Lincoln's Wizard

by Tracy Hickman

  “I’m sorry, uh, sir,” Braxton said, saluting. “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

  The man returned the salute along with a hard stare.

  “Not worth much since you’re already here. Never mind, son; damn foolish navy tradition anyway.” he said, motioning for Braxton to take a seat on the bench. He turned to the man at the stern working the steam engine. “Bring the bag up to pressure. As soon as we’re clear of the building, make speed.”

  The man saluted and began turning a large brass wheel. Braxton heard a rushing sound in one of the brass pipes and the ropes holding the boat began to creak. He felt a sensation as if his stomach dropped down into his gut and the boat lifted off the roof.

  “You are Captain Wright, aren’t you?” the man in the fancy coat asked, sitting down on the bench opposite.

  “Yes, sir,” Braxton said.

  “I’m Sherman,” the man said, crossing his legs and pulling a pipe from his jacket. “Air Marshal of the Union Flotilla.”

  Braxton reached out to shake the man’s hand but Sherman ignored him, focusing instead on lighting his pipe.

  “That was fine work you did at Parkersburg,” Sherman said, puffing his pipe to life. “Too bad that dragon got you. Damned flying lizards. We’re lucky Napoleon’s grand-brat won’t sell old Jeff Davis any more of them.”

  Braxton nodded. Napoleon III had set a strict limit on the number of dragons he would sell and barred the export of males of the species. Braxton was grateful for French reticence. The thought of the South having more of the monsters gave him chills.

  The pilot at the back of the airship threw a lever and the pitch of the steam engine changed. Slowly, with great chugs and gouts of steam, two outboard propellers, one on either side of the airship, began to turn. Braxton didn’t think they would do much, but suddenly the boat lurched forward and he had to cling to his seat or be thrown against Sherman.

  If the jolting of the boat affected the Air Marshal, he gave no sign. He simply sat, puffing on his pipe and fixing Braxton with a glare that was half annoyance and half disgust. Braxton tried to straighten up but the shifting of the airship kept him constantly moving to keep his balance.

  Sherman laughed at that, a loud, hearty laugh.

  “Haven’t you ever ridden in an airship before?” he asked.

  Braxton shook his head.

  “I took the train,” he said.

  Sherman’s face split into a smile of pure malevolent delight.

  “Well then, you’re in for a real treat, Captain,” he said. “There’s nothing like soaring the skies, master of all you survey—that is until the Hellfire of a dragon catches your hydrogen bags, and then there’s hell to pay.”

  Braxton hazarded a glance over the side. The buildings of Manhattan were falling away at an alarming rate and he felt momentarily dizzy.

  Sherman laughed again and took a puff of his pipe. He sat on the bench opposite with his legs crossed in perfect ease. Braxton held on, all the while feeling his stomach trying to curl up inside him.

  “Don’t let that throw you, Captain,” he said. “You’ll get your sky legs under you before too long.”

  “Are we going all the way to Alabama in this?” Braxton asked.

  Sherman shook his head.

  “This little thing is just a launch,” he said, raising his arm to point over Braxton’s shoulder. “We’ll be riding in that.”

  Braxton turned and gasped. All thought of Sherman and the jolting of the air launch were swept from his mind as he looked upon an engineering marvel unlike anything he’d ever seen before.

  Chapter Four

  The Airship Plot

  The enormous cigar-shaped tube of the airship hung in the sky like an errant whale escaped from the sea. It was painted a grayish white, and even at this distance, Braxton could see two thick smokestacks fitted with spark catchers emerging from a gondola that hung below the rear quarter of the structure. Large propeller blades mounted on the ends of metal frames emerged from the gondola and drive shafts rose up into the superstructure to power the blades mounted above. Fins of what appeared to be metal emerged from the nose of the vessel and ran along the top of the ship’s spine, like those of a shark, undoubtedly to prevent dragons from flying too close. These merged into the much larger vertical and horizontal tail fins at the back that gave directional control to the ship.

