Lincoln's Wizard (10 page)

“Everybody down off the trestle,” he hissed. Davis and Thompson slid down from one beam to another until they splashed into the river; Sergeant Young was already swimming for shore. Braxton had to go slower on account of his ankle, moving carefully, down. Finally, he too slid into the river and swam for the bank.

“All set?” Sergeant Young asked once Braxton slogged his way out of the Tennessee River.

“Yes,” he said. “If our information is right, the train will be past here around three o’clock.”

“We’ve got time for a rest then,” the Sergeant said as Braxton sat to put on his socks and boots.

Braxton shook his head. “That long grade is almost ten miles away. We need to get moving.”

Sergeant Young reached out and grabbed Braxton by the shoulder as he tried to stand.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” he said. “I’ll take Thompson and Davis and we’ll commandeer the train.”

“Do you know how to drive a train?” Braxton asked.

“Well, no,” Young said. “But it’s already got an engineer. I’ll just persuade him to keep driving.”

“And if you can’t or something happens, you won’t be able to stop the train,” Braxton said, standing. “I have to go. You have to stay here and make sure that whatever happens, this bridge comes down.”

Young looked as though he wanted to argue, but gave it up and nodded.

“If we’ve got control of the train, I’ll blow the whistle when we come in sight of the bridge. If I don’t, you blow the bridge so it takes the train with it. That’s an order.”

Braxton felt a chill as the words left his mouth. He might very well have just ordered his own death, if they couldn’t take the train in time. It felt like someone walked over his grave.

“I understand, sir,” Young said, sticking out his hand. “Best of luck to you. We’ll be ready here … one way or the other.”

Braxton shook his hand, then called Thompson and Davis to follow him, and trudged up the bank to the tracks. The journey to the long grade where the train would be forced to slow was long and uneventful. At first, Braxton walked along in the trees at the side of the path cut by the rails, trying to keep out of sight. After a few hours of that, however, he trudged along beside the tracks with his men in tow.

The smell of honeysuckle bloomed everywhere around him and it reminded Braxton, for some reason, of his mother’s home-baked bread. He pushed that image away as his stomach growled. They’d brought food in their supplies, of course, but it was only hardtack and dried venison. Braxton decided he would rather go hungry than spend his energy trying to gnaw a piece off the rock hard crackers.

They stopped to rest around noon by a little pond on the edge of some farmer’s field. Braxton refilled his canteen and used the water to soften one of the hardtack crackers until he could bite off a piece. The hardtack was bland and the venison over-salted but it satisfied well enough.

“How much further do you figure it is, sir?” Corporal Davis asked.

Braxton shrugged. He had no idea exactly where they were, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

“Shouldn’t be far now,” he lied.

As it turned out, it wasn’t a lie. A little over an hour later they topped a little rise and saw the long slope of a hill running down and away before them.

“This is it,” Braxton said, bending down to lean on his knees. His ankle had started bothering him over the last few miles and he didn’t want to get off it yet lest it stiffen up.

Thompson flopped into the grass, panting, and Davis followed. Braxton wanted to join them, but straightened instead.

“Come on,” he said, striding forward. “We’ve got to give ourselves enough space to board the train.” He pointed at a spot about two-thirds of the way up the long grade. “I’d say the train should be slow enough by the time it gets there.”

“How do we know if the next train by is the right one?” Davis asked collapsing into the shade of a magnolia, once they’d reached the spot Braxton picked out.

“It’s got to be close to three,” Thompson said, looking up at the sun. “I reckon it’ll be the next one.”

Braxton consulted his pocket watch and nodded. It was ten minutes to three. They didn’t have to wait long. A little over a quarter hour later, they heard a steam whistle sound in the distance.

“Here it comes,” Braxton said, catching sight of the train as it rounded a corner a good half mile from the hill.

“It ain’t very long,” Thompson said.

“Only two cars,” Braxton said, nodding. “The car we want is the boxcar. We’ll cut the troop car loose once we’re on board.

“We’ll need to catch it quickly,” he said. “Try to get on behind the tender.”

