The quartermaster rubbed his stubbled chin, producing a rough sandpapery sound. His thick black brows were knit together in deep thought. “I think I might have just the items you’re lookin’ for, suh,” the man finally responded. “I have been workin’ on somethin’ off the books, y’all might say.”
“Off the books?” Sutherlin repeated. He had to admit he was completely intrigued. “Show me.”
“Follow me, suh.” The quartermaster led him out of the tent to an outhouse. He turned and tipped Sutherlin a wink.
“I don’t understand,” Sutherlin admitted.
Instead of answering, the slightly hunched quartermaster pulled out a large ring of keys. He fumbled through them until he found the one he needed and unlocked the door to the outhouse. Sutherlin had never seen anything like it. Who locks an outhouse? he thought. The quartermaster opened the door, revealing a tunnel into the earth rather than a shithouse interior. “This way, suh,” the quartermaster said, beckoning Sutherlin to follow.
“What is the meanin’ o’this?” Sutherlin followed, inspecting the tunnel as they descended. The air beneath was cool and damp. The rays of sun seeping in through the cracks in the walls of the outhouse offered barely enough light to see by. Sutherlin glanced back and wasn’t exactly surprised to find the door had shut behind them. No doubt it had locked as well.
“I’ve been workin’ on somethin’ in mah spare time,” the man answered. “I ain’t felt like I had the proper opportunity t’unveil it”—he paused—“until now.” The tunnel ended abruptly, opening into a large chamber.
“Mother of God.” Sutherlin’s eyes went wide as saucers as he saw what stood within the subterranean chamber.
“I been buildin’ it in secret-like.” The proud smile on his face faltered for a moment. “Uh, you ain’t goin’ t’report me, are ya? For workin’ on a project that ain’t sanctioned?”
Sutherlin stood with his mouth agape and shook his head very slowly.
The smile returned to the quartermaster’s face. “The armor is based on the Steamcoat designs. I studied ’em as much as I was able when I was a steamcrafter’s apprentice. I had t’fill in the rest.”
Sutherlin’s gaze devoured the large, complex armor suit hanging suspended from the ceiling with chains. Below it, to the left, stood an enormous clockwork horse. “By God, what powers them?”
“Steam, suh, generated by—” The man looked left and right as if someone could be down in that bunker to hear him and whispered, “Ee-lec-tric-it-y.” He dragged the word out, pronouncing it carefully. “See that crank? You got t’turn that real fast for at least five, six minutes. The charge will last a few hours, give or take.”
“Do they really work?”
“Like a dream, suh.”
“And weapons?” Sutherlin reached for the suit.
“The horse has two Gatling guns mounted, one on either side.” He walked over and pointed to the multibarreled weapons. “The suit has two swords. Those is ’lectrically charged as well. If y’don’t kill it on yuh first try, the shock’ll get ’em.”
“I will take them,” Sutherlin said. “Have them made ready, mah good man.”
“Yes, suh.” The quartermaster saluted. “Most certainly, suh.”
A QUARTER of an hour later, Sutherlin, in the bulky suit of armor, sat atop his mechanical steed, steam pouring from its metal nostrils. He pulled a lever sprouting from the horse’s neck and gears began to turn within. He pressed his right foot forward in the metal stirrup and the horse trotted forward. He pressed harder, urging the horse to gallop. Thunder rumbled in the earth beneath its hooves. He could only imagine the looks on his soldiers’ faces as they heard that thunder, felt the rumble rippling beneath their feet.
When he reached the exit through the outhouse, he pulled back roughly on the reins, causing the horse to jump. It burst out through the little wooden structure, shattering it dramatically. Sutherlin no longer needed to imagine the shocked looks on those faces gathered near as his horse landed from the tremendous jump and the earth shook with the force of it.
This was what Sutherlin wanted, what he needed. He was now a legendary hero from the pages of history, a force, not simply a man. He was excited beyond measure. He turned a dial near the momentum lever and the horse pranced through the camp. Sutherlin thrust his chin into the air regally, feeling all eyes on him, worshipping him as he should be worshipped. He used the reins to steer his mythic steed among the astonished rabble. If his own men looked at him with such awe, imagine what the godforsaken Northerners would feel when they saw his impressiveness.
