“Passing fair,” he drawled.
Troost leaned on the table and gave him a critical eye. “Tell ’em you’re from the islands. Say Galveston. The vowels aren’t as long, and most Texians only halfway consider the Gulf part of their country anyway.”
“Got it.”
“Miss Boyd, you’re traveling as Mary Wilson. I tried to think of something more bland than that, but I failed. I hope it’ll do.”
“It’ll work just fine, thank you. How did you come up with all this so … so quickly?”
Henry flashed Troost a look that suggested he’d like to know, too, but Troost didn’t feel like sharing. “Tricks of the trade,” he said, and that was all. “Now get a move on. Every mile they go is another mile you have to chase them.”
“God knows what we’ll even do when we catch them,” Henry sighed.
Maria said, “We’ll tell them the truth. It’s all we’ve got.”
“Sadly, it’s the best we’ve got. Troost, thanks for all your help.”
“I’d say ‘anytime,’ except I wouldn’t mean it. Stop those fellows before they do something we’ll all regret—them most of all. When I get to the District, I’ll try to arrange papers from Uncle Grant to make explanations for you. Until then, just make sure they don’t shoot you if you get caught.”
“That was part of the plan already,” Maria assured him.
“You know what I mean. Now, make a run for it, make it good, and start practicing your story.” Then he gazed hard at Maria, as if she’d given him an idea. Maria didn’t like the feel of it, almost as if he was staring right through her … and perhaps he was. Then he snapped his fingers and said, “You remember your old friend Hainey, Miss Boyd?”
Calling the air captain an “old friend” was a little much, but she let it ride. “He’s a difficult man to forget.”
“I might be able to drag him into this. Might need to, in fact. I can’t be everywhere at once—I’m good, but I’m not that good—so I’ll need somebody…”
“Somebody as good as you?” she supplied.
He balked at answering. “As good as me? I don’t know about that. But I’ll fire up the taps and see if I can’t flag him down. I’d love to have some help in the District, and I could do much worse than him.” Before Henry could volunteer them, Kirby clarified, “Not you two. You’re headed south. You won’t have time to fly back and save the day if it needs saving. Neither will I, I don’t expect. We can’t spread ourselves that thin. So I’ll see who I can press into service. If everything shakes out all right, I’ll see you in the District in another few days. If it don’t … I suppose I’ll see you all in hell.”
Sixteen
The steep slopes of Missionary Ridge were cold and treacherous—muddy from the rains of the past few days, and slowly freezing as the temperature dropped yet lower and a blustery wind kicked up from the west. Spitting hints of rain slapped against the windscreen as Henry drove, and flicked inside the open cab to sting Maria’s cheeks. She huddled deeper in her coat and burrowed as far as she could back in her hard seat, despite the discomfort. She could feel the gears shift and yank, and the frame behind her shoulders rattled as the car tugged against the road’s slick, unforgiving ruts.
The dock itself was perched high atop the tree-covered ridge overlooking the city, outside the wall and far enough away to provide a generous view.
“Tennessee likes to say their wall is one of the wonders of the modern world,” Henry told her through chattering teeth. “I don’t know if that’s true, but”—he drew the vehicle to a halt and set its brake so it wouldn’t roll—“it’s a sight to behold all the same.”
“Agreed,” she said, through lips so numb she could scarcely form the word. Without the wind rushing in the windows, the world seemed somewhat warmer; but as soon as she opened her door and stepped to the ground, she found the currents were almost worse up there in the scenic elevations.
She wished for a good umbrella, something that would fend off ice and rain alike.
On second thought, it was just as well she didn’t have one, as it would not survive the weather—or so she concluded when a fierce gust shoved up against her side, peppering her cheeks with needle-cold shards of sleet.
“Flying in this weather won’t be any fun.”
“Won’t be very safe, either, but we don’t have much choice.” Henry tucked his own coat closer and made a beeline for the ticket house, a long, narrow building with four counter windows ready to do business.
While he handed over his papers and sorted out the arrangements, Maria eyed the dirigible offerings. She counted three big transport ships, far too large for their needs—and almost certainly too big for them to fly as a pair—but they had closed-in cabins with enormous glass shields, so she wished for one all the same. Two others were middling-sized, though one of those looked too bedraggled to fly. And she thought she spied several smaller crafts behind a tall wooden fence, the tops of their domes peeking above the barrier, bobbing against one another in the wind.
Henry returned with a pass and a set of keys in hand. “Let’s go. The ticket girl says that the weather’s supposed to get even worse. A storm’s coming, spinning up out of the Gulf.”
“Little late in the year for that,” Maria grumbled. “You’d think the weather would be warmer, if that’s where it’s coming from.”
“You would indeed, but such is not our lot in life. Not today, anyway.”
They hiked against the wind until they reached a big gate, which opened with the turn of the largest key on Henry’s ring. Once inside, they were protected from the worst of the chill, for the fence and the ships themselves served to break up the gale. “They tried to talk me out of it, actually,” he told her, scanning the rows for the right slot. “They said we’d be crazy to fly today, and whatever we’re doing could wait for morning.”
“What did Mr. Troost tell them when he reserved the craft?”
