Golden Heart (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles)

by P J Thorndyke

  “Isn’t hydrogen flammable?” Lazarus asked, looking nervously at the smoking cheroot that hung from Vasquez’s mouth.

  “Sure is. None aboard this baby, though. Helium, folks. It’s the new thing. Discovered by some eggheads in France. All airships use it now.”

  They stood and watched in awe as the light material began to rise higher and higher, expanding and billowing outwards, lifting the craft clean off the ground. Gas filled all the creases and soon the entire deck was shadowed by a monolithic balloon cluster. The anchor ropes strained and creaked as the craft bobbed in midair.

  They went below deck. Hok’ee was in the furnace room, bathed in purple light as he shoveled mechanite into the glowing furnace.

  “How’s she doing?” Vasquez hollered.

  Hok’ee replied in Navajo and Lazarus realized for the first time that Vasquez must have a good understanding of the language, considering his first mate’s reluctance to use English. They waited for the steam pressure to build up and then, by pulling a series of brass levers and knobs, Vasquez put into motion the great rear propellers that drove the craft forward. They drew in the anchor lines and soon they were drifting high and sailing north east through the starry clouds, with the chasms and plateaus of the desert far below them.

  By the lights of the gas lamps they sat in the cabin with the door shut against the chill air, and inhaled the smell of cooking bacon and eggs and canned beans as Vasquez prepared their meal. The smells reminded Lazarus of his favorite greasy spoon in London’s East End and, overcome by a sudden and unexpected pang of homesickness, he promised himself a meal there as soon as he got back. But for now, Vasquez’s culinary efforts would have to do.

  “Soup’s on!” said Vasquez, sliding three plates across the lacquered tabletop. Hok’ee entered and sat down, seizing his fork and digging in. Katarina poked around at her plate with evident distaste. Vasquez sat down and began dousing Tabasco sauce over his plate with liberal carelessness. They watched him shovel the food down in great forkfuls.

  “So where is it we are headed, exactly?” Lazarus asked Vasquez.

  “You’ll find that out when we get there,” the bandit replied with a grin.

  “There’s really no call to be so cagey.”

  “Oh, there ain’t? Well how come you two can’t even bring up the matter of what we’re all chasing after, then? It’s Cibola, isn’t it?”

  Lazarus and Katarina looked at each other.

  “And you claim to know its location,” said Lazarus.

  “All I claim is to know the location of the map. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “What good is a map to a place that doesn’t exist?” said Lazarus.

  “You don’t sound very convinced that the matter is genuine,” said Katarina.

  “I’m not.”

  Vasquez dropped his fork with a clatter. “Now listen, limey, you’re the one on my tail, hounding me for the map. Now all of a sudden you don’t believe I’ve got the goods?”

  “Oh I believe you’ve seen a map. Maybe even have it hidden away somewhere. I just don’t believe the seven golden cities of Cibola exist outside of fairy tales told to the Spaniards by the natives.”

  “Get a load of this guy, Hok’ee!” Vasquez crowed.

  The Navajo was watching Lazarus intently with his sullen, black eyes. The Golgotha rifle had been detached from his elbow, and in place of it he had screwed on a hook that served as a multi-purpose tool for tinkering about on the ship. He rapped this on the table top slowly.

  “He aims to tell us how things are running in this here country of ours. What makes you such a goddamned expert, limey?”

  “He’s an historian,” said Katarina. “And a grave robber.”

  “Archaeologist,” Lazarus corrected, surprised that she knew so much about him. No doubt a file on him had been provided by the Russian government.

  “Egghead, huh?” said Vasquez. “So you know all about Cibola. More than me, perhaps?”

  Lazarus sighed and began the tale from the beginning. “I know that in fifteen-thirty-six four survivors from a Spanish shipwreck resurfaced in Mexico. With them was a Moorish slave called Estevanico; the first African to set foot in America. They had been wandering for eight years throughout the Southwest and had heard tales of a wealthy land to the north. The Spaniards in Mexico, who had recently amassed vast wealth from plundering the Aztec and Inca empires, became convinced that there must be a third golden empire in the northern continent. The Spanish had their own legend of seven bishops who fled Spain with all their wealth during the Moorish invasion hundreds of years previously. They believed that these bishops had set up seven golden cities in an unchartered land to the west. With the stories told by Estevanico and his companions, it seemed possible that these cities were somewhere in the American Southwest.