He unsheathed one of the swords as he rode up and down their ranks. Electricity crackled along the metal blade. He held it heroically aloft, marveling at how easily the augmented strength of the armor allowed him to lift it. “Men!” he shouted, his voice amplified by a device in the collar of the armor. Ingenious, Sutherlin thought. Too bad I had to kill him so no one else could match my power. Rampant imagination like that cannot flow unchecked. What if this hadn’t fallen into my hands, but into someone’s who would use it for ill?
“Men,” he repeated. “Today we ride toward a righteous battle. It is not just a battle for our moral well-being. It is not just a battle for our country. It is a battle for our very souls!” He rode past them, chest thrust out. “It falls to us to lead this country into the blessed light of the Lord Almighty. We are righteous in his eyes. We are his holy soldiers tasked with wresting control from the British oppressors and showing our Northern brothers the error of their ways, so that they too may bathe in the light of his grace.
“What say you, men? Are we up for this task? Can we meet it?” He looked out expectantly.
A few tentative claps met his question. Someone whooped nervously. No. This won’t do, he thought. “I’m certain that I did not hear your response! Are we not the men who can save this country?”
This time a few more men raised their voices in response.
“I cannot hear you! Are we ready to show them Yankees what for?”
Now the cheer rose, deafening, and it pleased him greatly as if they were cheering only for him, worshipping at his altar. “Onward! General Lee, if y’all would be so kind as t’give the order t’move forward?”
Lee stood momentarily, regarding Sutherlin with a puzzling expression. Sutherlin sneered in response and swore he saw Lee pale slightly. His cheeks felt warm with satisfaction at the general’s response. Sutherlin swept his armored hand out toward the troops, offering Lee his last chance to lead them. If he didn’t, Sutherlin would take control of the army himself. He’d lead them into this epic battle like the heathen Alexander led his Persians to conquer the known world.
Maybe that’s what Sutherlin would do next. After the invading British were driven out, after the Northern heretics were under heel, maybe then he would branch out with his righteous army and bring the gospel of the South to their known world. He might find it his duty to shame Alexander’s accomplishments by surpassing them for the Glory of God.
His thoughts were interrupted by Lee finally calling for the troops to move out, before he boarded the command vessel. The airships ascended, and the troops on the ground began their march. Sutherlin curled his lip at the general’s ship and reined his mechanical steed to the front of the army.
GENERAL LEE looked around as he felt the ground tremble and heard a strange rumbling noise. He searched the crowd looking for Sutherlin, sure he’d have some snide remark about whatever occurred here. The thundering grew closer, as if the galloping of some enormous steed approached. Before Lee knew what happened, the outhouse exploded in a shower of cracked planks and splintered wood.
What replaced the little structure was a sight from a penny dreadful; a giant clockwork man sat atop a giant clockwork horse. Lee wondered where this awful thing came from and who had built it. He pulled his pistol and his sword and prepared for a battle. The horse landed the leap and paused as his rider studied the scene before him.
Lee’s gaze tr
aveled up to the face in that armor: Sutherlin. Son of a bitch, Lee spat in his mind. He wondered what the fat old bastard was up to as he rode back and forth. Then he stopped and drew an enormous sword that seemed to dance with little bolts of lightning. Lee shook his head slowly as Sutherlin began a speech calling the men to arms in the name of God. What the hell was Sutherlin playing at? He was certainly no soldier. He didn’t know the first thing about battle or fighting. A fancy suit of armor and complex clockwork steed did not a warrior make.
Sutherlin called him out, and Lee glared at the man. Who did he think he was? Fine, Lee thought. Let the fool son of a bitch ride headlong into battle to his death. What was it to Lee? He did as the man asked and called for the troops to begin their march on the North. He was surprised that this hadn’t pleased Sutherlin, but earned a sneer from the man. Lee chose to ignore the expression and boarded the command vessel with his officers and the voodoo priestesses controlling the undead legion.