“I’m not sure, but it had something to do with the war effort. I think he told them you’re a nurse, and I’m a doctor, and we’re running an emergency aid something-or-another to someplace. I’m sure the particulars were fascinating. He has a knack for detail.”
“Strange little man, that.”
“And you have a knack for understatement. Here, this is it: the Black Dove.” He used another key to unlatch the ship’s anchor from a claw-style mooring, then pulled a lever inside the craft. The hook and chain retracted with a tinny grind, then disappeared into a side panel that closed behind them.
It didn’t look so bad. Open to the elements, more than not. Engine-powered, but controlled by foot pedal, so their feet would dangle over an open chassis through which they could watch the land pass by below.
“It’s sturdy enough,” Henry surmised. “We’ll freeze our noses off if we don’t wrap up, but then again, we might freeze them off anyway. I don’t know about you, but I can hardly feel mine anymore.”
They climbed inside and drew the frame doors shut behind them. The seats featured a long strap of good hemp canvas to serve as a belt, but it fastened across them both, securing them to little but each other. Henry worked up a blush, but Maria refused—she was glad for the closeness.
“We’ll both stay warmer this way,” she told him as she settled herself as comfortably as possible, without a hint of an improper struggle. “Now, I’ve never flown one of these before, but I’ve ridden in one. What can I do to help?”
“Navigate,” he said as he slipped a pair of goggles over his glasses and urged her to do the same. He used another key from the ring to remove a steel lock from around the ignition, then leaned out the window and deposited the keys and the lock into a basket provided for the purpose … and cranked the dirigible to life.
Its motor purred willingly, if with a faint clatter, while it warmed, then quivered, and then lifted them off the ground. Henry took an experimental turn or two with the thrusters, testing them for responsiveness. He fiddled with the steering mechanism and flipped sw
itches and tugged levers.
Maria didn’t think this looked very complicated, in the grand scheme of things. She resolved to learn how to fly a dirigible upon her eventual return to Chicago—assuming she didn’t freeze to death in the sky above north Georgia. Well, assuming also that her mission was a success. And that the world was not overrun by necrotic leprosy.
Though, as the dirigible gained altitude, she considered that a plague might be all the more reason to learn how to fly. Victims of the ailment could run and eat, but they couldn’t chase her off the ground, could they?
Henry valiantly fought the drafts and currents, forcing the Black Dove high enough to pass the ridge. His gloved fingers were tight on the controls, and his eyes dashed back and forth between the readouts, the levers, and the sky. Without looking at Maria, he asked her, “I gave you Troost’s map, didn’t I?”
“Got it right here,” she said, withdrawing it from the satchel where she’d stashed it. Keeping a firm grip, she splayed it across her lap. “Do you see the southbound road?”
“No, but it can’t be far.”
He was right; it wasn’t far. They found it fast, puttering and swaying against the intermittent rain and wind, dipping up and down above the trees, only to drop back down into the valley as they soared past the wall, so near that Maria could’ve stuck out her hand and touched it. Her stomach dropped and lurched, but luckily she hadn’t eaten since the night before, so there was nothing present to cast out over Lookout Mountain as they careened off to the south.
The weather worked against them every mile of the way. It buffeted them head-on, and sometimes threatened to throw them off course. Henry wore himself out keeping the craft as steady as he could, and eventually found some violent rhythm to the trip. Maria couldn’t see his eyes behind the lenses, but she had a feeling that they were hard and unblinking.
“There’s a spyglass in my bag,” he shouted to her over the rushing air and rumbling motor.
“I’ll get it.” She nodded, and fished around until she found it.
“I’m not seeing much traffic down there, are you?”
“No,” she said loudly back, though her view through the spyglass was compromised by the lenses she wore to protect her eyes. “That’ll change as we approach Atlanta. It’s picking up even … even now.” She gestured at the road, then off to the side, where a large factory compound coughed out soot from three tall towers. “That’s Dalton, I believe.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“So”—she squinted back down at the map, and pointed to a spot with one gloved finger— “we’re about here. Still ninety miles from the city, I’d estimate, but I’ll keep my eyes open. If we’re lucky, they’re still quite a ways outside town.”
“If we were lucky, Troost would’ve gotten us a ride with a heater,” Henry said. His icy cheeks were round and red, and he wasn’t smiling.
“Just one more reason to hope we find them fast,” she replied, though she couldn’t feel her face at all, and her jaw must surely be freezing shut.
Talking was difficult, so they soon gave up and concentrated on their respective chores. Henry kept the craft aloft, and Maria watched the ground below, tracing the comings and goings of carts, horses, and diesel carriages as they chugged along the southbound route to the biggest city in the Confederacy.
She did not take her eyes off the road as she asked, “How much fuel does this thing hold?”
“Enough to get us to Atlanta, but not much farther. These little ones aren’t made for the long haul, but we’ll make it to the city,” he assured her. “Even fighting the sky like this.”
“Good,” she said quietly. And then she closed her eyes, listening for something she heard very faintly, behind them and off to their left. “Even if we take a detour or two?”
