Lincoln's Wizard (4 page)

Lincoln regarded Pinkerton as he sipped his tea.

“You’re a very devious man, Allan,” he said. “Like Merlin of old.”

“Careful, Mister President,” Pinkerton laughed. “That would make you Arthur, and you know how that story turned out.”

Lincoln nodded. “At least Arthur brought order to his kingdom before he died,” he said.

“Well, I believe we can do better,” Pinkerton said, finishing his tea. He rose and placed the cup and saucer back on the sideboard.

“You’d better go get our young friend,” Lincoln said. “Sherman’s already here and he wants to see me.”

“I don’t envy you that conversation,” Pinkerton said. “He’s not likely to be happy about his attack being pushed back.”

“He ever was eager for a fight,” Lincoln said, nodding. “Or perhaps I should rather say eager for a
flight
, given that he had taken to the air like a hawk. It makes him in a hurry.”

“Sherman’s always in a hurry,” Pinkerton shuddered. “Never liked those things, myself. The thought of all that empty air beneath my feet gives me the shakes.”

Lincoln chuckled. “I’ve always found it rather liberating.”

“Liberating or not, Sherman’s going to have to wait a bit,” Pinkerton said. “The Mesmer machine is broken again.”

Lincoln raised an eyebrow at that. “Due to the complexity of the device then?”

“No, sir,” Pinkerton said, clearing his throat. “It was knocked off my desk—a simple accident.”

“A vital secret device was sitting casually on your desk then?”

“Very well, sir,
I
knocked it off my desk!” Pinkerton felt himself blush momentarily. “Stanton barged into my office unannounced and startled me.”

“Relax, Mister Pinkerton. As the event makes for a most disinteresting tale, your secret is safe with me,” Lincoln chuckled. “If the contraption is broken how will you pass the instructions on to Miss Lawton, then?”

“Not to worry,” Pinkerton said. “I’ve got my man bringing around a prototype from Menlo Park. He should be here by tonight. I’ll make your excuses and have young Captain Wright put up in the Hotel till then.”

“Yes, a sound enough plan,” Lincoln nodded, signaling an end to the discussion.

Pinkerton turned and left. He made his way back to his office, humming softly to himself. Despite the time lost to the broken Mesmer machine, things were shaping up nicely. As he approached his door, he paused. A soft, familiar music came from beyond the closed door.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, recognizing the tuneless melody. He hadn’t expected Braxton to be able to do anything with the Mesmer Device, but now he wondered if he had seriously underestimated the young man’s abilities. He’d read Ericsson’s report on the tall gun project, but the Swede didn’t seem to think Braxton was anything special. He’d have to take another look at Ericsson’s files to see what else his chief engineer was missing … or concealing.

Putting his hand on the doorknob, Pinkerton started to turn it, but stopped. Whatever Braxton was doing in there, he wanted a look before the young captain realized he was there. Easing the door open a crack, Pinkerton peeked in.

The sweet scent of incense drifted out through the opening. Braxton had lit the lamp.

Confused as to why he had done this, Pinkerton opened the door further. Braxton Wright sat at his desk with his elbows up and his head cradled in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the glittering lights dancing in the fully repaired Mesmer Device, and he wasn’t blinking.

Pinkerton closed the door quickly but didn’t let it latch.

His mind raced. Somehow Braxton had repaired the machine. A machine, Pinkerton reminded himself, that took a team of the Union’s finest minds in Menlo Park over a year to develop. And Braxton had done it without models or blueprints or even knowing what it was for.

Pinkerton paced the soft carpet, taking care not to look directly into the lights of the device coming from the slightly open door to the room beyond.

He’d planned to use the machine on Braxton to hypnotize him, then give him information for his agent Hattie Lawton, currently held in Castle Thunder, the confederate prison in Richmond. Hattie had acquired information about where the Confederates were making their Gray soldiers, information Pinkerton desperately needed. Knowing Hattie, she would insist on going and seeing the process in person. But even if Hattie could watch Jefferson Davis himself operating the engine that manufactured these unnatural horrors, she was no engineer. She’d need someone along, someone who could look at what the Confederates were doing and understand it.

Someone like Braxton.

Even as he thought it, Pinkerton knew Hattie would never willingly submit to a partner. She was smart and capable, one of the best operatives he had ever trained, but she had a stubborn streak as wide as the Mississippi, and she didn’t like taking help from anyone.

