Lincoln's Wizard (12 page)

What they needed was one of those Federal engineers on their side.

“If we could turn him,” Lemuel said. “We could catch up to the Yankees. Beat them with their own weapons.”

Fuller smiled, darting to his chair. His pen flew over a sheet of paper as he requested a special agent to be sent to the Castle Prison to befriend Braxton Wright.

“Corporal!” Fuller yelled at his office door. A moment later the corporal entered and Fuller handed him the folded paper. “Get this to the telegraph office and have them send it right away, with highest priority.”

The corporal saluted and left, and Fuller breathed a sigh of relief. Even his headache abated. After years of grinding away, he saw a bright glimmer of light ahead. Maybe this time he’d finally caught a break.

O O O

Allan Pinkerton sipped his tea and leafed through the reports on his desk. Nothing jumped out as important but it was something to do while he had tea. By his estimation he should receive word of Braxton’s capture any time now. He turned over a report of the attack on Jackson, Mississippi and felt a bout of pique. Sherman had managed to pull off his long-planned attack after all, but what had he sacrificed to get it done? Had his mission to deliver Braxton failed? So far he hadn’t heard from the air marshal, and he imagined Sherman was keeping him in the dark out of spite.

Pinkerton took a deep breath, letting his irritation abate, and sipped his tea.

Patience. Like most worthwhile things, this required a simple application of patience.

The door to his office flew open with a boom, causing Pinkerton to look up over his steaming cup. In the now open doorway stood the considerable form of the secretary of war. His face was red, and he seemed to be huffing and puffing as if he’d run a footrace.

“I’ve had just about enough of your interference,” Edwin Stanton fumed, storming into the room with a crumpled paper clutched in his hand.

Oh, good. My news has been delivered.

“Secretary Stanton,” Pinkerton said, setting his cup aside and standing. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“You know very well,” Stanton growled, slamming the paper down on his desk. “What makes you think you can disrupt my battle plans, order my officers on secret missions, and lose two of my airships without my say-so? I am the secretary of war! I don’t care what skulking your people are up to, I must be kept informed.”

Pinkerton smiled. Sherman’s orders had come straight from the President. Stanton’s presence here, yelling at him, meant that he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere with Lincoln. Lincoln was fond of Stanton and relied on him heavily, perhaps too heavily, but the president wouldn’t denounce Pinkerton for this mission, which left Stanton trying to intimidate him.

It made Pinkerton want to laugh in the man’s face. Wisdom kept him from doing it.

“You sent the air fleet to cover Hooker’s raid on Jackson,” Pinkerton said. “Surely you expected some losses.”

Stanton’s face turned from red to purple. “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” he said. “I’m talking about your little side mission to grab a Rebel Gray train.”

It took a great effort of will for Pinkerton to keep his face unreadable.

“Seize a Gray train?” he asked, genuinely interested now. “Do tell.”

“Oh, Sherman gives all the credit to that upstart engineer Braxton Wright, but I know you were behind this. If they hadn’t managed to capture that train and make it back alive, I’d have you thrown in jail.”

Stanton continued to threaten, but Pinkerton didn’t hear any of it.
Capture a Gray train, and make it back? Was it possible that Captain Wright’s exceptional luck had saved him again?
Damn it, he needed Wright in that prison; he needed Hattie Lawton free. If there was to be any hope of winning this war, he had to stop the Grays.

“If Wright hadn’t gone and gotten himself captured, I’d have him up on charges,” Stanton’s voice cut through Pinkerton’s thoughts. “And don’t think I believe he talked Sherman into this raid. The whole idea reeks of Sherman’s scheming, no doubt under your orders.”

Stanton slammed his hands down on Pinkerton’s desk and leaned over it.

“Next time you won’t get such a lucky break, and when one of your half-baked ideas finally results in disaster, I’ll have all the reason I need to get you kicked out for good.”

He turned and stormed back out into the hall.

“And if your stooge, Captain Wright, ever gets out of prison,” he said, turning back through the open door. “I’ll have him court martialed.”

