Lincoln's Wizard

by Tracy Hickman

  Braxton gasped. He knew the airship had launches and lifeboats in case it caught fire, but the attack had happened so fast. The men on the top platform had nowhere to go as the fire raced up from the bottom to consume them where they stood.

  He clasped the railing as his head reeled and his stomach threatened to return the coffee.

  Mortars fired from the gun platforms on the Jefferson, exploding in the air above him. Braxton saw the dragon veer away, spitting burning liquid in an arc that went wide of the airship. Heat from the incendiary spittle seared him as it flew by, extinguishing instantly as it fell down to the ground far below. Black eyes gleamed malice in the dragon’s pale head, and as it passed Braxton saw the rider astride its back. He wore the gray coat of a dragon rider with silver buttons on his coat and silver spurs on his boots. The rider clung low to the massive saddle as the pair climbed above the curve of the airship’s gasbag and disappeared. It was like no machine Braxton had ever imagined, much less seen; man and beast mastering the sky in perfect harmony. It set Braxton’s mind whirling. If this pair could work like a machine, could a machine do as they did? Visions of faster propellers and mechanical wings fired his imagination.

  “Captain!” Sergeant Young called from nearby.

  The sound startled Braxton back to reality. The lifeboat was only a few yards away down the catwalk. Braxton pried his hands loose from the railing and ran.

  O O O

  Genevieve roared in frustration. Marcus couldn’t blame her. She could only spit Hellfire a half dozen times before running dry, then it would be two days at least before she’d be ready to fight again.

  They needed to make her shots count.

  As Genevieve turned back for another run at the airship, two more materialized from the darkness. Mortars burst all around them and Marcus leaned close to Genevieve’s back as fragments of white-hot shrapnel whizzed by. He heard several pieces hit Genevieve’s body and she roared in anger. The mortar fire didn’t have much chance to penetrate her tough hide, but that didn’t stop them from hurting.

  “Easy girl,” Marcus said, tugging the control collar to the right.

  Of the two ships that faced them, one was clearly a supply transport, taller than its companion with walkways and cranes along its bottom. The other ship was a warship, bristling with mortars and rapid-fire Gatling guns. Marcus had standing orders to take down warships whenever he saw them, but outnumbered and in the dark, he chose discretion over valor.

  Genevieve swept by the transport, spitting fire along its side that sizzled and clung to the wet canvas that covered the airship. Crews scrambled to work, cutting the lines that held the canvas in place, trying to drop the great sheets before the fire burned through.

  Marcus lost sight of the transport as Genevieve turned, banking wide, to come around for another pass. Through the darkness he saw the burning canvas flutter and fall away; the transport crew had managed to cut it free.

  “At ’em again, girl,” he spurred Genevieve on. “One more pass will do it.”

  They flew right at the spot where the burning canvas had vanished, but this time they found the warship looming out of the darkness, cutting across their path to protect the transport.

  Marcus jerked sideways on Genevieve’s collar and she banked hard as a fresh round of mortars lit up the darkness with glittering bursts. Something hit him in the face, hard. He grappled for the collar in an effort to stay upright. Genevieve roared and dived away, ducking under the warship and straight up again at the transport. She rolled, coming up on the far side, away from the warship, and spraying the body of the transport with Hellfire. At this range, the Hellfire would be spread all over the surface of the airship; there would be no stopping it now.

  Marcus released his grip on the collar and touched his face. It burned and his white glove came away stained red. Taking his glove in his teeth he pulled it off and checked again with his bare hand. A thin cut ran from the edge of his mustache almost to his ear. A mortar fragment had grazed him.

  He’d been lucky. An inch more left and it would have taken off his head.

  A sound like the noise of pulling one’s boot out of a mire assaulted him, and a rush of hot air enveloped them. Genevieve wheeled in time for him to see the burning wreck of the airship plummet to the rain swept trees below. Some of the crew had escaped in lifeboats that were now bobbing in the wind. It would have been child’s play for the dragon to cut across them and rake their fragile air bags with her claws, but Marcus was a dragon rider, a member of the Southern Knights. Like the knights of old, he followed a code. He didn’t kill defenseless men.

