangers,” he said. “You are hereby under arrest in the name of the United States of America. Please hand over your firearms.”
Lazarus and Vasquez reluctantly let the rebels seize their guns, although nobody thought to check their boots. Lazarus afforded himself an inward smile.
“Christ, how do we get this thing off?” one of the rebels exclaimed, pointing at Hok’ee’s right arm.
“You prize it loose from my dead body,” Hok’ee replied through a snarl.
“If you insist,” said Lieutenant Thompson. “But I’d rather keep you all alive. For the time being.”
After much coaxing from Vasquez and Lazarus, Hok’ee was finally convinced to unhinge the mighty Jericho gun. It took two men to lift it off his body and carry it away. The mini-furnace was still hot, and they also took his supply of mechanite. It was only then that Lazarus noticed that Katarina was still armed.
“Do they have the map, Miss Mikolavna?” Lieutenant Thompson asked her.
“It’s in the box under his arm,” she replied. “He just dug it up.”
The three of them gaped at her. Then Vasquez exploded. “Goddamned bitch! Hussy! You’re with the rebs? Why did I ever trust a Russian?”
She smiled at him. “You were always going to end up in Unionist hands, Vasquez. This way just happened to be the most efficient.”
Lazarus felt sick. He had been a fool to trust her. And now that her mission was complete, he was more or less disposable in her eyes. Would they kill him now? It was odd that he felt more hurt by the fact that he had been tricked by her than by the possibility of his imminent death.
“How did you let them know where we were?” Vasquez asked her.
“Does that old telegraph shack back at the fort still work, by any chance?” Lazarus asked him.
“Sure does. I’ve used it myself a few times to call in supplies from friends.”
“Then I imagine that these rebels have tapped into it. She radioed them on the sly. I let her out of my sight for all of ten minutes.”
“Remarkably astute, Englishman,” replied Lieutenant Thompson. “I can see that you are one to watch out for. Captain Townsend will decide what is to be done with you back at base. But it’s getting late, so, if you don’t mind, we’ll move out now.”
They followed the river downstream, with the towering canyon walls on either side shading them from the setting sun. It was much cooler now.
“No hard feelings, Longman?” Katarina said, sidling up to Lazarus. “We both had a job to do.”
“But your job might get me executed as a foreign spy,” he replied sourly.
“Don’t be like that. Would it have been any different if you had had the upper hand? Why didn’t you call in your own help?”
“Because I’m not a backstabbing so-and-so,” he replied, unable to think of any biting insult that was suitable. “Besides, how long have you been in with these fellows? Did your Russian contacts set you up with them?”
“Actually, they sought me out. My mission was to kill Vasquez. But when Captain Townsend and Lieutenant Thompson here informed me that he was worth more to the partisans alive than dead, I wired Moscow and received new orders.”
“To get Vasquez into the hands of the U.P.R.”
“Precisely.”
“So what’s the plan? Ship him north to the Union?”
“I imagine so. Or keep him here. That’s up to Captain Townsend. My job is done.”
“And me? I suppose I’m done too.”
She looked away when he said that. “I’ll put in a good word for you when we get to their base. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best to ensure that you are not...”
“Killed?”
“Exactly.”
Chapter Six
In which the Rebel Underground is revealed
Darkness had fallen by the time they arrived at the abandoned mine. A great basin had been cut into the rock and several dilapidated huts stood around, surrounded by the rusting wreckage of machinery.
“Is this your base?” Lazarus asked Lieutenant Thompson.
“Just a back door,” he replied.
They descended into the basin and, with cautious glances from their captors, began to file into the black mouth of a mining shaft.
“I ain’t too crazy about going underground,” said Vasquez. “How recently were these supports reinforced?”
“Shut it, Vasquez,” replied one of the rebels.
Lazarus looked at the timber supports and had to admit that they seemed to be in very good condition, considering the age of the mine.
They wandered deeper and deeper underground, their way lit only by the flickering gas lamps the rebels carried. A second shaft crossed their way, and it was laid with rails. A large vehicle that looked to be some sort of transportation stood nearby, its furnace hot and ready to go. A rebel poked his head up from the cab and hailed Thompson.
“Ready to go?” Thompson called up to him.
“Like a horny bull in a pen!” came the answer.
“Load up the prisoners!”
They were manhandled up into the seating compartment of the locomotive, which was lined with benches. Rebels sat between them, their rifles planted stock down. The engineer opened the throttle and the wheels gradually began to turn, picking up speed. Soon they were hurtling down the track with nothing to see around them but darkness.
