Golden Heart (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles)

by P J Thorndyke

  “You sound an awful lot like a Confederate in the old days,” Lazarus commented. “Harping on about independence and freedom. I wonder, does that U.S. flag on your shoulder mean as much to you as it does to Lieutenant Thompson here?” He felt the lieutenant shift uneasily behind him. “He’s quite the dreamer. Sees the United States as the land of freedom, and I’d hazard a wager that he thinks the plan is to ship Vasquez and the map to his friends in Colorado, so the real Union can decide what is to be done with them.”

  “Cibola is in Arizona,” said Townsend. “The map stays here. We have the equipment and the manpower to retrieve it without involving the other states. And I’m sure my lieutenant understands this. Am I right, Lieutenant?”

  “Right... Captain,” said Thompson. Lazarus could hear the uncertainty in his voice and he smiled, seeing a lever with which he might be able to move a mountain.

  “And of course, once you have found Cibola, as loyal partisans to the United States you would immediately ship the gold north using your underground railroad,” Lazarus went on. “How far do you intend the railroad to reach, by the way? Denver? Or into Kansas, perhaps?”

  She eyed him coldly. “Denver is the plan. Besides, the gold must first be found before I decide what is to be done with it.”

  “Before you decide...” Lazarus mused aloud. “A rebel from Arizona. This territory was never part of the United States for long, was it? One has to wonder how deeply your loyalties to the U.S. reach.”

  This seemed to awaken something in Lieutenant Thompson, and he spoke up. “Captain, the gold must be delivered to the United States. Else what are we fighting for?”

  Townsend glared at him. “Let’s leave the interrogations of our prisoners to me, is that alright, Lieutenant?”

  “Looks like your captain is running her own little state here, Thompson,” said Lazarus. “Soon, she’ll be declaring herself governor. Well I’ll tell you something, Thompson. This new railroad you fellows are so busy burrowing isn’t going in the direction of Denver. It’s hard to tell this deep underground, unless you take the time to look at a compass, which I did not long ago. This tunnel doesn’t head North East, but North West. Deeper into the mountains. Your captain has known the direction in which Cibola lies for a while now. All she needed was the map leading her to the gold before she could set herself up as a queen of this territory.”

  Thompson’s lips tightened. He still only half believed Lazarus, that much was clear, but his hand had casually rested on the butt of his pistol, whether consciously or not. “Captain, is this true?” he asked.

  “Lieutenant, you are stepping out of line,” said Captain Townsend. “Leave us. I’ll have somebody else take Mr. Longman back to his cell.”

  “Captain, I need an answer,” said Thompson. “Have you rerouted the railroad without my knowledge?”

  Townsend’s eyes flared and she stood up, planting her fists down on the table.

  “Leave, Lieutenant! That’s an order!”

  Thompson’s palm still rested on the butt of the pistol. Lazarus had hoped that he would have drawn it before Vasquez fulfilled the next part of his plan. It wasn’t perfect, but when the explosion from the cells below shook the room, Lazarus decided that it would have to do.

  As Townsend and Thompson looked about in surprise at the dancing picture frames on the wall and wobbling light while the deafening roar rumbled below them, Lazarus was on his feet. He barreled into Thompson and snatched the revolver from his holster before Captain Townsend had a chance to draw hers. He aimed it at her forehead and marched across the office, grabbing her around the middle and holding the barrel to her temple. Thompson looked on in helpless dismay. Lazarus took his hand from Townsend’s middle long enough to snatch up the helmet in its box from the desk and shove it into his armpit.

  A second explosion roared down the corridor outside, and Lazarus knew that Vasquez and Hok’ee were on the loose. God help anybody who got in their way. With Captain Townsend still his hostage, Lazarus backed out of the office and made his way down the hall, where dust was trickling down from the support beams.

  Out in the station, chaos reigned. Rifles cracked and partisans ran this way and that, seeking cover and looking for weapons. The Worm had been backed out of the tunnel, and now that Lazarus could see it in its entirety, he thought its name apt enough. It was well over a hundred feet long and comprised of several iron ridges connected by a canvas canopy. These ridges moved independently, powered by hydraulic pistons so the whole thing could shuffle back and forth very much like a worm or caterpillar. On its front end was a massive drill mechanism, designed to plough through the rock so that each successive ridge on the Worm’s body could shift forward and support the extra feet of freshly dug tunnel.

