Lincoln's Wizard (11 page)

“Engineer,” Marcus called as he led Genevieve up to the train. “I need passage for my dragon to Atlanta. Where are you bound?”

The engineer stuck his head out of the cab of the train and paled when he saw the dragon. He was an older man, stooped with thick spectacles perched on his long nose. Wispy hair circled his head like a furry belt and flowed in the breeze as if it were steam coming off him.

“We,” he squeaked, then cleared his throat. “We are going through Atlanta, sir Knight,” he said, using the formal address for one of the Southern Knights.

“Excellent. I’ll get her on a flatcar. How long are you here?”

“Until the Gray special passes,” he said. “Should be a while yet.”

Marcus thanked the man and led Genevieve around by the spur. Ever since the Confederacy first acquired their dragons, there had been standing orders to leave a flatcar on every siding and spur possible in case a wounded dragon needed to be transported. Not all sidings had them, but this one did. It wasn’t much to look at and as Marcus encouraged the dragon up onto its surface it swayed alarmingly, but it was all they had.

Genevieve positioned herself atop the rickety car with her haunches toward the back and her front claws just touching the leading edge. From there she could wrap her serpentine tail around her body to keep it from being injured. She could hold her head up unless the train went through a tunnel, then she would turn it back along her body until the danger passed.

With the dragon in position, Marcus had to secure her. Beside the flatcar, on the ground, lay a pile of fence posts. Along the edges of the car, holes had been cut in the deck and slowly, one by one, Marcus hauled the heavy rails up and dropped them into position, forming a loose cage around Genevieve. They wouldn’t keep her in if she was determined to leave, but it would prevent her from falling off.

“You could have helped with that,” he admonished her as he dropped, exhausted, into the grass after fitting the last post. Genevieve favored him with a rhythmic growl that sounded for all the world like laughter. Marcus laughed, too.

He stood up and Genevieve lowered her head until he could touch her snout. Running his hand up along the ridge beside her eyes, Marcus scratched her hard.

“I’m going to miss you, girl,” he said. “You get well soon.”

The dragon’s forked pink tongue lashed out of her mouth and laid a slimy kiss along his cheek, but he didn’t protest. Dragons and their riders shared a special bond and he knew she would miss him, too.

He gave her one last pat on the snout, then trudged around the car to the siding where the supply train still stood.

“She’s all set,” he told the engineer. “Can you get her car attached?”

“Sure young fella,” he said, stepping out of his cab now that the dragon was safely contained.

Most people didn’t take well to meeting a full-grown dragon in the woods.

“We’ll just back up, hook on, and pull her out,” he said. “Then we can pull forward and hitch her up to the rear. We’ll have to wait for the Gray special, though.”

Marcus consulted his pocket watch, which told him that it was a little after three.

“How much longer do you figure,” he asked.

Before the engineer could answer, a whistle sounded behind him.

“There she is now,” the engineer said.

The siding stood in a little clearing with trees all around so Marcus couldn’t see the special train until it was right on them. When he did, he gasped. This train was crawling with Blue Bellies. He could clearly see the Federal troops in the engine and on top of the single car.

“They’ve taken the train,” the old engineer squeaked beside Marcus.

“Genevieve!” Marcus shouted, running back toward the flatcar. This was his chance to redeem himself with Colonel Jackson. He pointed at the passing train and yelled, “Fire!”

Genevieve couldn’t move quickly, being all penned up on the flatcar, but she’d heard his call and faced his direction. She roared a challenge that shook the ground and spat a great gout of Hellfire at the passing Blue Bellies.

In the sky, dragons are the perfect predators. On the ground, they lack grace—and the ability to lead targets moving unnaturally fast. The burning spittle missed the back of the receding train by inches and, as the dragon turned to follow, her fire washed over the engine of the waiting supply train.

Great globs of burning Hellfire clung to the engine and Marcus could see the metal beginning to turn red. The engineer next to him screamed in dismay. The fireman cursed and leapt from the cab, running after the vanished Federals as if hell itself were upon him.

“If that breaches the boiler, she’ll explode!” he said.

Marcus turned and locked eyes with an embarrassed-looking Genevieve.