  “The Viceroy of New Spain sent out an expedition under a Franciscan monk called Marcos de Niza who, with Estevanico as his guide, headed north to find this golden empire. Estevanico was an impetuous fellow by all accounts, who kept running on ahead and sending back promising clues. It seemed that they were drawing near to their goal. In one letter he said that he had found a fabulous city called Cibola, the first of many of its kind. Then, Estevanico drops off the map.”

  “De Niza tried to catch up with him,” said Katarina, demonstrating that she too had been filled in on the fairy tale. “But he came across several members of Estevanico’s party who were bloodied and beaten. They told him that the Moor had been killed at Cibola.”

  “Correct,” said Lazarus. “De Niza dared not enter the city and only saw it from a distance. When he returned to Mexico City, he told what he had seen but mentioned nothing of gold. This did not perturb the Spaniards, who were more convinced than ever that this Cibola and its sister cities must be the golden empire they sought. Another expedition was organized with de Niza as a guide and the governor of Nueva Galicia—a man called Coronado—as its leader.

  “Coronado,” put in Vasquez. “Now there’s a fella I heard tell of.”

  “And with good reason,” said Lazarus. “Not just because you share his name. Francisco Vazquez de Coronado was the fellow who exposed the whole thing as a fraud, however inadvertently. When he and de Niza arrived at Cibola, they found only a meager Zuni pueblo called Hawikuh. With Coronado and his men cursing de Niza as a phony, a battle broke out with the Zuni warriors, and the pueblo fell to the Spaniards.”

  “So Coronado and his pals hadn’t found Cibola, then?” asked Vasquez.

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” said Lazarus. “There is no doubt that they found the city Estevanico had dubbed Cibola, but nobody had ever said anything about it being a city of gold. That was just in the imaginations of the Spaniards. And it was a myth the Zuni and other pueblo peoples were happy to propagate. Soon Coronado was heading out again on instructions given to him by the defeated Zuni, that golden cities lay further north east. He got as far as Kansas before giving up and returning in debt and in disgrace.”

  “So he didn’t find it,” said Vasquez, lighting up a cheroot. “That don’t mean it don’t exist.”

  “Its existence is highly unlikely,” said Lazarus. “This continent has been occupied by white men for over four hundred years. Seven cities made of gold couldn’t have escaped notice for that long.”

  “As you said, opinions are opinions,” said Vasquez. “All I’m saying is I’ve got a map which is yours for the right price.”

  “My mission was to deliver you, not a map,” said Lazarus.

  “Well no dice on that one. It’s the map or a mouthful of dust. You’ll have to make your mind up on that.”

  Chapter Five

  In which a mountain journey ends in betrayal

  They spent the following morning drifting towards the mountains which hove into sight like golden teeth. By noon, Vasquez and Hok’ee were making plans to set the balloon down. Lazarus squinted into the distance, shielding his eyes against the glare. At the foot of the mountains h
e could see the ruins of what looked like an old fort. The wooden palisade had collapsed in places and there seemed to be no life about at all.

  “What’s this place?” Lazarus asked.

  “An old outpost from the early days of the war,” Vasquez replied. “It was once the northernmost airship dock in Arizona Territory, but it’s fallen into disrepair now. We use it occasionally as a hideaway. Most of its various functions still work, and I keep a few supplies stockpiled.”

  They drifted over the base and Vasquez began to inflate the ballonets; balloons within the balloons that were slowly filled with air, compressing the helium which caused the dirigible to slowly sink. When they were a few feet from the dock, Hok’ee leapt overboard to secure the anchor lines.