They crouched in the undergrowth and watched as the train grew closer. As it hit the grade, Braxton heard its engine sound became slower and more labored, like a racehorse breathing hard down the stretch. As it came toward them, Braxton pulled back into the undergrowth, seeing the engineer looking out the window as if expecting trouble.

“Should I shoot him, sir?” Davis asked, reaching for his rifle. “We won’t be able to reach the train in time with him watching.”

Braxton hesitated. He’d never given an order that had deliberately taken someone’s life. The image of Laurie flashed in his mind and he grimaced. If they didn’t get on that train, there was a good chance they’d all end up in Andersonville.

“I … I don’t,” Braxton said.

“Sir?” Davis raised his rifle but in that moment the engineer stepped back inside the cab.

“Now’s our chance,” Braxton said, rising onto the balls of his feet. “Go.”

The three of them burst from the cover beside the track just as the engine rumbled, shaking the ground and blasting them with a mixture of steam, soot, and cinders. Braxton caught a glimpse of the engineer looking out the window on the far side before the tender blocked his view.

Thompson ran like a deer. Catching hold of the handrail on the back of the tender, he swung himself up easily. Braxton reached out to follow but his ankle turned again as he hit the gravel beside the track and he stumbled. Davis ran past him as Braxton tried to keep up, grabbing the rail and hauling himself up as well.

Pain thumped in Braxton’s ankle with every step and he slowed. He flung out his hand and his fingertips touched the handrail, but that was as close as he got. The train began pulling away with Davis and Thompson waiving him urgently on. Braxton tried to look over his shoulder, but stumbled again. He had to make the ladder on the back of the boxcar or the soldiers in the troop car would see him. Lunging as it passed, he grabbed and held on with all he had as the train dragged him along beside it.

He shifted his grip and pulled, getting enough height to throw his good leg on the ladder’s bottom rung. With a tremendous pull, he levered himself up, pressing his body flat beside the boxcar. He hoped Davis and Thompson were securing the engineer.

Braxton took a deep breath and swung around the end of the boxcar. The troop car had a small landing on its front and he tried to drop down quietly onto it, hitting instead with a painful thud. He paused on the landing, barely daring to breathe. The passage door to the car’s interior was only a foot away; if anyone heard him they’d be opening it in seconds.

Something shifted, scraping with the noise of wood on wood, and Braxton felt like his heart jumped up into his throat.

Get a hold of yourself.

Braxton pushed himself up and risked a quick look through the window.

The interior of the car was filled with Grays, their white eyes staring blankly forward. In the last row, he could see the blond hair of a living officer, sitting and reading a book. The only Grays he’d ever seen were the ones that attacked the
Monitor
, and he hadn’t really had time to study them. Now, in the light of day, he looked at them with a sick fascination. Just like the men they had once been, each looked different, though in a more macabre way. Several were missing arms or hands, and one had only a hole in the bottom of its face where its lower jaw used to be. Each sat, staring straight ahead as if they’d been posed there, and even though his head was in plain view through the window, none of them moved or reacted. It was likely that they wouldn’t notice him uncoupling the cars either.

He’d never been so happy to see the deathless soldiers.

“Captain, you made it.”

Braxton looked up into Private Thompson’s young face sticking over the edge of the boxcar’s roof.

“Corporal Davis has the engineer in custody,” he said, scampering down the side of the boxcar. “How do we uncouple the cars?”

Braxton smiled, relieved. Finally something he could manage without messing it up. He ducked under the window and leaned out over the space between the cars. A simple link and pin coupler kept them together. The pin had an iron ring at the top, making it easy to grip and he pulled up with all his strength. As the cars jostled back and forth against each other, the pin shook and rattled its way up until it finally came loose. Braxton tossed it away, and got to his feet.

“Come on, Captain,” Thompson said, holding out his hand to help Braxton over to the boxcar’s ladder. “Get across before they separate.”

Braxton reached out but stopped.

The cars weren’t separating.

With a cold knot in his stomach, Braxton realized that the train must have already crested the hill. They were now on the long downgrade that would take them all the way to the bridge, and gravity would keep the car full of Grays with them the whole way.

