Lincoln's Wizard

by Tracy Hickman

  In the two months following the battle, his ribs had healed and his fame had grown. Following the newspaper accounts, he’d been put on train after train and shown off to an endless succession of crowds as politicians and generals made speeches. They would praise him, and he’d stand and wave to crowds as they cheered the lie that had become his life.

  Braxton hated it.

  Worst of all, his fame took on a life of its own as the story was told and retold in taverns full of farmers and around campfires amid weary soldiers. The papers had printed a likeness of him in every city and town where he stopped, and people began recognizing him when he went out in public. It was worse than living a lie as he had to recount the carefully constructed story his superiors had concocted for him to eager people desperate for some good news from the war. It became a nightmare that constantly reminded him of the blood on his hands.

  He fidgeted in his chair again as a large grandfather clock by the parlor door chimed the hour. He’d bought a new uniform coat for his meeting with the President and he twisted in his chair in a vain effort to make it stop scratching. The new shoulder-boards didn’t help either. As his fame had grown, someone had the bright idea to promote him to captain.

  And all I had to do was blow up the army’s newest war machine and get my entire crew killed, he thought bitterly. I wonder how you make general?

  Braxton stood and paced the floor of the office. It took some time as the room was quite easily as large as the house in which Braxton had been raised. The walls were painted white with gold trim and hung with all manner of art. Couches and chairs guarded the perimeter, separated only by the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the afternoon sunlight. In the center of the office sat a desk that couldn’t have been more imposing if it had been a throne. It was white, like the walls, with an enormous slate of white marble for a top. A pair of oil lamps flanked the desk like sentinels, the oil in their reservoirs glowing amber in the sunlight and casting colored shadows over the marble. In the center of this parade ground masquerading as a desktop were a great many maps, charts, and reports written in spidery script.

  While Braxton was sure the mass of intelligence on the desk held tantalizing secrets, they were not what drew his attention. On the far side of the desk a green cloth had been carefully laid out in front of the leather chair. An elaborate music box made of porcelain and silver lay on the cloth. It was a fanciful thing that reminded Braxton of a miniature carousel with tiny glass prisms fitted inside it instead of horses. In the center of the box was a small oil lamp, around which the crystals turned when it was working, which it clearly wasn’t. The music box lay on its side with its bottom pulled out revealing the clockwork mechanisms. Someone had removed mainspring and the motion work, separating it into a neat row of gears and cogs.

  Braxton walked around the desk and leaned over, being careful not to touch anything. From the chip of missing porcelain on the top of the music box, he guessed that someone had knocked it on the floor and was now trying to repair it. The gearing looked simple enough, but there seemed to be more than would be necessary just to play the music and turn the crystals. Before Braxton could examine it further, the door to the office opened.

  Braxton looked up, expecting the young steward who had greeted him at the elevator when he arrived. Instead the door admitted a tall, stocky man with a square face, close-set eyes, and a trimmed beard. His hair was going gray at the temples and he had a look of weariness etched into the lines of his face, as if he were burdened with a great weight.

  Braxton recognized that look. He’d seen it recently in his own mirror.

  “Captain Wright?” the man asked as Braxton moved back around the desk. “My name’s Pinkerton, Allan Pinkerton,” he stuck out his hand and Braxton took it. “Do you know who I am?”

  Braxton nodded. He’d never met Pinkerton, but everyone who’d read a newspaper knew of the man. He had founded his detective agency in his name—Pinkerton National Detective Agency—and had introduced a number of groundbreaking innovations to the sleuthing profession. His men were responsible for foiling the infamous Baltimore plot to assassinate President Lincoln as well as uncovering the Brunswick Conspiracy. Now Pinkerton was the head of Union intelligence.

  “Good,” Pinkerton said, motioning for Braxton to sit. “The President’s asked me to sit in on your meeting. I’ll go make sure he’s ready for you, then I’ll be back to get you. Do you have any questions?”