  Lazarus was glad to feel solid ground beneath his feet, and looked around the abandoned base with interest. The buildings were in a poor state of repair—broken windows and dusty timbers with tangles of dry desert growth in every crack. The rusty carriages for anti-airship batteries were visible beneath the overgrowth, their guns long since towed away. There was a dilapidated telegraph shack, but Lazarus could see no telegraph wires leading away from the fort and assumed that the Confederacy must have used a ground wire.

  “I got weapons stored in a bunker under the main building,” Vasquez said. “We’re running low on helium, too. There’s a store of that over there,” he said, pointing at a storage building that had once supplied the airship docks. “This is as far as the Santa Bella goes, but I want her fitted out for a quick extraction once we’re done.”

  “We’re going on by foot?” Lazarus asked.

  “I ain’t risking her up in the mountains where there’s no flat ground to land on. Hok’ee and I’ll fetch the helium. You two head over to the main building and make yourselves comfortable. We’ll fetch the supplies and eat before setting out.”

  Lazarus and Katarina found the main building swept, tidy and surprisingly well stocked considering the dilapidated state of the base.

  “I wonder if any other bandits use this place,” said Katarina. “It seems too neat to be the sole responsibility of those two.”

  “Well, there are plenty of rogues in these parts,” Lazarus replied as he kindled the stove. “Although Vasquez is the only one I’ve heard of with his own airship. Civilian airships are forbidden. Airspace is for military craft only.”

  “I can’t imagine that man in any sort of military outfit,” she said.

  “Well, he didn’t last long. They gave him the boot years ago.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No. But it cost them one of their dirigibles.”

  Katarina was poking about in cupboards and opening doors to other rooms filled with junk and dust. “I wonder where he keeps his weapons.”

  “He said there was a bunker under the main building.”

  “I don’t see any trap door,” she replied, tracing lines in the dirt with the toe of her boot. “Maybe the entrance is outside.”

  “Why don’t we wait until Vasquez and Hok’ee get back? I don’t see why we need more weapons, anyway. You and I are both armed adequately.”

  “We’re going into the mountains. In Russia, one never goes into the mountains without a good rifle. Too many wolves. And here there are mountain lions, bobcats and other things. Besides, do you trust Vasquez?”

  “Trust him? Not nearly as far as I might throw him.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I want to see what else he’s hiding. Stay here if you want, Englishman.”

  Lazarus sighed and drew an armchair towards the fire as she went out. She was lovely to look at, there was no getting around that. But she was as prickly as an Arizona cactus, and if he trusted Vasquez little, he trusted her less.

  She was back before Vasquez and Hok’ee had returned. “Find anything?” he asked her.

  “There’s a trapdoor out back but it’s padlocked.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought a padlock would stop a woman like you.”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “Only that your dress and corset seem to be the only things that set you apart from the other killers and soldiers of fortune in this world.”

  She seemed offended by that. “I see. You Englishmen like your women in your cozy parlors pouring your tea and keeping your beds warm at night. Anything else frightens you. Tell me, Longman. Are you married?”

  “Married? No, I think that steamer departed long ago for me.”

  “Why do you say that? You can’t be any more than thirty. Or was there a special someone? Someone who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—marry you and now you insist on playing the broken-hearted man of a tragic novel?”

  Lazarus narrowed his eyes at her. “Has anybody ever accused you of being too forward? Or are all Russians like that?”

  She sniffed. “You only despise my forwardness because you secretly wish you could be so yourself. But you’re just too English. Your repressed nature simply won’t let you.”

  Lazarus felt a decidedly uncharacteristic flare of patriotism. “If all Englishmen were as reserved as you seem to believe, then our Empire would surely never have cloaked half the globe.”

  She smiled. “Oh dear, have I offended your honor?”

  He immediately felt foolish. How had this woman ignited a flame of pride for his homeland within him that he had thought long snuffed? He had once been a proud Englishman, but a war in Africa and four years of doing the bureau’s dirty work had sapped his store of patriotism.

  Vasquez poked his head around the door. “Why don’t I smell cooking?” he asked. “You two sure look comfortable, while Hok’ee and I have been doing all the heavy lifting. There’s tins in the cupboard and biscuits somewhere too.”