“Get out of there!” he yelled. “Go!”

She roared again, this time in anger and frustration. Her massive claws tore the fence poles apart like matchsticks and she lumbered away toward the rear of the supply train.

The steam engine began to hiss and splutter, shaking as the water in its tank began to boil all at once.

“Run, young fella,” the old engineer said, hobbling away as fast as his old legs could go.

Marcus used a word that would have made his mother gasp, then took off running. He passed the engineer, grabbing him up and physically carrying him as he went. He had gone about fifteen yards when a roar louder than anything Genevieve could make literally knocked him off his feet. He and the engineer rolled in the grass covering their heads as burning bits of metal rained down around them.

When at last the deadly hail abated, Marcus pushed himself up. The first two cars of the supply train had been blown off the track and were now lying on their sides, and the ones that remained were engulfed in flames. Behind the inferno, he could see Genevieve craning her neck frantically to find him. When she did, she bounded around the wreckage until she stood over him, licking him while the engineer cowered.

“I’m glad you’re happy to see me, girl,” he said, scratching her jaw. “Colonel Jackson is going to mount my hide on his saddle.”

O O O

Colonel Beauregard Fuller stood looking out the window of his office as the rays of the morning sun crawled slowly down the black granite surface of Stone Mountain. Between him and the mountain, the rail yards and workshops of the Confederate Engineer Bureau lay bustling in the early light. Already the smokestacks of the Distillery were belching up black clouds that filled the air with the smell of coal smoke and sulfur.

From somewhere below a train whistle screamed. Colonel Fuller couldn’t see the switchyard from his window, but he didn’t have to. The rumble of the massive machines penetrated his office and vibrated the soles of his feet. He could see the men rushing back and forth in his mind’s eye well enough. The emergency call had just gone out and already the yard filled up. Fuller tried to enjoy this one moment, the calm before the inevitable storm of requests for this or that impossible thing, but his feet shifted side to side in restless motion. He felt like a thoroughbred waiting for the signal to run.

A polite knock sounded at the door and Fuller turned. He could see the silhouette of a thin man with a bowler hat through the frosted glass.

“Come in, Lemuel,” he said, turning away from the window and the view of Stone Mountain.

The door opened and Lemuel Grant came in from the outside landing, removing his hat and tucking it under his arm. Lemuel was Fuller’s head of Engineering, in charge of trying to understand and recreate whatever new mechanical horror the Federal engineers came up with. He had a long face and a sloping, pointed nose with spectacles over his large brown eyes, which made them appear larger still. A man of precise habits, Lemuel’s face showed no stubble and his clothes were clean. He wore a suit of brown wool with no adornments other than a gold watch fob that ran to his vest pocket. He removed the watch and checked it after he closed the door, and Fuller noticed that his fingertips were stained with lead.

“It’s a bit early, Beauregard,” Lemuel said, snapping the watch closed and returning it to its pocket. “What’s all the fuss?”

Fuller sighed and handed Lemuel a paper from his desk.

“Some time yesterday a Federal raiding party blew up the railroad bridge over the Tennessee River,” he explained as Lemuel glanced over the paper.

“We’ll have to reroute the Reagent train,” Lemuel said. “Send it over to Jackson and up that way.”

“We can’t,” Fuller said. Lemuel cocked an eyebrow and waited for more, so Fuller continued. “The explosion happened when the train was on the bridge. Our shipment is at the bottom of the Tennessee River.”

Lemuel whistled.

“Now I know why the Distillery is working already. I’ll get an engine ready and clear the route to Jackson.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Fuller said with a sigh. “Almost simultaneously, the Federal army in New Orleans raided Jackson. Our boys managed to rally and drive them off, but not before they destroyed the rail yard and several miles of track. It’ll be months before we can send anything through Jackson. You’ll have to find a northern route.”

Lemuel rubbed his chin for a moment then nodded, his eyes moving quickly as his mind raced ahead.

“It won’t be easy,” he said. “A lot of the northern lines are older, they use the narrow gauge track. We’ll have to move the Reagent containers to another train …”

A knock sounded on the door and the chief engineer for the rail yard came in wearing a soot-stained boiler suit with an equally stained face.

