Lincoln's Wizard (7 page)

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 prayer 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.

Working quickly, he scooped out a blob of the sticky black stuff and smeared it inside the valve. The flow of gas slowed, but didn’t stop altogether. He’d need something to plug it. He turned to call down to Davis, but a gust of wind hit the lifeboat and it lurched beneath him. Braxton grabbed onto the net and tried to hold himself steady as the partially deflated gas bag twisted and bucked beneath him. The little can of pitch went spinning into the darkness after his coat.

Braxton swore again. He was beginning to get good at it.

“You alive up there, sir?” Sergeant Young called from below.

“Yes,” Braxton called back. “Almost done.”

Think
, he admonished himself. There had to be something he could do. A thick blob of pitch still clung to the valve; he just needed something to seal it up with.

He pushed himself back up to a sitting position, leaving a long, dark stain where his arm had been. Braxton held up his arm quickly, fearing the can had cut him during its unscheduled egress. All he found, however, was a trail of pitch running from his elbow to his wrist.

He jerked his knife from its sheath and, working as carefully as he could, cut the sleeve from his shirt. Rolling it into a sticky wad, he jammed it into the brass valve. Turning it back and forth, he wedged the fabric plug in place then lowered his ear to the hole.

He couldn’t be sure over the wind, but he didn’t think he could hear the gas any more.

He let out the breath he’d been holding and sank down onto the gas bag. After what seemed like a quarter of an hour, he swung his feet down over the side and began to let himself back down the net. If he could find where one of the guy ropes met the net, he could shimmy down it to the relative safety of the lifeboat. Below someone grabbed his belt and hauled his legs in toward the boat. Braxton yelped and almost lost his grip.

“We got you, sir,” Davis called. “Let go.”

Braxton decided then and there that no sane person would let go. But if he didn’t trust his men now, how would he be able to trust them when a couple hundred Rebs were after them? He took a deep breath and released the rope.

His body fell back, but at the same time the person holding his belt hauled him inboard. Strong hands reached out on either side and caught him, pulling him into the boat.

“What happened to you?” Sergeant Young asked once Braxton was back in the confines of the lifeboat. “You look like you had to make a hasty exit from a whorehouse.”

Braxton laughed, looking down at his coatless, sleeveless form. “For the cause,” he said. One of the men secured a spare coat from their gear and Braxton put it on gratefully. He hadn’t been aware of the cold up on top of the gasbag, the adrenalin had kept him warm. Now that his mind had time to register it, however, his teeth began to chatter. “Where do you think we are, Young?” he asked at last.

“I’ve not a damn clue,” Young said, looking below. “If his highness, Air Marshall Sherman, was right, we’re still a ways east of the bridge.”

“I thought you knew this country,” Braxton said, worried.

“Oh, I do, sir,” Young said. “The clouds are clearing, so I should be able to find you a landmark or two. Then I’ll tell you right where we are. Right now, though, all I can see are trees.”