  The ship was moored to the tallest of the iron mast frameworks that had been built about Central Park in support of the war effort. This one was located on the Green just north of the Ball Ground and, as Braxton could see, featured the only open space large enough to accommodate the craft. Normally, the ship would be tethered close to the ground to accommodate easier loading, but she had already been raised to the top of the mast, ready for launch. Further to the east around the Mall and Concert Grounds, and to the more distant north beyond Croton Reservoir, more airships were tethered, each of these also raised to the top of their mooring masts in anticipation of imminent departure.

  Along the underside of the ship they were approaching, Braxton could see rows of windows and several launches like theirs attached to a metal walkway that ran along both sides. A control cabin with dozens of windows protruded down from the front, affording the pilot an unobstructed view of the ground below. Along the sides of the massive gasbag, platforms were built out over empty space. On each, Braxton saw a Gatling gun and mortar tubes manned by watchful soldiers. There were also guns on the top of the ship where a narrow deck ran on either side of the metal spine.

  “Impressive, isn’t she?” Sherman said with a chuckle. “That’s the Jefferson, my flagship. Instead of doing something useful, she’s going to take us and a few dozen airships south to drop you off.”

  Braxton finally tore his eyes away from the Jefferson, looking beyond her. The sky was filled with airships, some big, some small, some looking like no more than flying supply barges. All these hovered obediently, waiting for Air Marshal Sherman to command them.

  “So many,” Braxton said. “Begging your pardon, sir, but won’t they draw attention?”

  Sherman shook his head.

  “We need that many in case the Rebs see us,” he said. “Each of those ships has mortars and guns to protect her. If we have to fight off Jackson and his dragons, I want all the fire we can muster in the air.”

  “Can you really fight off a dragon from one of those?”

  Sherman fixed Braxton with a hard glare.

  “I don’t see we’ve got much choice,” he said. “Most likely the dragons’ll take down a few of us, then leave off when they run out of fire.”

  Braxton gave him a blank, puzzled look.

  “Dragons can only spit fire a few times before they run out of their combustible saliva,” he said. “Near as we can figure it takes a day or two for them to recharge.”

  “So,” Braxton said, trying to get his head around what Sherman was telling him. “You go with as many ships as possible and hope the dragons only take down a few of you before they run dry?”

  “That’s about it,” he said. “Of course, it’s going to be dangerous, going as far behind enemy lines as we are. If we’re seen, we’re going to lose a lot of good men on this damn fool’s errand.”

  “What happens when the dragons run out of fire?” he asked. “Can’t they still attack?

  Sherman shook his head. “Once they’re dry they head home. They don’t dare get in close with all the guns we’ve got.”

  Braxton understood why the Confederates would use the dragon fire on airships filled with hydrogen and shuddered again.

  “Do Gatling guns really work on them?” he asked.

  Sherman’s face split into a menacing grin.

  “Sure,” he said. “They kill riders real good and dragon wings can’t take much damage before the beasts fall out of the sky like stones.”

  Braxton shivered at the thought of plummeting to the ground from this height. At that moment a gust of wind caught them and the boat rocked. Braxton g
rabbed the gunwale and held on for dear life.

  “Don’t worry, Captain,” he growled. “It’s just a little wind. Takes more than that to knock me out of the sky.”

  Braxton had a million questions about the Jefferson and airship travel, but Sherman closed the discussion by turning around on his bench and giving orders to the pilot in the stern. “Bring us up on the port side forward, Jensen, then berth the launch aft.”

  The trip to the Jefferson took longer than Braxton thought. The ship already looked enormous but just kept growing bigger and bigger as they approached. Finally, the pilot stopped the propellers and the launch drifted up beside the iron catwalk where men with long hooked poles waited to catch her. They pulled the launch alongside and secured her against the catwalk with ropes. Surprisingly, when Braxton stepped aboard from the launch, the deck felt solid under him, without any of the swaying and rocking of the smaller boat.