  “Come on, girl,” he said, tugging Genevieve back around, giving the warship a wide berth. “There’s a few more soft targets left and you’ve still got two shots. Let’s make them count.”

  O O O

  As soon as Braxton was aboard, his men cast off, pushing the little lifeboat free of the Jefferson’s catwalk. Braxton had to sit down in the bottom of the boat as it fell way under his feet, dropping quickly below the level of the Jefferson. Almost immediately the big airship began to turn, heading north, drawing the attack away from Braxton and his men.

  Above them, the dragon dove out of the sky, its fiery breath slashing into one of the smaller escorts. Fire spluttered and flickered on the wet canvas sides of the gasbag. Quickly five lifeboats began to float away, trying to put distance between themselves and the burning vessel. Two of them made it. The rest vanished in the conflagration that burst from the stricken airship. Braxton thought he saw a lifeboat, now bagless, dropping out of sight to the trees below.

  He wanted to be sick. If one dragon could do so much damage, what could a dozen do? There had to be a better way to fight them, a way to take the battle up to them, in the skies.

  The dragon roared again, and Braxton saw it reflected in the light of the burning airship as it passed over it heading for the Jefferson. The mortars roared in return, and this time the dragon flinched and began dropping away in a gliding dive toward the ground below. Braxton couldn’t tell if the blast had killed the rider or if the dragon itself was wounded, but clearly one of the mortars had found its mark.

  A cheer went up from his men but Braxton shushed them.

  “No noise,” he whispered. “Someone’s bound to have seen the explosions and heard the mortar fire,” he said. “This is our only chance is to slip away quietly.”

  As if to punctuate his words, the second burning airship slammed into the ground with a tremendous crash setting some of the surrounding trees aflame. Braxton forced himself to focus on ground ahead of them as their lifeboat drifted east in the prevailing winds. The rain had slackened and he could see the rolling canopy below. It seemed much closer than he remembered.

  “Did someone open the descent valve?” he asked, looking at the dangling cord that controlled the hydrogen release from their gasbag.

  “You jerked on it when we dropped loose from the Jefferson,” Corporal Davis said, his voice quavering. “It wasn’t your fault, sir,” he added quickly. “You had to grab something or you’d have fallen out.”

  Braxton swore. From the looks on the faces of his men, he did it creditably.

  “Doesn’t it close when you release the cord?”

  “It’s supposed to,” Sergeant Young said, looking over the side at the rapidly approaching treetops. “But I think it’s broke.”

  Chapter Six

  Leaks

  “We lost the Shiloh, sir,” the Jefferson’s starboard lookout reported to Air Marshal Sherman. “The John Adams tried to shield it, but the beast came up from below.”

  “Are there any boats?” Sherman asked through clenched teeth.

  “I see three boats away,” the lookout reported.

  That was some comfort, Sherman thought. He’d lost too many men on this trip already.

  “Where’s the damn dragon?” he asked, peering over the lookout’s shoulder.

  “Dragon off the bow,” the port lookout called. “He’s heading
for the Concord.”

  Sherman turned to the helm where Lieutenant Hughes stood awaiting orders. “Hard aport,” he said. “Engine’s starboard ahead full, port standard!”

  The engine telegraph bells answered almost at once. “Answering starboard full, port half!”

  Sherman didn’t wait for the full confirmation. He turned to the signal officer, “Mortar fire from the tops; keep that bastard from getting altitude.”

  In his excitement, the signals officer loudly repeated the order word-for-word into the green-trimmed brass horn connected to one of the voice pipes. Sherman knew it connected with the port gunnery master. Moments later, mortar fire burst outside the window, showering sparks into the dark sky below. He strained to see the dragon but the darkness without was almost total.

  “Here he comes!” the lookout called. “Portside forward low, crossing!”

  Guns rattled from the platform above and through the deck, Sherman felt the percussion of mortars being fired. An explosion lit the sky close to the cabin and Sherman saw the monster. It loomed out of the dark below his feet and he could see the orange light of its Hellfire glowing from its open maw like a coal in a cold stove. Another mortar burst and the creature flinched as it spewed its fire.