  Lazarus looked to Katarina. She frowned at him. “Are you honestly expecting me to cook for everybody just because I’m the one in the dress and corset?”

  “Oh, for goodness sake!” said Lazarus, rising. “I’ll get the tins, you find the biscuits. Playing happy families with you isn’t exactly what I signed on for either.”

  When they were done, they made ready to set out. Vasquez produced a key for the bunker and began passing items out to Hok’ee. One was an enormous Jericho Gatling gun which Hok’ee attached to his mechanized elbow. Its six barrels were automatically cranked by some internal switch over which Hok’ee had control. It had its own miniature furnace and boiler which could be powered by a tiny flake of mechanite. The weight of the thing made Lazarus realize that the mechanical implants in his body must be grafted onto his skeleton, and he wondered how much of the bone under the flesh had metal attached to it, to make the weight seem insignificant. In addition, he was even able to toss a couple of bands of ammunition over his shoulder.

  “What on earth is up in those mountains that warrants that kind of firepower?” Lazarus asked.

  “You never know,” Vasquez replied. “Bandits like myself; quite a few of whom hate my guts. Bounty hunters. And the Unionist Partisan Rebels pop up all over this territory. You can never be too careful.”

  They set off into the mountains with Hok’ee guarding their backs and Vasquez leading the way. Great canyons dropped down into the river, and towering sandstones and limestones in varying shades of red and orange that looked to Lazarus like an English layer cake rose up on all sides.

  It was swelteringly hot and there was no shade. Lazarus drank sparingly from the canteen he had filled at the airship base, for he did not know how long this excursion was going to take, nor what would happen once they reached their objective. Would Katarina try to steal the map from him and leave him to die of thirst and heat up here in the mountains? Or would she just shoot him in cold blood? He dreaded every possibility and did not see any favorable outcome of this situation. He would kill her if he had to, but his gut churned at the thought of more blood on his hands.

  “Here we are,” said Vasquez at last.

  This came as a relief to Lazarus, for their leader had shown the occasional sign of confusion at some ma
rker that had been washed away or a bit of land he didn’t remember. He pointed to a small cave entrance high up in the cliff face.

  “You hid it in a cave?” Katarina asked, as if in disbelief that he could have chosen so foolish a spot. “Are you so sure that it hasn’t been discovered? Or washed out by rainwater? Or chewed up by a bobcat?”

  “Have a little faith, darlin’” he replied. “Ain’t no bobcat gonna eat my map, nor rainwater get to it.”

  It was a tough scramble. Twice Lazarus offered his hand to Katarina, only to receive a burning look of resentment in return. They clambered into the cool shade, and Lazarus could have wept at the relief. The cave was deep and fell away into chilled darkness. The ground was soft from the silt that the river had deposited in it untold centuries ago. Vasquez drew a gas lamp from his knapsack and got it going, illuminating the deep shadows and smooth rock formations.

  They walked on slowly, inching forward only as far as the lamp would illuminate. Vasquez held his pistol out, cocked. “There might be a mountain lion and her cubs in here, so stay close and make ready with your firearms,” he cautioned.

  A passageway led off from the tunnel, and Lazarus realized that most of it must have been hollowed out by the hands of natives centuries ago.

  “Stop,” Vasquez commanded. He knelt down and began sweeping the dusty floor with one hand. “Pass me the shovel, Hok’ee.”

  The shovel was passed—a simple folding one instantly recognizable to the military man—and Vasquez began to dig, churning up dirt and loose rubble. He appeared to strike something that brought him immense pleasure, for he flung aside his shovel and began digging with his hands. He eventually removed a tin ammunition box from the ground—rusted, dented and scarred.

  “Let’s see it, then,” said Lazarus.

  Vasquez bundled it under his arm. “Not so keen, limey. Let’s get out of this cave first and into daylight. Then I’ll say what happens next.”

  They made their way out, and Lazarus was just assessing the best way down the cliff face when a shot rang out and flaked off a chunk of rock by his feet with a loud ‘ping!’