  Braxton nodded. “Why am I here?”

  Pinkerton seemed surprised at that, but a smile crept immediately back onto his face.

  “That’s a good question,” he said. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t ask good questions.”

  “And how many of those people get an answer to their question?”

  “Another good question,” Pinkerton said with a wry smile. “But as to why you are here, I’ll let the President tell you that.”

  “I was noticing your music box,” Braxton said, indicating the orderly rows of parts.

  Pinkerton scowled as if this were a source of immense displeasure.

  “Confounded thing,” he muttered. “I had a devil of a time getting it made and then some fool cleaning woman went and knocked it on the floor. It hasn’t worked right since.”

  “May I fiddle with it?” Braxton said. “Mechanical things and me, we have an understanding.”

  The older man wavered, his face unreadable. It seemed to Braxton as if he were on the verge of saying something, but then he simply nodded.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Pinkerton said, then stepped out of the office once more, shutting the door behind him.

  Braxton waited a moment as Pinkerton’s footsteps disappeared down the hall, then he moved to the desk, pulling out the heavy chair and sitting down. A row of tools lay beside the green cloth and Braxton selected a delicate screwdriver before setting to work.

  The inner mechanism of the music box had been almost totally disassembled which made it easy to see the designer’s intention for the device. Each of the prisms was mounted on a track so they would not only rotate, but move in-and-out and side-to-side as well. It took Braxton a few minutes to work out how all the gears were supposed to work and it was the most fun he’d had in months. It was overly complex for something as simple as a music box. Still, as Braxton examined it, he began to see where the gearing could be simplified without comprising the intricate motion of the prisms.

  After a few more minutes of poking around, he set to work. The problem with the music box had been evident to him the moment he sat down. The spindle on the balance wheel was bent, causing it to wobble and stop instead of keeping the device in time. Using the pliers, Braxton carefully straightened the metal rod, then began reassembling the network of gears, escapements, and lever arms. He was aware that Pinkerton had been gone for some time, but it didn’t bother him. This was the work he enjoyed most, creating order out of chaos, shaping the world with the power of his hands and the ingenuity of his mind.

  When he had the gears reassembled on the base, he carefully fitted it back into the body of the machine, then set it upright on its silver feet. He reached for the key to wind it but stopped.

  “Might as well get the full effect,” he said.

  He reattached the little oil reservoir that fed the lamp in the center of the music box, then lit it with a match from his shirt pocket. The light burned slightly green and the smoke had a pungent aroma, like aged pipe tobacco.

  Moving carefully, Braxton wound the key on the back of the music box. When he released it, the box hesitated, then began to turn. Tuneless music emerged from the base of the box, pleasing, but without the form one expects from a proper melody. Braxton frowned for a moment, wondering if he had been mistaken in the order of the gear assembly, but by then the tune seemed most pleasant to his ears. The prisms caught the light from the lamp and exploded in a dance of color and little rainbows.

  Absently, Braxton noticed that the prisms hesitated a b
it when they reached the end of their prescribed arcs. If he added jewel movements to the lever arms he could fix that. He thought about making a note of it, but his mind seemed strangely out of focus.

  Taking a deep breath, Braxton leaned forward on his hands to watch the swirling play of color and sound on the desk before him. It was the most comfortable he’d been in months.

  O O O

  Pinkerton left the office, closing the door behind him. When he’d first read Braxton’s story in the papers he suspected the young man would be ideal for his purposes. Now that he’d met Braxton, he was sure.

  He walked down the carpeted hall, past the armed sentries, to a set of ornate double doors, lacquered with an oriental scene. He knocked and went in without waiting for a response. The room beyond was long and rectangular with a vaulted ceiling surmounted by a skylight. Two long couches sat facing each other around a low table and beyond them crouched a massive desk. Behind the desk sat a somber man in a simple black suit who rose as Pinkerton entered.

  “Well?” President Lincoln asked, moving around the desk to the sideboard. “Does this hero of yours meet with your approval?”