Chapter Eight
Breaks

“It’s not falling behind,” Thompson shouted over the clattering of the wheels. “Is there another pin?”

“No,” Braxton said. They were picking up speed. “We’re too late. The train’s already going downhill toward the bridge.”

“What do we do then?”

The plan could still work. All he had to do was get the forward section of the train across the bridge first. They could still capture the secret car, and it was the best chance any of them would have to get home without being captured or killed.

Braxton made up his mind.

“Get back to the engine,” he called. “Tell Davis to blow the whistle when the bridge comes in sight. It’s a wooden handle on a chain.”

“But what about all them Grays?” Thompson said, nodding at the troop car.

“I’m going to figure a way to engage that.” He pointed to the manual brake wheel on the top of the troop car.

“But you’ll be left behind!”

Braxton shook his head. “I’m an engineer! I just need to rig that wheel so that it will engage the brakes after I’ve crossed back to the boxcar. I have to stop this car or there won’t be enough time to blow the bridge after you get across.”

“Let’s just bring ’em with us,” Thompson argued.

“You want to fight of a company of Grays?” Braxton answered. “If that lieutenant at the back of the car wakes up to the idea he’s being hijacked, we’ll be up to our ears in Confederate death. Get on back to the engine and I’ll join you as soon as this is rigged.”

“Captain, I don’t think …”

“Get forward, and that’s an order! I’ll get this fixed, we’ll cross the bridge, and meet Air Marshall Sherman at the rendezvous.”

Thompson stuck out his hand after a moment.

“May I wish you good luck, sir?” he asked.

Braxton took it and they shook.

“I can use all the luck I can get,” he said. “Now get going.”

Thompson scrambled up the ladder and over the top of the boxcar. Braxton grabbed the ladder on the troop car and pulled himself up to a standing position. He took a tentative step on his ankle and winced as it throbbed, but he was relatively sure it wasn’t broken.

He risked a glance through the window in the connecting door. The blond Rebel officer still read his book, blissfully unaware that anything was amiss.

Braxton mounted the access ladder to the top of the troop car and climbed, favoring his ankle which made it slow going. The climbing wasn’t hard, but the train had an alarming habit of lurching and jumping while he tried to get his footing. Finally, he pulled himself up on the roof and slung his leg around the rod that connected the brakes to an iron wheel.

The blast of a steam whistle tore through the air and Braxton looked up to see the trees part and a long gentle slope going down about a mile to the bridge beyond.

He figured he didn’t need to fully set the brake, just enough to slow the car down on the grade and allow the engine, tender, and precious freight car to separate. Once he saw them start to pull apart, he would slip down the ladder and cross the gap, hopefully before it was too wide.

Hurriedly he grasped the wheel. It was shiny where hands had regularly grasped it, and it turned easily in his grip. After a moment he felt it begin to resist as the clamps in the wheel trucks made contact with the axles. The car shuddered slightly beneath him and a high-pitched shriek issued from below.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doin’?”

A tall figure stood on the top of the passenger car, a long club in his hand. Braxton turned around and cringed at his own mistake.
Where there are manual brakes on trains
, he thought,
you would think to remember there would be brakemen
.

The man was weather-beaten from long days in the sun and longer nights in the rain, but his frame walked the catwalk down the ridge of the car with a confident step that astonished Braxton. “This here’s
my
job, young feller, and I don’t take kindly to folks thinking they should be doin’ it for me …”

Braxton felt the panic rise up in him again. He reached down, fumbling for the grip of his sidearm. He found the grip and managed to pull the weapon clear of the holster.

The brakeman did not need any further encouragement. He dropped his club clattering onto the roof of the passenger car and turned, sprinting to the back and dropping quickly down behind the car.

Braxton looked back toward the wheel. He had a hard time turning it now as the resistance from the brake system made it harder with each turn. Swearing under his breath, Braxton cast about himself. He needed something to get some leverage on this wheel if he was going to get enough friction in the brakes to make the cars slow down.…

Wait,
he thought,
that brakeman has to stop the train all the time. He already had a lever!