He spared one last glance for Sutherlin, wondering when the man had gone completely round the bend. As the airship ascended, he felt certain that should the man follow through and ride that abomination into battle, it might be the last time Lee saw him—alive at least. Oh well, not his concern. He’d done his part, obeyed his orders, and organized their army’s march on the North. Whatever happened now remained in the hands of fate and the Northern forces.
34
LINCOLN SAT in the well-appointed parlor of his hotel room in New York, awaiting Ulysses S. Grant. They were to discuss plans to begin a march south to meet the Federation forces head-on. He checked his pocket watch for the hundredth time in the last hour. Grant was habitually punctual. It wasn’t like him to keep anyone waiting, especially Lincoln, especially under these circumstances.
Lincoln unfolded himself from the overstuffed chair, so that he might pace and calm his nerves. He’d only managed a step before someone knocked softly on the door. “It’s about damn time,” Lincoln groused as he reached for the doorknob. He opened the door and turned quickly away from Grant. “I’m glad you decided to join me. Sit down. We have a lot to discuss.” Lincoln motioned to the other chair in the parlor before he finally turned back to regard Grant.
The man standing in his parlor wasn’t the barrel-chested, gruff old general, but a young, lean fellow dressed all in black with a curtain of matching hair obscuring one eye, Jack Midnight. Lincoln recognized the man from the Winter Garden Theater on the night it burned down. “Good day, Mr. Lincoln.” Jack Midnight flashed him a feline smile. Lincoln had to admit he was very pretty, in a dangerous sort of way. His visible eye was dark, almost fathomless and ringed in smoky makeup.
Lincoln swallowed dryly. “Good day, sir. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I was not expecting your visit.” He hoped the shock in his voice wasn’t too evident.
“May I?” Midnight asked, indicating the chair. Lincoln nodded once. Midnight brushed deliberately by, dragging his shoulder across Lincoln’s chest. As he did, Lincoln got a whiff of his spicy, exotic scent. It made Lincoln feel light-headed.
“What can I do for you?” Lincoln asked, almost afraid to say his name.
“Midnight,” he finished Lincoln’s sentence. “Jack Midnight. You said it easily enough the other evening.”
Lincoln almost felt the color drain from his face. He was grateful for Midnight saving his life, but here, alone with him? Lincoln felt apprehensive and nervous. “Yes. Yes, of course I know. And what do you want with me, Mr. Midnight?”
“Well, for an older man, you have a certain charm.” Midnight flashed him an almost hungry glance. “I’m teasing.” Midnight raised a hand to calm him.
“You, sir, are a notorious criminal. Your reputation has even reached our shores. Yet that night in the theater, you prevented John Wilkes Booth from taking my life. Why would a criminal do something so noble? What does Mr. Seven have over you?”
Midnight crossed his legs. He raised a finger. “You shouldn’t make assumptions, Mr. Lincoln.”
“What am I assuming?”
“That my actions were noble. Or that I owed anyone anything.”
“Weren’t they? Don’t you?”
“Certainly not. On either count.” Midnight chuckled. “A friend needs you alive to defeat the South. I need the South defeated so that I may expand my interests in this country.”
“Criminal interests.” Lincoln didn’t phrase it as a question.
Midnight only flashed a smile at that.
“What do you want?” Lincoln asked, growing even more wary of this pretty criminal’s games.
“I just want to make sure you know that I saved your life.”
“And?”
“I also want your assurance that you’ll take that into consideration when you are in charge of this country, that you might give me a bit of slack with my ‘criminal interests’.”
Lincoln chuckled at that. “Sir, I do not know why you think that I will ever be in charge of this country, but you must know that were I in such a position, I couldn’t turn the other cheek to criminal activity, no matter the circumstances.”
“Not even to abolish slavery?”
Lincoln felt the sting of that jibe. “Fair enough, Mr. Midnight. Should such a preposterous situation ever arise, I will offer you a head start before I send the authorities after you and your interests.”