“Sir,” he said saluting. “I’ve got a Captain Johnson down in my roundhouse demanding I give him a train. I told him the only two I’ve got are torn apart for repairs, but he won’t listen.”

“Did he say why he wants the train?” Fuller asked, bracing himself for the answer.

“He says he’s got orders to take all the Reagent we have to Richmond,” the Chief said.

Fuller sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment.

“Please tell the captain that we have no Reagent and won’t for several days, and that we have no trains to spare in any case. If he gives you any more trouble, tell him to come see me.”

“Yes, sir,” the Chief answered, then saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

“All right,” Lemuel said once the Chief had gone. “I’ll figure out how we’re going to get the Reagent north … and find a train,” he added. “How much time do I have?”

Fuller glanced out the window at the four-story high structure of the Distillery. By now they would be working at full capacity, but that still meant at least a week for a full load of Reagent.

“I don’t want to wait for a full load,” he said. “We’ll take whatever we’ve got in three days’ time. Will that be enough for you?”

Before Lemuel could answer there was another knock at the door. This time it was the quartermaster, a rotund man with white hair and a Van Dyke beard, who came in. His face was red, and sweat ran down his face which he mopped up with a handkerchief.

“Sir, I’ve just been to the Distillery,” he said, “and the major is raisn’ hell.”

Major Wilkins was the engineer in charge of Reagent production at the Distillery.

“What’s the Major’s problem?” Fuller asked.

“He says it’s far too early to be doing another processing run,” the Quartermaster said. “He says he can’t guarantee his equipment is in order.”

“Please send the major my compliments and inform him that this is a dire emergency and his efforts are greatly appreciated,” Fuller said. “Without that Reagent we may well lose a large portion of our Grays currently in the field.”

The Quartermaster paled and nodded, belatedly remembering to salute.

“I shall inform him, sir,” he said, then departed.

“I’ll have the details by tonight.” Lemuel said once they were alone again. “The hard part will be getting all the orders out and confirmed so there are no slip-ups. Don’t fret, though,” he said before Fuller could speak. “I’ll handle it.”

Colonel Fuller sighed and nodded. He’d never had any doubts about Lemuel Grant. The man was one of the best minds the Confederacy had, and he took his job seriously. Of course he wasn’t in the same league as the Federal engineers, but Fuller could only work with what he had, and he didn’t begrudge the man for not being as skilled or as well trained as the Yankees.

“Thank you, Lemuel,” he said.

Lemuel turned to go, but before he reached the door, a third knock sounded, adding splendidly to Fuller’s rapidly forming headache.

“What is it?” he yelled, a little more forcefully than he intended.

The door opened and a young, bucktoothed corporal came in.

“This telegram just arrived for you, sir,” he said, saluting. “It’s marked, ‘urgent’.”

What isn’t marked “urgent” today?

“Thank you, Corporal,” Fuller said, taking the telegram and tearing it open.

“If that’s all …” Lemuel said, moving to follow the corporal out.

“Wait,” Fuller said, scowling at the neat lines of text on the paper. “This has your name on it, too.” Fuller read on. “It says here that a Federal officer was captured after the bridge explosion, and he’s being transported to Castle Thunder, the prison in Richmond.” He shrugged and handed the paper to Lemuel. “Does this make any sense to you?”

Lemuel took the paper but had hardly begun reading it when his face took on an astonished look.

“Colonel,” he gasped. “Don’t you know what this means?”

Fuller had to admit that he didn’t.

“The Federal officer,” Lemuel said, his voice trembling. “Braxton Wright.”

The name had sounded familiar, but Fuller couldn’t place where he’d heard it before.

“He was in the papers,” Lemuel explained. “He helped the Federal army stop our advance at Parkersburg. He’s one of the designers of the tall guns.”

Now Fuller understood. A shock like lighting tore through him and left his fingers tingling. For years the Yankee engineers had been turning out war machines that he just couldn’t match. They could steal bits and pieces of the technology, even duplicate some, but they just didn’t have anyone really capable of understanding it fully, of thinking ahead of the Federals.