Stanton slammed the door so hard it rattled the windows. Pinkerton didn’t bother about that, he picked up the paper Stanton had left on his desk and flattened it out with his left hand while he warmed up his tea from the pot. It turned out to be a telegram from Sherman saying that Braxton had successfully blown up the bridge, and captured the secret car, which Sherman was now bringing north for study. Sherman further reported that Braxton, whom he credited for the entire plan, had valiantly, and single-handedly, stopped a train car full of Grays, staying behind to be captured while his men seized the train. It was a very moving account of heroism and daring-do, and most likely heavily embellished.

Pinkerton had to admit, it was quite a coup.

If he did say so himself.

Chapter Nine
The Castle

Marcus Burnside waited in the hallway of the Belle of the South Hotel, shifting nervously from foot to foot. The owners of the Belle had undergone considerable expense to make every part of their establishment a soothing environment, right down to the fragrant pots of jasmine and honeysuckle on every table. All of it was lost on Marcus. The papered walls and carpeted corridors, meant to ensure peaceful surroundings, felt to him like a tomb.

Soon to be his tomb.

He stood beyond a heavy door with a brass plate set into it showing the number eight. It had been over a minute and he still hadn’t knocked.

Courage, man,
he admonished himself, and rapped on the door.

“Come,” a gruff voice called from inside.

Marcus crossed himself, then turned the handle. Inside, the room was every bit as elegant as the hall. Carved tables supported frosted glass lamps atop a thick, green carpet. A brass rail bed stood in one corner, partially obscured by a screen, lacquered in the Oriental style, and an elegant desk sat facing away from a large window. Behind the desk sat a grizzled, gaunt man with a bushy beard and quick eyes in a lean face. He wore the uniform of the Southern Knights, though his heavy flight coat hung from a brass rack behind him.

“Colonel Jackson, sir,” Marcus said, snapping to attention and saluting. “Lieutenant Marcus Burnside, reporting as ordered.”

Colonel Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson’s eyes, already dark, became pits of midnight as they focused on him and, after a long moment, he returned the salute.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Lieutenant Burnside?” he said, rising from behind the desk. His white shirt had the crisp look of having been freshly laundered and his gray pants and silver sash were creased and pressed. His boots shone with polish and his silver spurs gleamed.

“I have no excuse, sir,” Marcus said. He’d decided on the trip to Richmond that he would not attempt to justify his actions or color the truth. He would tell Colonel Jackson what happened and let the chips fall where they may. Ironically, when dealing with a man like Jackson, it was the only course of action that might save him.

“Damn right you don’t,” Jackson yelled. “Two days late in responding to a summons, flying at night in direct violation of standing orders, and blowing up one of the few steam engines we have left. That’s quite a day’s work. How ever did you manage it?”

Marcus took a deep breath and told the Colonel the whole story. About his girl marrying his brother and his three-day bender, which led to his being late, which led to his flying at night, which led to his intercepting the Federal air fleet.

“You say the big airship had guns on its sides and top?” Jackson interrupted him.

“Yes, sir. It was the biggest thing I’d ever seen.”

Jackson cursed. “If only you could have taken her down,” he said, a slow fire beginning to burn in his dark eyes. “That had to be the
Jefferson
, Old Sherman’s flagship. What a coup that would have been.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I had to land after Genevieve was hit.”

“Which she wouldn’t have been if you’d been obeying orders,” Jackson yelled.

Marcus continued, telling him about the incident at the rail yard, then fell silent. Colonel Jackson looked as if he might explode, then he turned and picked up a stack of papers from the desk.

“These are reports,” he said paging through them. “This one,” he held up one of the pages, “is from your landlady, confirming your story about being drunk for three days.” He paged to another and held it up. “This one is from Michael Knox, the engineer whose train you blew up, confirming what you told me. This one is from a farmer who says you and your dragon landed in his field, used his barn for shelter, and ate one of his cows. I’m going to assume Genevieve did that one.”

Marcus wanted to smile, but knew that would be the wrong thing to do.

“From what I can tell, Lieutenant, you’ve told me the unvarnished truth,” his face turned sour. “I had so hoped you would lie to me.”

“I’m … sorry, sir,” Marcus said, confused.

“You see, son, the reason I’m here in this fine hotel, in my Sunday-go-to-meetin’ uniform, is because I had breakfast this morning with President Davis and General Robert E. Lee.”

Colonel Jackson put his hand over his heart when he said Lee’s name. Marcus wanted to, but restrained himself.