The train hurtled toward the trestle. His time was running out. Braxton scrambled back along the catwalk and grasped the long, wooden club the brakeman had dropped. He crawled back to the brake wheel at the front of the roof, slipped the lever between the rungs and smiled at its perfect, tailored fit.

Just a little bit of a tug and then we cross back over,
he thought.

The door below banged open. The Rebel officer was shouting, but Braxton was too focused on his task to make out the words. Braxton saw him raise his pistol, taking aim.

Startled, Braxton hauled on the brake wheel club with all his strength.

The wheel turned and something caught below. The troop car shuddered and Braxton was thrown into the brake wheel. Below him, he heard a body fly forward into the boxcar as it began to pull away, then disappear down toward the tracks. He hoped it wasn’t the officer, though maybe that would have been better for him.

Braxton pulled himself off the brake wheel as the locomotive, tender, and the secret boxcar began to pull away far more quickly than he had thought possible. The bridge loomed larger. At this rate there would be time for the train to cross before Sergeant Young blew it, but he might not be so lucky. Unless the troop car stopped, it would go right over the bridge as it blew.

Adrenalin surged through Braxton. The engine and forward cars were already too far away for him to jump. He had to get to the rear ladder and down to the back landing of the troop car, preferably before it plunged into the Tennessee River.

With the car shuddering and rolling from the wheels grinding on the rails, he didn’t dare run, so he scrambled back along the car on his hands and knees.

Thunder sounded from below, and a piece of the troop car’s roof leapt up and whipped away as the wind caught it. Braxton looked down at the hole just in front of his left hand.

The Grays were firing through the roof.

Time to run!
he admonished himself, vaulting to his feet as three more holes perforated the roof.

His ankle hurt as he lurched back and forth across the rolling car but he pushed it out of his mind. The ladder at the back was only feet away, and he expected to see the blond officer’s head pop into view at any moment. He forgot that worry almost instantly. A wall of sound slammed into him and sent him flying head over heels. As he passed the ladder, he had a momentary glimpse of it and lashed out with his hand to grab it. The rest of his body jerked against his shoulder, and he cried out, the sound lost in the oppressive weight of the explosion’s roar.

Powerful as the blast was, it couldn’t stop four tons of train car. It rolled inexorably on toward the now nonexistent bridge, creaking and groaning as bits of metal and wood rained down. Braxton shook his head, trying to focus. He had to get off the train before it met what was left of the bridge.

Ignoring the risk, Braxton let go with his feet and slid down the ladder, holding the side rails with his hands. He landed heavily on the landing below and pain tore through his ankle again. This time he heard something snap.

No time for that.
He threw himself sideways off the car and toward the grass beside the rails.

Braxton grunted and swore as his momentum carried him along several yards before he finally rolled to a stop. The grass had not been nearly as accommodating as it looked. Raising his throbbing head, he saw the troop car go careening off what remained of the bridge. He hadn’t really thought the bridge was that high, but the car hit the water just as solidly as ground. The sides bulged and splintered and then it broke in half, collapsing on itself. The rear trucks that carried the wheels tore loose and fell with the force of a battering ram, tearing great chunks of the car’s remains until it splashed down into the river and disappeared.

Run you idiot.

He pushed himself up and took a stumbling step before the searing pain in his ankle drove him to the ground again. He looked up and saw the train, safely across the bridge, come to a stop while his men scrambled aboard. The engineer was apparently cooperating after all.

Sergeant Young stood on the far bank, beckoning Braxton on. The river was wide, but he could still swim it.

He got up again and limped painfully toward the river. If he could just make the water, his ankle wouldn’t matter.

“That’s far enough, Yank,” a voice said from somewhere close.

Braxton froze as a blond-haired man in a Rebel officer’s uniform rose up out of the tall grass. He must have jumped off the train just after Braxton. Now he held his arm against his chest as if it hurt him, but his other hand held a revolver pointed at Braxton’s head.

I’ve really made a mess of things this time
.