  An arc of molten orange cut the darkness, flying by the front of the cabin so closely that Hughes took an involuntary step back from the helm.

  “Steady on,” Sherman barked.

  Hughes resumed his post. He heard a splat like mud falling to a tile floor followed by the sharp crack of breaking glass. An orange glob of Hellfire had hit one of the glass panes along the port side and the intense heat had cracked it.

  Sherman walked forward and kicked the pane out before the fire could set anything ablaze. It was unlikely this far below the gasbag, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  “He’s dropped down to starboard,” a second lookout reported.

  “All ahead full!” Sherman retrieved a small brick from the chart shelf and placed it atop his table to keep the papers from blowing in the wind let in by the missing glass. The dragon rider was good, he’d admit that, but he was just one man, apparently alone and without support. His best tactics were to use the darkness and his mobility to his best advantage.

  He’s alone, and was last seen dropping down below.

  “He’s going to come at us from above,” Sherman said. “Tell the gunners in the tops to fire high; I want him to think he’s got a clear run at our middle.”

  The signal officer called the order through the orange-banded voice pipe for the starboard tops.

  “Then let the waist gunners know to aim high as well and hold their fire till they see the dragon. We’ll catch him between two fields of fire with nowhere to go.”

  Almost before the signal officer finished shouting the order, the mortars boomed from the tops.

  “Here he comes,” the starboard lookout called.

  Sherman leaned over, peering up through the glass and trying to see over the bulk of the gasbag above. He saw the dragon streak past, unable to spew its Hellfire. The waist mortars boomed and the dragon flinched. A ragged cheer went up all around the pilot house as the creature swooped away to the south, losing altitude as it went.

  “Was that the only one?” Sherman demanded, peering out after the vanished dragon.

  The lookouts scanned the skies with their field glasses and the signal officer yelled into various tubes, demanding reports. Sherman waited, unconsciously holding his breath.

  “No sign port.”

  “No sign starboard.”

  “No sign aft.”

  “No sign forward.”

  Sherman nodded and closed his eyes. Two ships down at least. It was a high price to pay, even if they did manage to capture the Gray train. He hoped it was worth it.

  “All engines, ahead half,” he said, then turned to the signal officer. “Signal the all clear. Order all ships to form up on us. Send out the rescue launches and pick up any survivors. The fleet will proceed north at half speed until they catch up.”

  Sherman turned back to his chart table as the signal officer passed the orders on to the semaphore officer on station at the aft end of the airship. The cold wind still whipped through the pilot house but Sherman ignored it. He placed another weight on his map so he could unroll it further and lit a cigar. He always smoked a cigar after an encounter with a dragon. It reminded him to savor the good things in life while he could.

  “When you’re done with that,” he told the still-speaking signal officer, “call for the glazier to fix this window.”

  He went forward until he stood just behind Lieutenant Hughes at the helm and looked up at the sky. The rain had stopped. At the higher altitudes the clouds were beginning to break up. Soon the fleet would be uncovered.

  “Keep us down here till the fleet reassembles, then take us up to cruising altitude,” he told Hughes. “I want to be well away before the clouds break in case there are any more dragons around.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hughes responded. “Do you think they have a chance? Captain Wright, I mean.”

  Sherman thought about it for a moment. Captain Wright seemed smart enough and eager, but battle had a way of testing men’s mettle. He was pretty sure the captain and his band of raiders had slipped away unseen in the commotion. The dragon had been busy with the fleet. Still, stealing a top secret train right out from under the Rebel’s noses wouldn’t be easy.

  “Well,” Sherman said. “I suspect that if Captain Wright is the man I read about in the papers, then he might have a chance.”

  “Oh,” Hughes said after a moment’s thought. He didn’t seem sure what to make of that remark.

  “Do you believe what you read in the papers, son?” Sherman asked.

  Hughes shook his head.

  “My pa advised against it, sir.”

  Sherman laughed.