Lazarus had a hundred questions he wanted to ask about this underground railway that was similar to the one in London, only much more primitive. But the noise of the pistons and cylinders was deafening, and made any attempts at talking pointless. It even felt like they changed lines at some point, indication that a huge underground network was in use by the rebels.
They travelled for what felt like several hours, eventually slowing down and emerging
into a cavernous area lit by gas lamps. Lazarus was reminded of Charing Cross Station. There were two platforms and several sidings. Men and women in unionist attire loaded and unloaded carriages of supplies. There were one or two mechanicals doing the more heavy duty work.
“You rebels sure have been busy bees,” Vasquez remarked.
Lieutenant Thompson was evidently pleased, and began telling them all about it. “Our movement was once called the ‘Underground Railroad’ at the beginning of the war. It was designed to help escaped slaves flee to the north. I was only twelve when my older brother and I ran away from our plantation in Louisiana. There was no physical railroad then of course, just kind farmers and abolitionists who organized the transportation and feeding of many such as us. We travelled at night, sleeping in barns during the day, until we reached the north and freedom.
“And yet you came back to the south,” said Katarina.
He nodded firmly. “To help others such as myself.”
“But there are no more slaves,” Lazarus said. “Not since the Emancipation Act.”
“But the Confederacy is still in effect. You call us rebels, well they are the real rebels—a thorn in the side of the United States. Now, with supplies of mechanite and the technology available, we can really have an underground railroad. Soon, we will join up with the Union and then there won’t be a thing to stop us from totally undermining the C.S.A. Folks can come and go as they please.”
“And you can pop up and harass the government before vanishing into your holes like rabbits,” said Vasquez in a scoffing tone.
“The only government I recognize is that of the United States of America.” He hailed a fellow lieutenant. “Where’s the captain?”
“Down at the Worm,” came the reply.
Lazarus wondered what exactly ‘the Worm’ was, but they were apparently about to find out. Lieutenant Thompson and his squad led them down a tunnel that diverged away from the main line. The sides of the tunnel were circular, as if gouged out by a scooping tool. Workers were laying rails on the ground. They took another locomotive and plunged into darkness yet again.
There was a rumbling noise ahead that grew gradually louder, eventually blocking out even the noise from the locomotive. In the darkness ahead, they could make out the shape of some iron behemoth, moving, shuffling away from them at a slow but steady pace. They clambered out and walked towards it. Steam and dust filled the air and the heat was fierce. The back portion of the machine was open and a mining cart on rollers rumbled out from its innards, loaded with rubble. Men in overalls pushed it along parallel rails until it was side by side with the locomotive that had brought them.
Thompson leaped up a small flight of steps in the rear of the monstrous construction and rapped on a riveted door. It swung open and a face smeared with dust, oil and sweat poked out. It threw up a quick salute.
“Tell the captain I have the prisoners,” Thompson said.
“Yessir!”
Before long, a woman appeared and jumped down from the Worm. As well as her elfin face with its high cheekbones, Lazarus could only assume she was a woman because she had long hair, although it was twisted into strange coils that looked heavy, straining against the string that tied them back behind her head. All other characteristics marked her out as a man; the oily trousers, the officer’s jacket with the stars and stripes insignia, and not least the grim expression of one used to commanding respect written on her soot-streaked face.
“Captain Townsend,” said Thompson, snapping to attention. “We have Vasquez, Hok’ee and the map. Plus the British agent.”
Captain Townsend wiped her hands on an oily cloth and tossed it to the man behind her. “You’re sure you have the map? You’ve seen it?”
“It’s in here,” Thompson said, handing her the iron box. “I thought it best to leave the honor of opening it to you.”
She took the box and glanced at each of them in turn. She focused on Katarina. “And this must be the agent of our Russian friends. At last we meet.” Her voice was chilly, as if she did not fully trust her foreign ally.
“I am Katarina Mikalovna,” said Katarina, equally cold. They immediately seemed to dislike each other. Katarina was everything Townsend was not, feminine, sophisticated and elegant. But Townsend was not unattractive in her own way, pretty but dirty, a true diamond in the rough.
What is it about women that they cannot get on in a roomful of men? Lazarus thought.
“We are indebted to you, Miss Mikalovna,” replied the captain. “You shall be adequately rewarded. Now,” she drummed her fingers on the sides of the metal box. “Let’s head up to my office and see what we have here.”
“How goes the drilling, Captain?” Lazarus heard Thompson ask, once they were back at the station and walking towards the row of buildings fronted with grimy glass panes.
“The Worm keeps getting jammed. Too much schist and granite. We might have to back it up again and replace the drill if it’s been blunted.”
“That will take time.”
