by Thomas Webb
“Enough, James. Do us all a favor and end this clamor, would you? Poor Benjamin is dying down there. He’s completely lost control.” Wallace closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “All this noise is giving me a headache.”
“Leave it to you to spoil a man’s fun,” Smythe said. He nodded to the assembly chamber sergeant at arms, and a few moments later, peace in the auditorium was restored.
Secretary Benjamin, now able to speak, yielded the floor. Congressman Mathias Mulroney, a handsome landowner who reeked of old money, stood from his seat.
“I’d take Mulroney seriously if I were you, James,” Wallace said. “Of all your competitors for Davis’ vacant office, he stands the best chance. Just look at that bastard.” Wallace licked his lips. “Tall. Sinfully wealthy. A face simply made for a daguerreotype. With that jawline and that hair? He has ‘president’ written all over him.”
“Perhaps.” Smythe listened as the congressman prattled on about Native and Freedmen insurrectionists. “Those bottomless Mulroney coffers certainly won’t hurt his bid.”
Wallace raised an eyebrow. “So why don’t you seem more concerned?”
“The congressman’s manicured hands have never borne a callous, Wally. What do you suppose a sharecropper would make of that? Or a veteran of the War of Northern Aggression? No, Mulroney’s lived a life of leisure. He’ll never be able to relate to the common man. Besides, Reverend Talmidge assures me all those ‘salt of the earth’ votes are in the bag.”
“You’ve certainly donated enough money to the reverend’s flock these past months,” Wallace said. “The least he could do is deliver the votes he promised.”
“And if not, there’s always the contingency plan.”
Wallace looked confused. “Contingency plan?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with, Wally. My associates and I have seen to it.”
“It’s odd, James. I keep hearing about these associates of yours, but I’ve yet to meet any of them.”
“Nor shall you ever, Wally. It’s best that way, I think.”
Wallace pouted. “Well, I don’t suppose I’ll start questioning your methods now. As long as I get to share in the spoils.”
At the end of Mulroney’s speech, the auditorium fell back into chaos. Secretary Benjamin stood behind his lectern, powerless to stop the split Confederate Congress from turning on itself.
At last, Smythe took pity on the secretary. He gave another nod to the sergeant at arms, and soon, the room was quiet again.
“Benjamin’s a good man,” Smythe whispered. “Not much for getting things done, though.”
Wallace shrugged. “The government hasn’t completely collapsed under his interim rule.”
“If he manages not to destroy the country before I take office, I’ll consider it a victory.”
With order restored, Secretary Benjamin yielded the floor to a second presidential hopeful. When word of the special election got out, potential candidates had lined up in droves. It seemed every crackpot, charlatan, and half-rate politician in the Confederacy now considered themselves a serious candidate.
Smythe decided to let this part of the election run its course at least for another few weeks. His potential rivals made for excellent distractions from the real issues, thus making the work of stealing the election that much easier. And besides, the fools were nothing if not entertaining.
“Who’s this one, James?” Wally asked.
“Patterson out of Arkansas. Wants a second war with the North, a second war with the Empire of Mexico, and banishment of all Freedmen to the African continent. He favors isolationism, thinks the Confederacy can make a go of it without the recognition of Europe or the Asias.”
“Oh, God.” Wallace rolled his eyes. “How do they even get elected?”
“Desperate people will believe most anything,” Smythe said.
Patterson concluded his speech with a flourish and collapsed into his chair. Half the auditorium got to its feet and cheered. The other half hissed and booed.
“And what about Lee?” Wally asked, pointing to the retired general on the other side of the auditorium. “I haven’t seen the barest hint of emotion from the man all day.”
“Robert is a hard man to read,” Smythe said. “My guess is he’s choosing to stay above the fray. Fortunately for us, he continues to refuse all requests to run. His entering the race would make things . . . complicated, to say the least.” Smythe cleared his throat and straightened his neckerchief.
“Time to introduce the Confederate Congress to its next president?” Wally asked.