  “He’s perfect,” Pinkerton said, joining Lincoln as the taller man poured two cups of tea from a china pot. Pinkerton accepted a cup from Lincoln and the two sat down on opposite couches. “He’s smart enough to get the job done, but not wise enough to see what’s coming.”

  Lincoln sighed, allowing his tea to cool.

  “You make it sound very tawdry, Allan,” he said, sipping from the cup. “You know I don’t much care for this.”

  “I don’t much care for legions of Confederate Grays massing in every quarter,” Pinkerton said. “You know as well as I do that if something’s not done about that, and soon, we’re going to lose this war.”

  Lincoln sighed again and nodded.

  “I suppose it is as bad as that,” he said. “We really should bring Stanton in on this. He is my secretary of war.”

  “No,” Pinkerton said, more forcefully than he intended, splashing tea on his cuff. “I’ve lost two good men trying to get someone into Castle Thunder Prison. The fewer people who know about this, the safer young Braxton will be, and the better our chances of success.”

  He set his teacup on the table and wiped his sleeve with his handkerchief.

  “You don’t trust Stanton, Mister Pinkerton?” Lincoln asked. His words were as much a statement as a question.

  The remark was easy, almost in passing, but Pinkerton heard the hard edge below the innocent sounding question. Lincoln was fiercely loyal to his friends, and didn’t tolerate talk behind their backs.

  Stanton had been with him from the beginning.

  “All I’m saying,” Pinkerton said, choosing his words carefully, “is that we’ve got a leak somewhere. The Confederates were warned about our previous five attempts to get inside the Castle; there’s no other explanation for how easily our men were found out. Besides,” he said with a smile, “Stanton doesn’t approve of wasting resources on these kinds of operations and I don’t want to spend half the day arguing about a decision that’s already been made.”

  Lincoln nodded and a faint smile crossed his face.

  “Stanton can be headstrong,” he said. “I’ve found it necessary to plow around him from time to time, myself. That said, this is a major operation, Allan, one that will require an immense amount of our already dwindling resources. How can you be sure our young messenger will be sent to the Castle Prison?”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Pinkerton chuckled. “Every newspaper from here to Charleston has run the story of the Hero of Parkersburg, along with that illustration I had done.”

  “That will make him easy to catch,” Lincoln agreed, “but what makes you think they won’t just send him to Andersonville? He’s no good to anybody there.”

  “Even the dimmest Reb will think better than that,” Pinkerton mused as he shook his head. “Once they know they’ve got a war hero, they’ll want to keep him handy so they can exchange him for someone we’ve caught. They don’t want him starving in Andersonville; no, they’ll put him somewhere nice and safe and close to home. They’ll put him in the Castle.”

  Lincoln regarded Pinkerton as he sipped his tea.

  “You’re a very devious man, Allan,” he said. “Like Merlin of old.”

  “Careful, Mister President,” Pinkerton laughed. “That would make you Arthur, and you know how that story turned out.”

  Lincoln nodded. “At least Arthur brought order to his kingdom before he died,” he said.

  “Well, I believe we can do better,” Pinkerton said, finishing his tea. He rose and placed the cup and saucer back on the sideboard.

  “You’d better go get our young friend,” Lincoln said. “Sherman’s already here and he wants to see me.”

  “I don’t envy you that conversation,” Pinkerton said. “He’s not likely to be happy about his attack being pushed back.”

  “He ever was eager for a fight,” Lincoln said, nodding. “Or perhaps I should rather say eager for a flight, given that he had taken to the air like a hawk. It makes him in a hurry.”

  “Sherman’s always in a hurry,” Pinkerton shuddered. “Never liked those things, myself. The thought of all that empty air beneath my feet gives me the shakes.”

  Lincoln chuckled. “I’ve always found it rather liberating.”

  “Liberating or not, Sherman’s going to have to wait a bit,” Pinkerton said. “The Mesmer machine is broken again.”