Well, that’s just too bad
, Pinkerton thought.
I’ll just make sure she has to take Braxton with her … the only question is how?

He paced for a few minutes more, mulling the problem over in his mind. Then, he stopped.
Sometimes a little improvisation is required
, he thought.

Satisfied that he had the solution well in hand, he pushed the door open and went in. Braxton didn’t seem to notice Pinkerton’s entrance, his eyes were still fixed on the Mesmer Device.

Pinkerton made his way around the desk and stood beside Braxton, being careful not to look directly at the machine.

“Captain Wright,” he said, softly. “Braxton, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” the captain’s dreamy voice floated back.

“Good. My name is Allan and I want you to listen to my voice. I’ve got some things to tell you. Things I need you to remember.”

Chapter Three
Mr. Lincoln’s War

“Captain Wright?”

Braxton’s head snapped up at the sound of his name. The unmistakable silhouette of Allan Pinkerton stood in the open doorframe, but Braxton was having trouble getting his eyes to focus on the man. He pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked until Pinkerton came into focus.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, trying hard not to blush in embarrassment. “I was admiring your music box and must have dozed.”

“Not to worry, lad,” Pinkerton said, reaching out and pushing in the little rod that would stop the balance gear from spinning. The machine trembled and came to a halt.

Braxton felt more alert almost immediately and he stood, shaking off the last of the groggy feeling.

“I see you fixed it,” Pinkerton said, blowing out the lamp in the machine’s center with a quick puff of air. “Very clever of you.”

“Thank you, sir, but it was just a bent rod.”

“Well, I appreciate it nonetheless,” Pinkerton said. “If you’ll follow me, the President is ready for you.”

Braxton stepped around the chair, pushing it back in as he went, then followed the older man out into the hall. A pair of soldiers in blue coats with polished brass buttons stood at attention, their rifles resting easily at their sides.

The hallway ended against a set of double doors, with the corridor running off to either side. An intricate inlayed scene of a feudal Samurai warrior receiving his sword from his liege covered the doors. As Pinkerton knocked, Braxton was forced to wonder what he would be receiving beyond those doors. Clearly he’d been brought here for some reason, though he couldn’t imagine what.

“Come in,” a muffled voice called.

Pinkerton opened the doors and went in. The room resembled Pinkerton’s office, though it seemed larger owing to the glass skylight that dominated the ceiling. A tea service had been laid out on a low table between two couches, and a tall man in a dark suit stood behind it looking for all the world like the butler. His face was angular and lined, and there was a sadness in his eyes that made him seem old. Braxton had heard that Lincoln was tall, but was not prepared for the reality of it. The man stood well over six feet and was all arms and legs.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain Wright,” President Lincoln said, reaching out to shake Braxton’s hand.

Braxton took the offered hand and tried not to tremble as he shook it. If his father could only see him now. He’d never believe that his boiler-monkey of a son was meeting the President of the United States.

“It’s an honor, Mister President,” he replied, unable to keep his enthusiasm in check. “A real honor, sir.”

“The honor is entirely mine. Have a seat, Captain,” the President said, indicating one of the couches. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, sir,” Braxton said, and sat as the leader of his nation poured him tea. As he handed Braxton his teacup, he smiled with an unforced geniality that belied the sad eyes.

Braxton relaxed as he sipped his tea. Lincoln sat on the couch opposite, next to Pinkerton.

“You may have heard that I am something of a collector and purveyor of tales, Captain Wright,” Lincoln said with studied casualness. “I do not profess to be a professional in this regard—perhaps at best a hobbyist—but I find that I often deal in stories.”

Braxton nodded from behind his teacup.

“So what’s your story, son?” Lincoln asked in a quiet voice.

Braxton choked, nearly spilling his tea. At once, the “official story” sprang into his mind, the one his superiors had insisted he tell, the one that made him appear a quick thinking military genius instead of what he was, merely a hapless survivor. How could he sit in Lincoln’s parlor and lie?

The President, however, continued speaking through his easy smile. “Of course, we all know about your heroic deeds at Parkersburg. Why, the newspapers have been nearly beside themselves recounting your daring escapades.”

Braxton swallowed hard, setting down his cup. “The papers, sir, tend to exaggerate.”

“So I have often noted,” Lincoln observed.

Lincoln and Pinkerton exchanged a glance before the President continued.

“What was it like, facing down a dragon?” Lincoln asked.