  “Just like being on the ground,” Sherman said, stepping around Braxton. “Follow me, Captain, I need a word in the pilot house before you meet your men.”

  Braxton followed Air Marshal Sherman along the walkway, being very careful not look over the rail that his hand had latched onto for dear life. The catwalks where the launches docked were little more than an iron framework that hung below the smooth surface of the airship. Along each side, several staircases ran up into the interior of the ship, above. Feeling that it would be safe to look up, Braxton craned his neck back to get a good look at the massive ship above him. He could see the ribs of its internal skeleton as the canvas stretched over them, running up and over the top and out of sight. He hadn’t worked with airships before, but he knew that between each rib was a separate bag of volatile hydrogen, holding the entire vessel up.

  “Snap it up, Captain,” Sherman growled. He’d climbed a staircase to a polished wooden door whose brass hardware gleamed in the afternoon light.

  Braxton hurried up the stairs and followed Sherman inside the body of the airship. Sherman led him along at a quick pace, down a narrow corridor passing many doors and ending up, eventually, in the ship’s armory. Racks of rifles and cases of shells lined shelves along the walls along with tube-shaped mortar launchers and several Gatling guns. At workbenches spread around the open area, men in coveralls were loading cartridges with powder and shot. No one looked up as they entered and made their way along the edge of the room to an opening in the far wall.

  Next came the mess hall, where a dozen cooks labored over hot ovens and steaming pots. A framework of pipes crisscrossed the ceiling, undoubtedly connected to the ship’s water tank, ready to douse the room if a fire broke out. Braxton’s stomach growled in protest as he passed the kitchen. The hall ended just beyond, dropping down out of the ship and into the pilot-house.

  If anything, the pilot-house was worse than the catwalk. It was long and wide and ringed all around with windows, even under the metal grate of the floor. To Braxton it felt a little like walking off a cliff. He hesitated a moment before stepping off the last stair. A complex control column that looked like a ship’s binnacle with a prominent ship’s wheel mounted to it stood at the front of the pilot’s deck. A second column, slightly less complex but mounted with an equally impressive wheel, stood on the left side facing outward. On the right side, a third column supported what looked like the most complex engine telegraph system Braxton had ever seen. Three sets of drum-like telegraphs were situated on the column, one above the other, with a handle on each side. Each of these three control columns was manned by pilots and officers who looked far too young to entrust with their lives. Above each of the pilots’ heads was a panel with an impressive array of gauges, dials, and valves registering everything from pitch and yaw to boiler pressure and ballast.

  On each side of the pilot house, and at the rear, sat a lookout armed with field glasses. Even here, above New York City, they swept the skies intently, calling “all clear” every few minutes. The only other person present was a signals officer, sitting in front of a row of different colored voicepipes that communicated with various parts of the airship.

  “Is the fleet ready to get underway, Mister Hughes?” Sherman called as he arrived. The young man at the helm saluted.

  “As per your orders, sir,” he said.

  In the center of the space was a narrow table under a hooded lamp that hung from the ceiling. Maps and charts were neatly rolled in a low shelf on one side and Sherman extracted one and spread it out on the table.

  “Make your course due west; we’re heading for Pittsburgh,” Sherman said, then turned to the telegrapher. “Pass the word to the signalman, all ships are to follow our course.”

  Hughes reached up and pulled one the levers on his overhead console and a steam whistle sounded throughout the airship.

  “The ship is yours, Lieutenant Hughes,” Sherman said in a factual manner.

  “Aye, sir,” Hughes responded with a salute then turned to the forward control wheel. “Signals! Single up all moorings.”

  “Single up all moorings,” the signal officer called through one of the voice pipes.

  “Stand by engines,” Hughes called out.

  The young officer standing at the engine telegraphs reached up and in a series of swift strokes swung each of the six handles. The engine telegraphs each rang with a double series of bells. “Answering standing by!”