  “Wise man, your father,” he said. “Still, I figure we owe it to them to be at the rendezvous point if, by some miracle, they do manage to pull this off. Set a course straight north. We’ll take our bearings at first light.”

  “Aye sir,” Hughes said. “North it is.”

  O O O

  Miles south of the Jefferson, and getting further away by the moment, Braxton looked up at his lifeboat’s gasbag. It was the only thing holding his lifeboat in the air, and right now, it was leaking. If he didn’t get up and patch the leak fast, he and his men might land too far away from their target to reach it in time. He grabbed one of the network of ropes that held the lifeboat securely to the gasbag. Each rope was anchored to the lifeboat and then ran to a net that covered the top of the bag. If he climbed straight up, he shouldn’t have any trouble getting the net.

  “Sergeant, open the tool box and see if we’ve got anything to patch that leak. Davis,” he said turning to the young Corporal. “Give me a hand.”

  Braxton grabbed the ropes and stepped up on the lifeboat’s gunnel. Davis grabbed at his coat.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to climb up on top,” Braxton said, wondering all the while why such ridiculous words were coming out of his mouth. “Once I’m up, I need you to get up here and pass me up whatever the Sergeant can find.”

  Even in the dim light of the emerging stars, Braxton could see Davis pale.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir?” he asked. “The boat shouldn’t land too hard; she’s not coming down that fast.”

  “We still have to reach the river,” Braxton called over the wind. “We need the wind to carry us as far as it can before sunrise.”

  Braxton leaned back, holding the ropes in a death grip, and felt the great emptiness of open air beneath him. He’d always been a climber as a child: trees, roofs, even the steeple on the First Methodist Church. There had never been any dread then, no fear of gravity’s grasp … not like now.

  Heart racing, Braxton tore his eyes away from the trees shimmering in the wind far below and looked up at the net above him. With a pra
yer that it wouldn’t be the last thing he ever did, Braxton reached up. His fingers brushed against the edge of the net, but he couldn’t get a grip. He crouched, then jumped, maintaining his hold on the rope with his left hand. His right closed around the bottom of the net and he hung there with his legs flailing in the strong wind, unable to get purchase anywhere.

  Below, the men shouted at him but he couldn’t make out the words. He wanted to tell them to be silent as their voices might carry to men on the ground, but there wasn’t time for that.

  Fear rose like bile in his throat, but he was an engineer, he understood about diverting forces. He welcomed his dread, letting it fill his body with adrenalin. When he could hear the pounding of his own heart in his ears, he released the rope and flung out his left hand, grabbing the net. He hung there for a long moment, shocked that he’d done such a thing and amazed that it worked, and then began pulling himself up the interwoven ropes like a ladder. When he reached the top, he could hear gas escaping from the bag and feel the bag beginning to lose some of its shape.

  “Sergeant!” he yelled over the rushing of the wind.

  “I’ve got a can of pitch,” Sergeant Young replied from below. “Davis is tying a line on it and we’ll throw it up to you.”

  Braxton managed to move into a sitting position astride the gasbag. He found the release cord and followed it to where a brass valve had been sewn into the bag. He couldn’t see the mechanism but he could feel the gas being pushed out through the hole. He needed to slow it down until Davis could pass up the pitch.

  Taking off his coat, Braxton balled it up and forced it down on top of the brass fitting. The bag gave way a bit beneath him and he couldn’t keep a tight seal.

  “Incoming!”

  Braxton looked up in time to see a dark shape on the end of a line come hurtling up at him. He lunged back to avoid being hit in the head, and the heavy can of pitch slammed down onto the back of his hands with a dull thud. With a cry of pain, he jerked his hands back and his coat whipped away and over the side, caught by the rushing wind.

  Despite his pain and his loss, Braxton lunged for the can and caught it as it began to roll down the far side of the gasbag. It was tied tightly in Davis’ rope and his hands were too numb from the climb to untie the knot. Cursing, he pulled his knife from its sheath at his waist and simply cut the little can free. Using the tip of the blade, he pried the lid off and stuck it to the top of the gasbag before sheathing his knife.