“I really couldn’t say, sir,” Braxton replied. “We were repelling the Gray Soldiers when it hit the
Monitor
and knocked her into the river.”

“Quite the harrowing tale,” he said. “You seem like a man who can think on his feet even when the
Monitor
under him is losing its own footing. The kind of man who knows how to get things done in the face of adversity.”

“I’ve seen my share of that,” Braxton admitted. He’d been right, this meeting was more than a social call. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you seem like a man with something on his mind.”

Pinkerton barked out a short laugh. “Told you,” he said, nodding to Lincoln.

“I must confess, you’re right, Captain” the President said, rising. He strode to a cabinet on the wall and withdrew a rolled up paper. “If you’re willing, I have a job for you.”

Braxton took heart at that. Maybe this made up story of his valor could do some good, perhaps even get him back on the tall gun team, or better yet, on Chief Engineer Ericsson’s project, whatever that was. Either one would be a dream come true.

Lincoln returned to the couch and spread out the paper on the low table. Braxton’s heart sunk when he saw it was a map depicting the southern state of Alabama. Why would they need an engineer that far behind enemy lines?

“This will be a dangerous assignment,” Pinkerton said, confirming Braxton’s impression. “But a man of your abilities might just be able to pull it off.”

Braxton’s mouth went dry and he could feel himself start to sweat into his new coat. He tried not to let the distress show on his face.

“This mission is critical,” Pinkerton said.

“The fact of the matter, Captain,” Lincoln said, leaning back in the couch, “is that we’re losing this war.”

Braxton hesitated, then spoke. “May I speak freely, sir?”

It was Pinkerton who nodded. “This conversation is entirely off the record, lad,” he said. “Say what’s on your mind.”

“Meaning no disrespect, sir, but anyone who’s been out there on the front lines knows the war is lost,” he said. “First the Gray soldiers, and now the Frenchies are giving the Rebels dragons? Do you know, sir, that after a battle, Rebel gleaners comb the fields for every corpse they can drag back to their own lines? They stitch them up, then do whatever ungodly horror they do to bring them back, and then send them back into the lines all over again to take up arms against us. Our own friends and kin.”

Braxton shuddered at the thought of seeing Laurie, gray faced and white-eyed, marching across a smoky battlefield in Rebel colors.

“Your gun platform did good service against all that,” Pinkerton said.

“Again, all due respect, we can’t make them fast enough,” Braxton said. “I helped design them. I know.”

“What are you getting at, Captain?” President Lincoln asked in a quiet, surprisingly gentle voice.

“Maybe it’s time to sue for peace, sir,” Braxton said. “Maybe it’s time to end the war.”

Lincoln paused before he spoke, as if he were letting Braxton’s words sink in, weighing them carefully against his response.

“Why are
you
fighting this war, Captain?” he asked.

“I suppose it’s because the idea of one man holding another in bondage against his will, for no crime other than being born different … well, it just isn’t right,” Braxton shrugged.

Lincoln considered this for a moment, then went on.

“That’s a good answer,” he said. “Slavery is an abomination, to be sure, but this war is about so much more than that evil practice.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir,” Braxton said, genuinely confused. He’d heard the Rebel claims that the war was about seizing their land and goods for the industries of the north, but doubted that’s what the President meant.

“Have you studied history, Captain Wright?”

“A little,” Braxton admitted. “When I was in school.”

“If you look back in history,” Lincoln said, “you’ll find only a handful of nations where men tried to be free, to live together under their own rules, not at the suffrage of some king or magistrate. Every other society in history has been some form of tyranny,” he said. “Whether ruled by potentates, prophets, or parliaments, it’s always been the will of the privileged few that governed the common man. The United States are the exception to thousands of years of history, a nation ruled by its people, subject to laws made by those selfsame people. Would you agree, Captain?”

“Yes, sir,” Braxton nodded slightly. “I believe I would.”

“It is a blessed state of freedom we live in,” Lincoln said, his dark eyes intent on Braxton. “That’s what we have to preserve, Captain Wright. History says that the odds of any free nation surviving are not good.”

“Why?” Braxton asked. “Begging your pardon, sir.”

“Because, the agents of tyranny are always among us,” he said. “There are always arrogant and evil men who believe that their ideas are better than their neighbor’s. If such men cannot convince their neighbors, they then seek to coerce them. Liberty becomes anarchy, and anarchy always gives way to tyranny, freshly born.”