  “Cast off,” Hughes called out, still facing forward. “Drop launch ballast.”

  “All clear, Lieutenant,” the signal officer responded a moment later.

  Braxton held on to the table, expecting the ship to rise suddenly, but the only sensation he had was watching the mooring tower slowly lower from view in front of him. He risked a glance outside the control compartment. Airships were also rising from their moorings eastward in the direction of Fifth Avenue.

  “Five degrees rise,” Hughes continued. “Engines ahead slow.”

  The engine telegraph chimed again. “Answering ahead slow!”

  Braxton felt a slight rumble under the deck as the engines responded. New York began to drift beneath him.

  “Maneuvering to cruising altitude,” Hughes called out. “Course due west.”

  After a moment, Braxton could feel the upward pressure on his feet as the ship ascended.

  “Now, Captain Wright,” Sherman said, weighing down the edges of his chart to keep it from rolling up. “Pinkerton says I’m to drop you off in Alabama, near Decatur. Care to tell me why?”

  There was a hard edge in Sherman’s voice that Braxton had been far too occupied to notice till now. He looked at the Air Marshall and found him leaning over the table with his brows furrowed and his teeth clenched tightly on the stem of his pipe.

  “Have I offended you in some way, sir?” he asked.

  Sherman bit down so hard on his pipe stem that Braxton feared he was going to break it off. After a long, tense moment, Sherman seemed to visibly relax.

  “Your boss, Mister Pinkerton, seems to think the army is at his personal beck and call,” Sherman said, the hardness in his voice honed to a razor’s edge. He gestured aft and Braxton looked out through the glass where the airships in the flotilla were beginning to fall in line behind the Jefferson.

  “Do you think all these ships were floating around, just waiting to escort you into enemy territory?” he asked. “Do you think those ships out there and the men who crew them are ready to give up their lives just for you? For whatever fool task Pinkerton wants done?”

  “Well, sir.” Braxton said, trying to formulate an answer. None of this was his idea, after all. If he’d had things his way, he’d be back at the foundry in Albany helping to churn out new tall guns.

  “Well they’re not,” Sherman nearly shouted when Braxton didn’t answer. “Every ship and every man here was getting ready for a major offensive, something that could have broken the back of the Confederates in the west.” He hesitated and seemed to master his anger. “Instead,” he said in a much calmer voice, “we’re going to be risking our lives
and our ships dropping a handful of men and explosives into Alabama.”

  “This wasn’t my plan, sir,” Braxton said. “I only heard about this an hour ago.”

  Sherman glowered at him, as if he could peer through Braxton and see the truth of his words in the depths of his soul. After a moment he leaned back over the map.

  “Just show me where we’re going, Captain,” he said with obvious disdain.

  Braxton decided not to push the issue. The trip to Alabama would take a few days and then he’d have more pressing problems to worry about. He leaned over the table and surveyed the map following the rail line Pinkerton had indicated, tracing it south to the bridge.

  “Here.”

  Sherman noted the latitude and longitude in a leather notebook he took from his pocket, then turned his intense gaze back to Braxton.

  “Now tell me why?” he said. “What does Pinkerton think is so important that he’s diverting my entire fleet?”

  Braxton didn’t know if his mission was a secret or not. No one had said anything about secrecy. He’d just assumed that Sherman would be aware of the plan. Clearly the Air Marshall took it as a great offense that he had not been included. Some part of his better judgment told him that his mission was of the utmost secrecy, but on the other hand, Sherman was likely to keep him standing there until he explained.

  “I’m to blow up this bridge,” Braxton said, pointing to the rail crossing where it intersected the river. “The Rebs are running one of their Gray trains over it, and I’m to take it and the bridge down at the same time.”

  Sherman looked at the bridge and Braxton could see his eyes darting back and forth as he considered the information. After a moment, he rolled up the map, swapping it for one of the whole south. He traced a course following the Ohio River all the way to Louisville, then over to the Mississippi and down into Tennessee.