“I’ll take that.” Midnight nodded, smiling. “Also, I am guessing you’re being sidelined for this little battle.”
“Grant thinks it best that I don’t unnecessarily endanger myself.”
“Mm. Sounds like him.” Midnight stood, unfolding his lean limbs from the chair much like Lincoln had. “I have another offer.”
Lincoln folded his arms over his chest as Midnight approached him.
“Good, you’re listening. You are aware that I am also the Masked Shadow your newspapers have been writing about? Good. Well, my men and I are going to join Grant’s forces on the front lines. We’ll be serving in a more covert, strategic manner.”
“Get to your point, Mr. Midnight.”
“Would you like to join us?”
Lincoln unfolded his arms, startled.
“I wear a disguise as the Masked Shadow. You could as well. Grant and the rest need never know.” Midnight waited while Lincoln mulled the offer over.
“While I generally pride myself on my honesty, that is an intriguing offer.” Lincoln scratched at his beard. “It’s not my way to sit by and watch others fight my battles, and this war on slavery is every decent man’s responsibility.”
Midnight pulled a watch from his pocket. “You’ll have to decide quickly, sir. Grant will be here any moment. My men could only waylay him for so long.”
“I accept.” He offered Midnight his hand.
Midnight shook it. “Excellent. I’m staying here.” Midnight handed him a small card. “Send me word when you find out when the troops will begin their journey southward. I’ll send someone around to collect you exactly half an hour after. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, I’ll be using the window now, because Grant is surely on his way up.” Almost on cue someone pounded on the door.
“Lincoln!” Grant’s voice boomed from the other side.
Lincoln’s head snapped to look at the door. “Damn. You’d better g—” but when he turned to speak to Midnight, all he saw was an open window. He rushed over to look out as the sounds of Grant calling and pounding on the door erupted behind him. He could see no sign of the elegant criminal. Lincoln threw down the sash and ran to open the door for Grant.
“Dammit, man!” Grant barked as he pushed into the sitting room. “Are you all right? I was delayed by armed brigands.”
“I’m fine, old friend. Calm yourself.”
“No one has been here? You’re not in danger?”
“No. Don’t be silly.”
“The man at the front desk said he saw a suspicious stranger cross the lobby. You didn’t see anything?”
>
“No, Uly.”
“Dammit.” Grant slammed a fist onto the back of the chair. “That’s a relief, but I thought for sure those men were stalling me to get to you.”
“You’re being paranoid,” Lincoln responded. It wasn’t exactly a lie.
Grant regarded him suspiciously. “You’re certain?”
“Do I look like I’ve been fighting off mysterious assassins?”
“No. I suppose not,” Grant admitted. He turned to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. Lincoln realized he still held Midnight’s card. He slipped it quickly into his interior coat pocket. Grant turned back, sipping at his drink. “Shall we discuss the plans for tomorrow?”
Lincoln nodded. He walked past Grant and poured his own drink. He took a long sip before he faced Grant again. “What time will the campaign commence?” Lincoln asked, trying not to look like the cat that swallowed the canary.
LINCOLN STOOD at his window the next morning before the sun had even risen. Nearly a half an hour before, he’d watched the military wagons and troops march on the street below. He wasn’t surprised at all when someone knocked on his door a moment later.
His heart raced a little as he crossed the hotel room. He wondered if Midnight would come for him in person. He wasn’t exactly surprised when he opened the door and didn’t recognize the man on the other side. “Here,” he said without introduction or pretense, shoving a pack into Lincoln’s hands. “Put this on.”
Lincoln took the parcel into the bedroom and opened it. He shed his suit and dressed in the shabby bandit clothes. He looked in the full-length mirror and barely recognized himself but for the beard that framed his face. He wrapped a scarf around his neck and chin, hiding the beard. The last item in the parcel was a battered, patched bowler hat, and he put it on. He felt somehow rakish, jaunty in the costume.
“All right in there?” the man in the parlor asked.
The 7th of Victorica Page 34