“Look what happened in France,” Pinkerton said. “They had a revolution based on anger and envy, not ideas. It devolved almost immediately to anarchy, and within a decade they had old Bonaparte declaring himself emperor.”

“That’s the tricky part of freedom, Captain,” Lincoln said. “It only works when the people are morally sound.”

“You mean like John Adams.” Braxton had read that in school.

“That’s right, son,” Lincoln nodded. “What did he say?”

“That our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.”

“Now ask yourself,” Pinkerton said. “Can we be a moral people if we tolerate the evil of slavery?

Braxton felt his skin go cold. Inside he knew Pinkerton was right.

Lincoln leaned forward, his eyes intense, glittering in his gaunt, pale face. “I believe this Union is the best hope for freedom in the world,” he said. “Maybe the only hope. We have to preserve her, whatever the cost. If we don’t, I fear our children and grandchildren will come under the yoke of tyranny, just as the French have. That’s why I won’t sue for peace. That’s why
I’m
fighting this war.”

He let the words sink in, drawing out the silence in the room.

“What I need to know, Braxton,” Lincoln said, using the captain’s familiar name for the first time, “is are you with me?”

Braxton felt his chest tighten like the air was being squeezed out of him. He couldn’t argue what he’d heard. Somewhere in his soul, he knew it to be right. If freedom was to survive, they had to win. He met Lincoln’s gaze and nodded.

“God help me, sir,” he said. “I am.”

“We had hoped for nothing less,” Pinkerton said, leaning over the map again. “You mentioned the Rebel’s Gray soldiers,” he said. “They’re pressing our boys pretty hard even without the dragons. We think we’ve found a way to even the odds a bit.”

Despite his trepidation, Braxton leaned over the map as well.

“We know the Rebs have to inject the Grays with some chemical solution at least every fortnight,” Pinkerton explained. “We suspect that if they don’t, the Grays will begin to deteriorate.”

Braxton shuddered at that image. The lifeless Gray soldiers were terrifying by themselves, he couldn’t imagine them marching on Union lines all rotten and gangrenous.

“Now,” Pinkerton said, indicating a rail line running north to south. “My spies have learned that a special train moves up and down this line, stopping at the camps to refresh the Grays. Every six weeks, however, it travels back to Atlanta, where we assume the source of their chemical brew is located.”

“What do you want me to do?” Braxton asked, not seeing where this was going.

Pinkerton moved his finger down the track until it was well behind the Rebel lines.

“As the Gray train travels back from picking up supplies,” he said, his finger coming to rest on the bridge running across the Tennessee River. “The train crosses this bridge on its way north,” he said. “We want you to cut this bridge and send the train to the bottom of the river. That will cripple Rebel operations in the western states and give our boys a chance to mount a counter offensive.”

Braxton nodded. Now his presence here made perfect sense. You couldn’t just stuff a bridge support with powder and expect the bridge to come down, especially if you wanted it to take a train with it. Blowing up a bridge required a knowledge of engineering if you wanted to do it right—that and a lot of powder.

He shook his head.

“We’d never be able to blow that bridge without being seen,” he said. “It would take dozens of kegs of powder and days to set it up.”

Pinkerton smiled and pulled a cigar from the inside pocket of his coat.

“Here,” he said, tossing it across the table.

When Braxton caught it, he realized immediately that it wasn’t a cigar. While it was the right size and shape, it appeared to be wrapped in heavy paper with a fuse sticking out of the top.

“What’s this?”

“The latest thing in explosives,” Pinkerton said. “Nitroglycerin packed in sand.”

At the word “nitro” Braxton’s hand trembled and he handed the cigar-shaped tube carefully back to Pinkerton.

“Oh don’t go all wobbly on me, lad,” the detective said. “This stuff is perfectly safe.” To illustrate his point, he slammed the tube down on the low table a few times.

Braxton’s heart skipped several beats but nothing happened.

“It’s called dynamite,” Pinkerton said. “All the power of nitro and you can carry it in your knapsack. Your squad will be provided enough to get the job done, don’t you worry about that.”

“My squad?”

“A half-dozen men,” Pinkerton said. “Handpicked by me.”

“This mission is vital, Captain,” Lincoln said. “It could very well turn the tide of the entire war. Much will depend on your success.”

“I’m not sure I can do this,” he admitted. “This train is deep into enemy territory and I grew up in Maryland. I don’t know the land. And what happens if we do manage to sink the train?”