“I had to explain to these two great men how it was that, under my watch, with our entire flight of dragons at my disposal, Federal airships bombarded our forces at the depot in Jackson, Mississippi. How they kept our forces at bay while a raiding army under General Hooker stole our supplies and tore up several miles of track, all while I flew east with every dragon I had to repel a Federal fleet that had been sighted over Alabama.”

Marcus started to sweat. His report had alerted Jackson to the Federal presence. He was the reason Jackson hadn’t been at the depot to save it.

“You said it yourself, sir,” Marcus said when the Colonel didn’t continue. “Sherman’s flagship was there, you had to respond.”

“Sherman was there to steal a Gray train,” Jackson said. “Which he did, and thanks to you, he also served as a diversion for the attack on the depot.”

Marcus couldn’t answer that, so he didn’t try.

“Fortunately for you,” Jackson went on. “Yours wasn’t the only report I got of a Federal fleet over the Deep South. I’d have come whether you saw them or not, which is doubtless what Sherman intended, the crafty bastard.”

Colonel Jackson paused and took a long drink from a glass of lemonade on his desk.

“Are you a religious man, Lieutenant Burnside?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said. “Catholic.”

“I am a firm believer in God and the Bible,” Jackson said. “I believe that it’s possible to get a second chance when we make mistakes.”

Marcus couldn’t believe his luck, it sounded like the Colonel would give him another chance.

“I, however, am just a man, and I don’t give second chances to bumbling lieutenants who disobey orders and blow up Confederate property!”

Marcus’ rising spirits faltered.

“Unfortunately for me, when I left General Lee this morning, he expressly said that I should commend you for your valiant attack on the Federal fleet despite you being alone and outnumbered. Now you and I know you did nothing more than your duty, but I can’t strip you of your spurs after the general praised you so highly. I also can’t afford the two months it would take to convince Genevieve to accept a new rider.”

Marcus could feel a grin crawling onto his face that he seemed powerless to stop.

“But this is your only grace, lieutenant,” Jackson growled, standing so close to him that Marcus could smell the lemons on his breath. “You put so much as a toe out of line again and I’ll have your spurs before you can whistle “Dixie”. Now get out. Find your dragon and report back for duty when she’s recovered. Dismissed.”

Marcus saluted, then turned and left. He felt dazed, like he’d flown too high for too long. He found himself at the train station without any intervening memory of how he’d gotten there. The station was an old, whitewashed building nestled in the shade of a stand of trees. The large clock in her bell tower showed the hour, just after noon.

Marcus went to the ticket agent and requested military passage for Atlanta.

“Good thing you got here when you did, young fella’,” the portly, aging man said. He had a round head and white muttonchops that reached up to a thinning head of hair. “The train for Atlanta is here already. She’ll be leaving just as soon as they bring off a prisoner for the Castle. Somebody famous, I’m told.”

“Who?” Marcus asked, too relieved at his good fortune to even care about the answer.

“Why that Union engineer,” the ticket agent said. “Braxton Wright.”

Marcus’ mind snapped back into focus. Braxton Wright had led the raid that blew up the Tennessee River Bridge and stole the Gray train, the same train he’d been trying to stop when Genevieve mistakenly destroyed the supply train.

“Where?” he asked.

A squad of Confederate troops stood at attention by the side of an empty passenger car. As Marcus approached, he could see a blond young man emerge and limp over to a bench. He had no coat, and his dirty shirt had only one sleeve. As far as Marcus could tell, he looked entirely unremarkable.

“I need to speak to the prisoner,” he said to one of the bored-looking guards.

Under normal circumstances, Marcus doubted anyone would be allowed to walk up and talk to a prisoner, but his Southern Knight’s uniform had a habit of opening doors.

“Yes, sir Knight,” the soldier said and stepped aside.

Braxton Wright looked like he’d been through hell. His clothes were dirty and he had minor cuts and bruises all over, no doubt received when he jumped from the train. He had blue eyes, blond hair, and the sort of bigness through the shoulders one gets from doing hard work.

He didn’t seem like a Federal genius that could make giant walking guns that won battles and steal entire train cars from right off the tracks.

“Who are you?” he asked when Marcus didn’t say anything.