“Even though they don’t know it yet.” Smythe gave Wally a wink, stood, and smoothed his waistcoat with both hands. “The distinguished gentleman from the great state of North Carolina wishes to be recognized,” he said, making himself heard above the noise.
7 Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, Skies Above the Coastal Forests, May 1864
The ocean breeze felt cool as the sweat evaporated from Montclair’s skin. Vindication flew low and fast, skimming the waves just off the North Carolina coast. Moonlight glistened on the ocean. Below, Montclair glimpsed a pack of dolphins playing in the surf.
After they’d met with the president, Montclair and Gregory made straight for Mason’s Island, where Gregory sent word for a squad of his Marines. They arrived just after daybreak, and at sunset, Vindication took to the sky. They flew due east from Washington, and then once far enough out over the Atlantic, they headed south.
Montclair checked his pocket watch for the hundredth time. Only two hours until sunrise. They needed to make landfall and have Vindication back over international waters before daylight caught her. He looked east. They’d be cutting it close.
“Send word to the bridge,” Montclair told the crewman standing watch. “Have them take us back up. Then, we’ll come in low over the coast.”
The soldier snapped off a salute and disappeared.
“We going higher to avoid our own blockades?” Greg asked. Unable to sleep, he’d joined Montclair above decks.
“Can’t have our own ships mistaking us for a Confederate frigate and firing on us.”
“Still a fair chance of that happening even higher up.”
“We have the patrol route schedule. We should be fine.”
“Can we really trust anything Kincaid told us?” Gregory asked.
“Ordinarily? No. But this time, I can’t see how it would benefit DSI to lie to us. Besides, it isn’t like we have a choice.”
“There is that.”
The two men laughed, their gallows humor something only soldiers understood.
Vindication flew up and up and up until they broke the clouds and the air grew thin. When they reached altitude, the airship leveled off and began her descent.
Soon, the darkened landscape beneath them came into focus. Montclair saw the sea behind him and the wild tangle of the twisted coastal treetops below. He checked his pocket watch again.
“Looking at it won’t make the minutes go any slower,” Greg said.
Montclair ignored the remark. “It’s time, Greg,” he said. “From here on in, we go silent. No shipwide loudaphone. No talking above decks. Here might be a good place to have your Marines see to their kit. We’ll be dropping soon.”
Less than a quarter turn o’ the clock later, Vindication glided to a stop. She hovered silent several hundred feet above a darkened clearing. Montclair, Gregory, and eighteen others stood in front of the airship’s portside railing, impatient to get started.
Montclair smelled the sea. He could taste the salt in the air. Beyond the edge of the gnarled and twisted tree line, he heard the waves as they crashed against the shore.
Sweat trickled down the small of his back as he surveyed the forest far below. They’d traded heavy wool uniform coats and trousers for lightweight cotton, specially colored to blend into the forest. The cotton helped with the heat but only so much.
Montclair hefted a bulky pack above his head, letting it slide down his a
rms and onto his upper back. He shook it into place and pulled the straps snug. He checked to make sure his Colt was secure to his thigh and that his saber was lashed tight to his hip. Satisfied, he walked to each man and woman, checking and rechecking their equipment the same as he’d done with his own.
When they’d all been double and triple-checked, Montclair slung a rifle across his chest and took his position next to Greg. His mouth went dry, and his heart threatened to beat from his chest. It was always like this before a drop. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then attached his drop line, and leaned forward. When everyone was set, Montclair signaled the winchman. The winchman gave the ok, and Montclair, followed by nineteen of the Union’s bravest men and women, sprinted headfirst down the curve of the airship’s envelope. Without breaking stride, Montclair heaved himself forward, spreading arms and legs wide as he leapt out into dark, empty space.