“Detour?” He frowned hard enough that the goggles dipped on his forehead. “Why would we detour?”
“Not a detour, then. Call it evasive action.”
Her ears pinpointed the noise and she turned her head far enough to catch it with her eyes. A ship was incoming, far enough away that she couldn’t suss out the details, but it wasn’t alone—and that was the main point of note. It had a friend, and that friend was approaching from the right.
“Two ships, Henry,” she said evenly. “Coming up behind us.”
“They could be merchants or military fellows,” he tried, but he didn’t sound convinced even as he said it. “This is a common enough trade route.”
“Henry, we’re being flanked.”
“That … can’t be by accident.”
“I shouldn’t think so, no.”
“It might be nothing,” he said, hands tight on the controls. “We haven’t seen any other ships today because the flying conditions are nothing short of awful, but this section of sky is a regular roadway. They have no reason to confront us.”
Maria turned the spyglass outward and caught the first ship in the round viewing area. It was small and nondescript, and still too far away to see with any great clarity. But the second ship was larger. She could just make out some lettering on the side, but not quite read what it spelled.
“What do you see?”
“I see…” she said, slowly, “a military ship, I think. It’s big, but doesn’t look well armed. Cargo, transport, something of that sort. It’s CSA gray, at any rate. With … yes. The Bonnie Blue,” she added, meaning a white star in a blue circle—to differentiate it from the Texian insignia, with a white star on brown. “It’s one of theirs, or someone’s made it look that way.”
“You think it’s one of the Union decoys?”
“Might be, but if the Maynard device wouldn’t fit on something that size, it must be bigger than I’d assumed.” She adjusted her grip on the spyglass and tried the other ship again. “The smaller ship … it’s not marked for the military. I’m not sure it’s marked at all.” It was gaining on them faster than the CSA ship, but still she saw no identifying flag, insignia, name, or registration numbers.
“That isn’t good.”
“It might mean pirates. Pirates wouldn’t bother a pair of adventurers in a tiny rented craft, not when there are travelers below and big city docks another hour or two out. I do hope it’s pirates,” she concluded.
“You’re a peculiar woman.”
“I’ve had good luck with pirates. I’ve been told I’m a bit of a pirate myself.”
“Let’s not talk of luck anymore, shall we? Or pirates, either,” Henry pleaded through teeth clenched with chill or nerves. “We’ve already noticed that luck isn’t with us. And as for pirates, you are no such thing. That having been said, you’ll have to tell me that story sometime.”
“Not much to tell,” she lied, keeping one eye glued to the spyglass lens. “My first assignment as a Pinkerton agent had me working with a pirate crew. The captain was a runaway slave named Croggon Hainey. He’s the friend of mine that Troost hopes to call in for backup in Washington.”
“A friend of yours?” Even through the goggles, Maria could see Henry’s eyes widen with incredulity. “All right, I’m not a man to judge. But if he’s a pirate … do you think he’ll help us, or the Lincolns, or anyone else? Even if Kirby Troost asks him to?”
Still peering through the glass, she told him, “Yes, I do. He’s an adventurous sort, and no fan of Southern politics, as you might expect.” She shifted her grip on the device, and directed the conversation back to more pressing matters. “And I wish to God that he was here with us right now.”
“They’re still on us?”
“Very much so.”
“Goddammit.”
“Now, Henry, listen: the smaller craft is bigger than this one, but not so large as its brethren. Perhaps a crew of three. I don’t really think it’s pirates, but it could be anything—state, federal, or private.”
“Do you see any weapons?”
“Not mounted to the exterior. Maybe it’s an observation craft? Survey work?” She wasn’t sure why she kept making
guesses. The ships would either bother them, or not. “But here they come—another thirty seconds or so until contact. Look innocent, Henry.”
“I’ll do my level best.”
The ships drew up on either side of the Black Dove. Now Maria could see their faces without the spyglass, so she put it aside. In the course of acting innocent, she waved cheerfully at the nearest ship—the CSA gray with blue and white markings. Without moving her lips, she said to Henry, “Wish I had a flag. I’d wave it.”
“You’d look silly,” he said back, smiling and joining her in the friendly greetings.
“Silly is usually innocent,” she said, and blew the craft a kiss.
Inside the main cabin of the big craft she saw five men: three seated, two standing. All uniformed. None smiling or waving back; not at first. But then the captain gave her a small salute, and the others did as well, before deliberately turning their attention elsewhere. Shortly thereafter, the big ship peeled away from them and sped ahead, leaving just the smaller of the two hovering nearby.
“Can’t quite see the little ship,” Maria complained, straining to look around Henry’s bulkily coated form.
“Shall I cut off my head?”
“Extremes aren’t called for. Not just yet.”
He forced a smile and released one side of the steering column to chance a quick wave. “Three men,” he told her.
“Uniforms?”
“No. And I don’t think smiling at them will be very helpful.”
“It’s usually more helpful than glowering.”
“Glowering won’t help us either. I think we have trouble.”
“Do you see any guns?” she asked. “I didn’t.”
He sniffed hard, the sniff of a man who can’t feel what’s going on in his sinuses anymore. “They’re inside.”
Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century) Page 22