Which was the end for the Emperor. Not that I missed him—he had a certain style, but in the end, the essential monotony of your self-promoting conqueror is difficult to ignore.
It was while Mitternacht was about this errand that I had a visit from the Condor. He came in a small steamboat, his cape streaming out behind him as he waved a white flag. Which, as a gentleman pirate, I was compelled to honor.
The Condor came aboard the New World and got straight to the point, as was his practice.
“The Schrecken is on the far side of the Sierras,” says he. “If things go on as they are, we’ll all starve to death by spring. But we’ve got a Miners’ Militia now, well-armed, and if we can get our troops across the Bay we can recapture the city. There aren’t many of those Grenzers, you know.”
I knew perfectly well where this was headed. “You don’t need the New World,” says I. “There are plenty of steamboats on the river.”
“It’s not the boat we need.” He gave a look at one of the cannons I had mounted on the foredeck. “We could use your guns,” says he. “We need something that will intimidate the Grenzers in their forts.”
I give him a narrow-eyed look. “And after the battle?” asks I. “How do I know you won’t bang me on the head and drag me up in front of some vigilance committee?”
He drew himself up and looked at me solemnly. “I give you my word of honor,” says he. “You and your crew will have a fair opportunity to withdraw once the city is ours.”
Well, I couldn’t do better than that. And truth to tell, I was fretting in any case, knowing it was only a matter of time before the Schrecken appeared overhead to pacify the Delta by dropping poisonous fluorine on me and all my men. The airship’s absence seemed by far the best chance to give the flying madman a knock. Best, I reckoned, to strike while the striking was good.
So it was, barely two nights later, that I found myself conning the New World down the river and across the Bay. The city—renamed Sankt Ruprecht after the patron saint of Salzburg, of all places—was guarded by three masonry forts, charmingly named Angst, Tod, and Panik. Angst and Panik had been built by slaves, and covered the western and eastern approaches; Fort Tod was the old Spanish Presidio on the Golden Gate. Fortunately Mitternacht was forced to defend so much of the peninsula that the forts didn’t support one another. We made Fort Panik, on the east side of the city, our first target.
I had two companies of militia on board, partially protected by log ramparts, and I was trying to peer around the wood cladding of the pilothouse when I saw, walking along the Texas deck, a tall, cadaverous cove, dressed in a long black cloak and a stovepipe hat. He carried a strange pipe-like weapon that was attached to a canister he wore on his back. I stuck my head out of the wheelhouse, then gestured for him to join me.
The weapon, I discovered, made strange muttering sounds, like a coal fire in a boiler with all the dampers shut.
“That gun of yours ain’t going to set my boat on fire, is it?” asks I.
“I hope it will set everything on fire.” He spoke with a ponderous Russian accent. He gave a formal bow. “I am the Nihilist,” says he. “It is my mission to destroy all forms of oppression, starting with the champion of Habsburg reaction across the Bay.”
I regarded him. “When you say everything…” says I.
“I mean everything,” says he flatly. “In order for humanity to be liberated, it must be returned to a complete state of nature.”
“Well,” says I, “it’s hard to find a less civilized place than the gold fields.”
“Yes,” says he, “but the miners still pursue gold, the single vital element of our oppressive economic system. This greed must be…” He searched for the word. “Cured,” he decided.
I gave him a hopeful grin. “I trust you will avoid curing us until Professor Mitternacht is dealt with.”
“I am a reasoning man,” says he. “I am capable of making tactical alliances.”
Another solemn madman, thinks I. He wants to liberate San Francisco only to burn the place down.
The Nihilist, I reckoned, was another of a new breed of cranks and enthusiasts on their way to California, and who were already well on their way to spoiling the place. The only difference between him and Professor Mitternacht was that Mitternacht had a more efficient way of killing people.
I determined in the upcoming battle to send the Nihilist straight at the enemy, and to let fortune determine the rest. He could destroy civilization, I decided, or die trying. Preferably the latter.
I returned my attention to guiding the New World to its destination, and to worrying that I would get a roundshot through my tripes before I ever saw an enemy.
It is impossible to make a surprise attack with steamboats—they make a lot of noise, from the clanking of the engine to the thrashing of the paddles to the great throat-clearing howl of the relief valves—and my heart was in my throat for much of the crossing as I imagined myself in the sights of some diabolical German engine from Professor Mitternacht’s laboratory.
There were twelve steamboats in our fleet, and most of them towed sailing craft or barges crammed with men. The militia were half-crazed with drink before we even set out, and their shouting and singing and accidental discharge of firearms were hardly the thing to boost my confidence.
Yet we were within a couple thousand yards of Fort Panik before star shells went up and the first cannon flashed in the fort’s embrasures.