Montclair twisted mid-air as he plummeted toward the earth, fighting hard to position himself. Montclair knew soldiers who’d broken bones improperly executing a drop, and he didn’t plan to be one of them. At the last possible moment, Montclair managed to get feet-first. With only twenty-five feet to certain death, the airship’s hydraulic winching system kicked in. Montclair touched down as light as a feather, smiling as he completed the drop. As soon as his boots touched sand, he detached his drop line. A split second later, Montclair was on one knee, rifle sights up and pointed into the surrounding trees.
A soft thump several feet away told him Greg was on the ground. Montclair counted eighteen more thumps before breathing a sigh of relief. Three sharp tugs on the hydraulic line signaled “all clear.” Montclair watched as Vindication floated off, desperate to make the Atlantic before sunrise caught her.
Twenty soldiers knelt in the clearing, senses alert and rifles at the ready. Dawn was a short while off, but the forest was already awake. A sluggish breeze, heavy with the smell of salt air, barely penetrated the twisted trees. A single bead of sweat slid down Montclair’s cheek. Hyper alert, he scanned the forest and listened.
Even with all their training, neither he nor any of the other soldiers heard the strangers approach. A low mist rolled in from the west, and they appeared out of it like ghosts. Montclair silently cursed himself.
The first one was barely more than a boy. He was naked to the waist except for two bandoliers draped across his slim chest. Deerskin breeches covered his legs. On his hip, the young brave wore a long, bone-handled knife.
Just behind the Native boy was an old man. His skin was like ebony, his hair and beard a wild tangle of gray. Despite his age, he moved just as quietly as the boy did. The old man’s clothes were an odd mixture of modern and Native. He wore a deerskin vest, but his breeches were dyed wool. He carried a rifle like the ones Montclair and his soldiers were armed with. A revolver hung from one side of the old man’s gun belt, and a Bowie knife hung from the other.
Kincaid hadn’t told them much in the briefing. They knew someone would be meeting them once they touched down, but they had no idea who. The Native boy and the old man were surprising enough, but it was the leader of that group who really got Montclair’s attention.
The mists parted before her as she stepped into the clearing. Without a sound, she walked to the still-kneeling Montclair. He lowered his rifle and signaled his troops to do the same. She was Native too. Croatan, judging by her eyes. They were like molten gold and sparkled even in the predawn gloom.
Montclair stood up. He was a full head taller than the Native woman, who now had to look up at him. Quick as anything, she put her forefinger to his cheek and wiped off some of the dark-colored paint which covered his face.
“Hmph,” she said, examining the smudge on her finger.
Montclair had journeyed far and wide in service of his nation. Between the society balls, the entertaining of dignitaries, and all the expensive brothels, there’d been no lack of opportunity for women. In all his travels through Europe, the Caribbean, and the Asias, he’d never seen a woman to match the one standing in front of him.
Her hair was raven-black, darker even than the shadows of the coastal forest. She carried a longbow in her hand. A wide leather belt encircled her slim waist. A great bladed knife hung from the belt and rested on her hip. She wore a deerskin vest. Even in the low light, Montclair noticed it did little to restrain the fullness of her breasts. Her breeches, tight against muscular legs, were deerskin as well.
“Come,” she said, still smirking at Montclair’s camouflage paint.
Without waiting for a response, she turned and faded back into the forest. Rather than stand there looking foolish, Montclair followed her into the darkness of the woods.
They traveled for several hours, conscious of every sound and cautious of every step. The sun was almost overhead when they stopped. Montclair and his soldiers choked down several bites of dry rations and filled their canteens from a nearby stream. A whippoorwill, its rest disturbed, scolded them from above.
“It’s safe to speak aloud,” the Native woman said.
“You’re sure?” Montclair asked. “We were warned about Confederate peacekeeping patrols.”
He took a swallow of water from his canteen. On impulse, he handed it to the Native woman.
“We haven’t seen any in days,” she said, taking the canteen. “Very strange.” She took a long, deep drink, wiped her mouth, and handed the canteen back.
Montclair looked her in the eye. “You have me at a disadvantage, my lady. You know who I am. Perhaps it’s time I knew who you were as well?”