Lazarus took out his pocket watch and checked the compass set in its lid, out of interest. It made him feel a little better to know at least what pole they were facing. The newly dug tunnel was heading in a north westerly direction.
Townsend’s office was a well-equipped if crowded one that overlooked the platforms. There was a good deal of engineering tools and blueprints pinned on boards. Lazarus wondered if this captain had anything to do with the actual construction of her wonderful tunneling machine. Having seen how she commanded her men, he did not put anything past her. There was very little in the way of a personal touch about the office, apart from a single framed photograph of a handsome man in a business suit. He wondered if he was her lover, and then, if he was still alive.
Captain Townsend sat down in her chair and placed the metal box on the desk in front of her. There were no locks, but the hinges were well rusted and they watched her struggle with it awhile before it popped open. Inside was something bundled in oiled cloth. She removed it and held it up to the light of the hurricane lamp on her desk.
It was a helmet—a type used by the Spanish, centuries before. An antique certainly, but Lazarus thought Vasquez had managed to pull a cunning trick on Townsend and was about to congratulate him, when he saw the lines inscribed on the surface of the helmet. Townsend had spotted them too, and was running her finger along rivers, canyons and mountain ranges that had been painstakingly etched into the metal with a sharp object. The helmet was the map.
“Ingenious,” said Captain Townsend. “I wonder who made it.”
“Folks say Estevanico did,” replied Vasquez.
“The Moor? I was under the impression that he was killed by Zunis.”
“Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he passed the map on before he died.”
Townsend’s eyes glittered as she gazed upon the inscribed map and the single word, ‘Cibola’ that hung somewhere in the southern part of the Colorado Plateau. “Put these men in irons,” she said. “I’ll conduct interrogations later.”
The cells carved by the rebels lived up to any description of the dungeons of the middle ages. Rough-hewn rock formed the walls, and a door of thick wood reinforced with iron sealed them in, a tiny grate in it their only view of the corridor.
“Well, I’ll be damned for a fool,” said Vasquez once they had been left alone. “I should have known that Russian hussy was planning to backstab me. But I’m a sucker for a pretty dress. You should have let me kill her aboard the Mary Sue, limey. Then the map would be yours and I’d be a free man.”
“I’m beginning to agree with you,” Lazarus said.
“Beginning to? You’re a soft one.”
“When I get out of here,” said Hok’ee slowly, his rage causing him to speak English, “I’ll make that Kiiya' sizini wish she had never set foot in this land.”
Lazarus looked out into the corridor. It was deserted. He turned to his comrades. “When they come to take us away for interrogation, I’l
l try and get them to pick me first. Here,” he delved into his right boot and brought out the Belgian pistol, and handed it to Vasquez.
“What the hell?” the bandit exclaimed, feeling the weight of it. “I’d forgotten about your little peashooter! It weighs a ton!”
“It should be powerful enough for you to break out of this cell and come and meet me.”
“And what will you be doing?”
“Retrieving my map,” Lazarus replied firmly. “Wait ten minutes before pulling the trigger.”
Hok’ee leaned forward. “How are we to escape? We are underground. This weapon of yours won’t blast through rock.”
“There’s tunnels enough for us to vanish into. It may be a long trek, but the rebels have many surface exits. We just need to find one before they find us.”
A key grated in the lock. Vasquez shoved the revolver down the back of his britches just as Lieutenant Thompson entered the cell.
“Couldn’t keep away from us, Lieutenant?” Lazarus asked. “Or has your queen got you running errands like a shoe-shine boy?”
Thompson’s eyes blazed and he looked about ready to hit him. “Take this wise-ass first,” he said to the men at his back. “I’m gonna enjoy seeing him try his wit on the captain.”
Lazarus was manhandled out of the cell, and marched up to Townsend’s office where she was waiting for him. The conquistador helmet was still in the box on the desk.
“Have a seat, Mr...?”
“Longman.” He plonked himself down in the chair opposite her desk without invitation.
“Tell me Mr. Longman. What is an Englishman doing in America?”
“Just his job.”
“Which is?”
Lazarus smiled. “You have my map. I’d like it back.”
“My map,” Townsend corrected. “When I was a little girl, my granddaddy used to tell me stories about Cibola and the Seven Golden Cities. Then of course, I got involved in the rebel militias, and life became too hectic for fairy tales. But when I discovered that Cibola really existed and that the Confederate usurpers were after it, I realized that the quest for the golden cities and the quest for freedom was one and the same thing. Arizona Territory is my territory, Mr. Longman. And I will do what I must to ensure its freedom.”
Golden Heart (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles) Page 5