I had timed things pretty well. A golden dawn was just creeping down Blue Mountain to the west, but the Bay was still in darkness, and from the ramparts our boats were just shadows on the deep black water. As cannon shot came skipping over the waves, I rang to the engine room for more speed.
I think the Condor had it in mind that I would keep New World offshore and engage the fort in a gun duel. This was the best recipe for suicide that I could think of, and so I ran in as quickly as possible. I threw out a kedge anchor so that I could pull the boat off the mud flats if I needed to, then ran her in till she just touched ground, after which I lowered the gangways and watched the drunken militia charge forward, sloshing through water and muck and wrack and flotsam to dry land. I thought I saw the Nihilist’s stovepipe hat in the throng.
I looked up at the fort, which was still booming away, and decided that I would be safer on land than sitting atop a boiler filled with steam and subjected to plunging shot from above. So I ordered the cannons fired, then drew my sword, waved my hat, and led my crew in a charge.
Nor was I alone. The rest of our fleet had come to shore and unleashed their passengers. I saw the plug hat of the Bowery B’hoy amid the throng, and his lead-weighted cane waving in the air; there were the long ringlets and the broad plumed hat of the Cavalier next to the scarlet kerchief of my traitorous bitch of an ex-wife. The Masked Hidalgo swooped along in his cloak, his rapier flashing; and one mob advanced in complete silence, the mesmerized followers of Captain Hypnos. Shanghai Susie ran nimbly along with a party of Chinese, their pigtails flying. And Doctor Tolliver walked ashore absolutely alone, because no one wanted to be anywhere near his box of explosives.
My heart gave a great lift at the scene, at all the great champions united against a single enemy, and I gave a halloo and ran like a madman for the fort.
As I sloshed through the muck, I happened to look to my left, and to my great surprise I saw the Condor being hurled into the sky like a rocket. He’d had a catapult constructed on his boat to fling him aloft so that he could spread his wings and sail down into the fort.
A great mob had surrounded the fort by this point, firing like mad into the embrasures and trying to scale the masonry walls. The scent of gunpowder filled the air. The Condor disappeared into the fort, and I suppose there was the usual thwacking and thumping that followed one of his descents. Doctor Tolliver began hurling glass bombs into the fort, not particularly caring if he injured the Condor as long as he killed Grenzers; and then the Nihilist stuck his pipe-weapon into one of the embrasures and
let loose with a great jet of fire; and there was screaming and shrieking and the sound of cartridges detonating, and that was the end of the Battle of Fort Panik.
Truth to tell, without the Schrecken, the Grenzers were doomed. There weren’t many of them; they were scattered in small detachments trying to hold too much ground; and they were infantry, not trained artillerists—none of their shot had come close to our little flotilla. And they had damned few cannon to fire—the rusting old Spanish guns at the Presidio hadn’t kept Commodore Stockton out in ’46, and they weren’t keeping us out this time. Fort Panik had only a few ill-assorted pieces scavenged from ships that happened to be in the Bay when Mitternacht turned up, and very little powder and shot.
As soon as dawn gave us a clear view of the proceedings, we organized and marched inland. South of the city, we overran the landing field that Mitternacht had built for his airship, and the factory that he had created to build new fluorine bombs. We freed the slave workers there, then crested the city’s hills and marched in a great surging mob down to Fort Angst, which we stormed in about three minutes. I found myself fighting alongside the Condor, slashing with my sword as he pounded Grenzers with his fists, and I had a chance to observe the flush of battle on his cheeks, and blue glow of combat in his eyes. He lives for this! thinks I, and then some giant Croat lunged at me with a sword-bayonet as long as my leg, and I had to look to my own safety.
Angst fell, and that left only the Presidio. Which, if inadequately armed and garrisoned, was at least a proper fort; and it might have given us trouble if I hadn’t remembered those fluorine bombs sitting in their racks at the factory. So I had the Condor’s catapult fetched from his steamer, fixed one of Mitternacht’s own projectiles in it, and ordered it hurled toward the fort.
It took a while to get the fort’s range, and we came damn near to gassing ourselves; but once a few gas bombs had dropped behind the walls, the surviving Grenzers came staggering out waving the white flag. The black-and-gold of Austria came down the flagstaff and the American gridiron flag went up, and Sankt Ruprecht was San Francisco again.
The enslaved citizens of San Francisco poured out to welcome us, at least once we unlocked their barracks, and there was a massive day-long party.
The Gentlemen and I were extremely popular. For one thing, I was the only person wearing anything resembling a uniform, so it was widely believed that I had generaled the city’s rescue. I was cheered wherever I went. I believe I could have run successfully for mayor.
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?
Dead Man’s Hand Page 43