  Lincoln raised an eyebrow at that. “Due to the complexity of the device then?”

  “No, sir,” Pinkerton said, clearing his throat. “It was knocked off my desk—a simple accident.”

  “A vital secret device was sitting casually on your desk then?”

  “Very well, sir, I knocked it off my desk!” Pinkerton felt himself blush momentarily. “Stanton barged into my office unannounced and startled me.”

  “Relax, Mister Pinkerton. As the event makes for a most disinteresting tale, your secret is safe with me,” Lincoln chuckled. “If the contraption is broken how will you pass the instructions on to Miss Lawton, then?”

  “Not to worry,” Pinkerton said. “I’ve got my man bringing around a prototype from Menlo Park. He should be here by tonight. I’ll make your excuses and have young Captain Wright put up in the Hotel till then.”

  “Yes, a sound enough plan,” Lincoln nodded, signaling an end to the discussion.

  Pinkerton turned and left. He made his way back to his office, humming softly to himself. Despite the time lost to the broken Mesmer machine, things were shaping up nicely. As he approached his door, he paused. A soft, familiar music came from beyond the closed door.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, recognizing the tuneless melody. He hadn’t expected Braxton to be able to do anything with the Mesmer Device, but now he wondered if he had seriously underestimated the young man’s abilities. He’d read Ericsson’s report on the tall gun project, but the Swede didn’t seem to think Braxton was anything special. He’d have to take another look at Ericsson’s files to see what else his chief engineer was missing … or concealing.

  Putting his hand on the doorknob, Pinkerton started to turn it, but stopped. Whatever Braxton was doing in there, he wanted a look before the young captain realized he was there. Easing the door open a crack, Pinkerton peeked in.

  The sweet scent of incense drifted out through the opening. Braxton had lit the lamp.

  Confused as to why he had done this, Pinkerton opened the door further. Braxton Wright sat at his desk with his elbows up and his head cradled in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the glittering lights dancing in the fully repaired Mesmer Device, and he wasn’t blinking.

  Pinkerton closed the door quickly but didn’t let it latch.

  His mind raced. Somehow Braxton had repaired the machine. A machine, Pinkerton reminded himself, that took a team of the Union’s finest minds in Menlo Park over a year to develop. And Braxton had
done it without models or blueprints or even knowing what it was for.

  Pinkerton paced the soft carpet, taking care not to look directly into the lights of the device coming from the slightly open door to the room beyond.

  He’d planned to use the machine on Braxton to hypnotize him, then give him information for his agent Hattie Lawton, currently held in Castle Thunder, the confederate prison in Richmond. Hattie had acquired information about where the Confederates were making their Gray soldiers, information Pinkerton desperately needed. Knowing Hattie, she would insist on going and seeing the process in person. But even if Hattie could watch Jefferson Davis himself operating the engine that manufactured these unnatural horrors, she was no engineer. She’d need someone along, someone who could look at what the Confederates were doing and understand it.

  Someone like Braxton.

  Even as he thought it, Pinkerton knew Hattie would never willingly submit to a partner. She was smart and capable, one of the best operatives he had ever trained, but she had a stubborn streak as wide as the Mississippi, and she didn’t like taking help from anyone.

  Well, that’s just too bad, Pinkerton thought. I’ll just make sure she has to take Braxton with her … the only question is how?

  He paced for a few minutes more, mulling the problem over in his mind. Then, he stopped. Sometimes a little improvisation is required, he thought.

  Satisfied that he had the solution well in hand, he pushed the door open and went in. Braxton didn’t seem to notice Pinkerton’s entrance, his eyes were still fixed on the Mesmer Device.

  Pinkerton made his way around the desk and stood beside Braxton, being careful not to look directly at the machine.

  “Captain Wright,” he said, softly. “Braxton, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” the captain’s dreamy voice floated back.

  “Good. My name is Allan and I want you to listen to my voice. I’ve got some things to tell you. Things I need you to remember.”