“I am Ayita of the Croatan people,” she said. “For now, that is all you need to know.”
“Ayita,” Montclair said, liking the feel of her name on his tongue. “Your name means ‘first to dance’ in the Croatan tongue. You are very modest, lady. If my father was war chieftain of the only tribe mighty enough to stand against the Confederate army, I’d find it hard to keep the fact to myself.”
Ayita’s eyes widened. “How did you come to know all this?”
“There aren’t many who haven’t heard of the great Tooantuh, leader of the Croatan nation, or of his daughter. Your beauty is legendary, but the legend pales in comparison to the woman herself.”
Ayita looked away but not before Montclair saw the color rise to her cheeks.
“A genuine Native princess,” Greg said. Montclair hadn’t noticed his friend come up behind him. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.” Gregory bowed to the chieftain’s daughter, dropped to one knee, and kissed her hand.
“I wasn’t aware my father’s fame had spread so far,” Ayita said, not looking amused. “Something I’ll have to keep in mind from now on, I suppose. Please, Major Gregory, do get up.”
“You see? The Native princess knows who I am as well.” Greg stood and winked at Montclair.
Montclair frowned.
“It would be best if we didn’t linger,” Ayita said. “Just because we haven’t seen any patrols doesn’t mean we won’t run into one. They search for us continuously, just as we do them.”
Ayita gave a shrill whistle that resembled a bird’s call. The native boy appeared in an instant. She pointed to the forest ahead of them, and he took off like an arrow from a bow.
They followed behind the boy but rarely caught a glimpse of him. When they did, it was only long enough to see him give Ayita hurried reports on what lay ahead. That afternoon, they marched into a swamp. It was slow going through the thick, stinking mud and fetid water, and the stench of decay threatened to suffocate. By the time they cleared the marshlands, the sun hung low in the western sky. Just before dusk, Ayita called a halt.
She chose a small, bowl–shaped clearing as their campsite. A bubbling creek ran nearby. They all took turns at the creek, rinsing away some of the swamp mud and rotten vegetation. Montclair found it hard to take his eyes off Ayita as she washed the remnants of the marsh from her face and hair. When she caught him staring, he didn’t look away.
Montclair ga
ve orders to set a watch and prepare the camp for the night. After personally checking on each man and woman under his command, Montclair pulled off his pack and collapsed onto a fallen tree. He was barely off his feet when Ayita came and sat beside him. She produced flint and steel from a small satchel and soon had a fire going.
“Begging your pardon, colonel,” one of Greg’s Marines said to Montclair. “Don’t mean to disturb you and the lady, but some of us thought we might get out and try to hunt up some supper. We saw tracks about a half mile back. With what daylight we got left, we may be able to bag some venison.”
“A rifle shot might bring unwanted attention,” Montclair said.
Just then, the Native boy appeared. He held out his long bow to the chieftain’s daughter and pointed toward the forest. Ayita nodded.
“Let Dustu go with them, colonel,” she said. “You and your soldiers aren’t nearly as loud as the graycoats. If your troops track the deer, Dustu can take it with his bow.”
Montclair, his stomach growling at the thought of roasted venison, gave his approval. Montclair watched as two of Greg’s Marines followed Dustu into the forest.
“The boy doesn’t say much, does he?”
“He has little use for words,” Ayita said. “When he does speak, he weighs his words carefully. His life has been full of hardship, but through it, he has gained much wisdom.” She poked at the fire with a branch. “I’m very proud of my younger brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes. Not of my blood, but my brother.”
“I didn’t think adoption was commonplace among the Croatan.” Montclair was intrigued.
“It isn’t. In our tongue, Dustu means ‘unknown.’ We have never known his true name. Nor has he. He was little when my father found him. Only a baby, alone and crying in the smoking ruins of his village. My father’s hunting party arrived in time to kill the men who’d burned the village, but not in time to save Dustu’s people. All were killed. All except him.”
“Men are capable of terrible things, chieftain’s daughter.”