“I’m Lieutenant Marcus Burnside of the Southern Knights. I wanted to see you for myself.”

“To see if the legends are true?” Braxton asked with a wry smile.

“To see who it was that bested me and made me look like a fool,” Marcus said, irritation creeping into his voice.

Braxton looked confused, but then he smiled.

“It was you that night,” he guessed. “On the dragon. Did she survive?”

Marcus hesitated. He could be fishing for information, but then who was he going to tell in the Castle Thunder Prison?

“She did,” Marcus said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so magnificent,” he said.

Of all the things Marcus had expected, that was least among them.

“I just wanted to meet you,” he said. “One warrior to another.”

Braxton smiled and looked around at the guards.

“Haven’t you heard, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’m out of the war.”

Marcus didn’t know what to say to that. He wondered why he’d wanted to meet Braxton in the first place. It should be to blame him for all the misfortune he piled on Marcus’ shoulders, but Wright hadn’t done that, not by himself at least. He was just a cog in the giant Federal war machine.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time, Captain Wright,” he said.

“That’s all right,” Braxton said, rising and offering Marcus his hand. “It was nice to meet you, Lieutenant Burnside.”

Marcus took the offered hand, then turned away for the train. Behind him, the guards led Braxton out through a side door where a buckboard wagon waited to transport him to prison.

I almost feel sorry for him. When I get taken out of the war, it will probably be at three thousand feet.

O O O

The buckboard rattled and bumped along the dirt road on the outskirts of Richmond. The town lay hidden behind a thick screen of trees, but the dew had burned off in the mid-morning light and Braxton could smell the traces of smoke and horses drifting on the air. He tried to enjoy the scene but his ankle throbbed with every bump. He grimaced as they clattered over a particularly large root.

“You all right, Captain?” the guard next to him asked.

Braxton nodded.

“My ankle’s bothering me a little,” he said.

“There’s a doctor at the prison,” the guard said. “We can go there first if you need to see him.”

Again Braxton shook his head. The surgeon at the Confederate hospital in Atlanta had looked him over and said his ankle was only sprained and that Braxton should stay off it for a few days. That didn’t stop it from hurting, of course, but there wasn’t much that could be done beyond waiting for it to heal on its own.

“Well,” said the guard. “If you change your mind, let me know. We’ll be arriving in a few minutes. Castle Thunder’s just around them trees.” He pointed to a stand of ironwoods about a quarter mile distant. The guard was a young man. He looked too young to fight, but as the war dragged on the soldiers got younger and younger. He had a ruddy complexion, made redder still by acne, and the ghost of a mustache that seemed in no danger of growing in any time soon. He didn’t say much, and when he spoke, Braxton had a tough time understanding his thick Georgia accent, but he was polite enough.

Everyone, including the dragon rider, had been excessively polite to him since he’d been taken captive. He’d been fed and his wounds tended, most of which were minor cuts received when he jumped from the train. They’d asked him his name and he’d told them. He was expecting questions about his mission and where his men thought they were going with the Gray train, but none were forthcoming. They either knew he wouldn’t reveal such information, or they already knew answers.

The real surprise was not being sent to Andersonville.

Not that Braxton wanted to go to that notorious hellhole of a prison camp, but he’d been expecting it. Instead he was put on a train and sent to Richmond, to the Castle Thunder Prison. The Castle was famous for two things: its security and its prisoners. Only high value prisoners were kept there, and many weren’t kept long before being exchanged for Rebels the Union held. Braxton had no idea why someone who’d only commanded one mission would be sent there, but he wasn’t going to buck his good fortune. He had to wonder, though, who would trade a Reb prisoner for him?

As the wagon rounded the stand of ironwood trees the Castle Thunder Prison came into view. It had started life as a tobacco factory and Braxton could still see the massive drying barn, at least three stories high. A long, low building ran off the side of this with many doors and windows evident. A stable and smithy dominated that corner of the yard, ending in a high tower manned by soldiers. On the far side of the old barn stood a more modern structure, built after the prison had been bombed from an airship two years ago. Braxton had read about that in the papers. This new building was stone and square with a round turret rising up at least five stories where a skyward facing gun had been mounted. The prison had been called Castle Thunder before the bombing, but now it truly deserved its name.