O O O

Genevieve growled at Marcus Burnside as he pulled her injured wing open. She lunged at him, snapping her teeth just short of his hands in a fit of peevishness.

“Sorry, girl,” Marcus said. “You know I’ve got to patch up that hole so it doesn’t get any worse.”

This wasn’t the first time Marcus had patched his dragon’s wing, but she never liked it.

“I don’t like doctoring either,” he said as he got her wing spread out. “Now don’t move.”

Genevieve growled again and blew a smoke ring over him, but she left her wing where it was. All in all, she was a compliant mount.

Marcus moved over to the wooden pail he had borrowed from the farmer’s barn. A little water and some wing powder from his saddlebags had yielded a thick, plaster-like paste that smelled awful. He tried not to breathe as he loaded some onto a horsehair brush.

Why does everything our alchemists come up with smell like stagnant bog water?

He moved to the ragged tear in Genevieve’s wing and smeared the heavy membrane liberally with the foul smelling poultice. In addition to an adhesive stabilizing agent, the wing powder contained herbs and medicines that would speed up the healing and get Genevieve back in the skies sooner.

Once Marcus had the wound thoroughly coated, he set the pail and the brush aside and picked up a long roll of heavy fabric. Laying it carefully, he pressed the coarse weave into the paste covering the wound then cut it to length with his Bowie knife. Once the paste dried, the fabric would get stiff and rigid, keeping the tender membranes in place.

“All right, girl,” he said, patting Genevieve. “Just hold that still till I get back and then we can go.”

Genevieve turned her head away as if she couldn’t hear him. She wasn’t looking forward to what was coming. For that matter, neither was Marcus.

Colonel Jackson hadn’t been happy to hear that his missing dragon rider was in Alabama. If Marcus hadn’t shot down three Yankee airships single-handedly, and then reported the position of the rest, he had little doubt that Colonel Jackson would have demanded his spurs. As it was, his orders were to take Genevieve to the nearest railhead and put her on a train bound for Atlanta where the dragon surgeons could treat her. With Genevieve safely on her way, Marcus was to report to Colonel Jackson.

For disciplinary action, most likely.

Marcus washed out the bucket and brush in the farmer’s pond and left his bucket drying next to the barn. He stowed his wing kit back in his saddlebags, then checked that his pistol was fully loaded. The missing Yankees hadn’t turned up yet so it paid to be cautious.

“All right, girl,” he said, stepping out in front of the massive dragon. “Up now, we need to walk.”

Genevieve chose that moment to gnaw at her shoulder.

“Come on,” Marcus called. “I don’t like this any better than you.”

She snorted, blowing cinders in the air, then pulled her injured wing back against her side. Dragons were nimble in the air, the most efficient predator the world had ever known. On the ground, however, they lacked grace. Genevieve levered herself to her feet, keeping her wings pressed to her sides and lumbered forward, following Marcus as he lead her out of the farmer’s tobacco field and onto a hard dirt track. As they went, the dragon’s clawed feet churned the ground tearing wide gashes out of the road.

“The station agent said there’s a siding this way a few miles,” Marcus explained. “So we won’t have to walk far.”

Genevieve twisted her head and gave him a baleful look with one of her saucer-sized black eyes. Cleary she thought a few miles on the ground
was
a long distance.

“Don’t give me that look,” he chided her. “We’ve had to walk farther before.”

She made a coughing sound in her throat that Marcus took to mean that it didn’t matter how far they’d walked before, she didn’t like walking any distance. She kept her eye on him and Marcus got the unmistakable impression that she viewed her current circumstance as a product of his guidance, not her flying.

“Think what you want, girl,” he said. “It isn’t going to make the station any closer.”

By the time they reached the rail siding, the sun had climbed to its zenith. The siding had a continuous track where a train could pull off to allow another to pass, and a spur for holding spare cars. To Marcus’ great relief, a small cargo train stood on the siding already, its engine hissing quietly.

He wouldn’t have to try to flag down a fast moving train. All Confederate engineers had standing orders to stop for a dragon rider, but he might still have to wait for a full day for a train to come along.