  Lazarus could see Vasquez and Hok’ee taking cover on the side nearest to them. Somebody noticed Lazarus and took a shot, missing by several feet.

  “Stop you fools!” cried out Townsend.

  When it became known that their captain was held hostage, there were cries of “hold your fire!” and “He’s got the captain!”

  Lazarus whistled to Vasquez and Hok’ee to join him and, keeping their backs away from any soldiers, they slowly edged towards the tunnel they had come from.

  “There’s no way out, Longman,” said a Russian voice. Katarina and a squad of soldiers had marshaled themselves on the tracks and had their guns trained on them. Lazarus could see the silver glint of her long barrel.

  They began to edge backwards into the tunnel. Katarina and the rebels followed, pace for pace.

  “We can’t walk backwards the whole way,” said Vasquez.

  Lazarus looked up. They were in the tunnel now and carved rock encased them on all sides. “No,” he agreed. “We can’t.” In a sudden move, he hurled Townsend from him and helped her forward with a boot to the posterior. As she stumbled, and Katarina and the soldiers beyond struggled to find their marks, Lazarus called for the Belgian snub. Vasquez tossed it to him and he pointed it at the ceiling of the tunnel. He squeezed the trigger and the ceiling erupted in an explosion of dirt, rubble and dust. It came down in a cascade between the rebels and the escapees, shielding Lazarus and his companions from fire by a wall of debris. They took to their heels and pounded down the tunnel.

  “I hope some of those boulders crushed that bitch,” panted Vasquez as they ran.

  “Which one?” Lazarus asked.

  “Take your pick.”

  The passageway lights soon petered out and they found themselves running in pitch darkness.

  “How are we to find the way out?” Vasquez asked.

  “I’m hoping the exits have gas lamps,” Lazarus replied. “Or perhaps we will be able to see daylight.”

  They ran onwards until they could run no more. The darkness was absolute, and it felt like being underwater and not knowing which way was up. Sweat and dust plastered to them, they walked on, occasionally stumbling over the rails.

  Lazarus felt suddenly cold. The chill underground air made the sweat on his body feel icy. But there was also a breeze and he started in alarm.

  “Wait! There must be an exit somewhere close!”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Vasquez somewhere behind him.

  “Don’t you feel the breeze? That’s desert air coming down a mineshaft. Feel the walls.”

  They spread out, and after much tripping and searching the rough rock, it was Hok’ee who found the passageway that cut upwards to the left. They followed it up and as it turned a corner, they were dazzled by a white rectangle of light up ahead.

  “Thank God,” said Vasquez. “I need to breathe good air and feel the sky over me instead of a mile of rock.”

  They staggered out of the mineshaft onto the desert plains.

  “They must have places like this all over Arizona Territory,” said Vasquez. “I must have been in a couple myself, hiding from the law or bounty hunters and never knew how far down they went.”

  “Well, Vasquez,” said Lazarus. �
��You’ve had a taste of Unionist hospitality. What say you we stop this daft runaround and head to Fort Flagstaff and speak with the true government?”

  “Government my ass,” said Vasquez. “They’ll likely shoot me for desertion. And that’s just the first thing they’ll shoot me for.”

  “But we have the map to Cibola. That has to count for something. With your cooperation and my recommendation, they’ll have to welcome you as an ally. What do you say? I’m not entirely sure where we are, but Fort Flagstaff is the northernmost Confederate outpost. It can’t be more than a day’s walk.”

  “But we have no food or water.”

  “If we find a town, of course we’ll stop, but my guess is Fort Flagstaff is our closest hope in any direction.”

  He was not convinced.

  “Whatever we decide, we’d best get moving,” Lazarus urged. “The rebels will be on our heels and Katarina will not rest until she finds us.”

  “Why should she care? Isn’t her assignment over?”

  “I don’t know how far her orders extend. Her mission may include ensuring that the map remains in Unionist hands until they find Cibola. If that’s the case then she won’t let rock, fire or water stop her from killing us and getting that map back.”

  Chapter Seven

  In which a change of heart is had at five thousand feet

  They wandered across the Colorado Plateau, through endless miles of sparse acacias and ponderosa pines that at least provided occasional shade. Lazarus knew that the forest vanished into desert well before it reached Fort Flagstaff, and grew worried that they would not find any water. They passed the ruins of a pueblo, blackened by fire and half of it blown away, as if by dynamite.

  “Wonder what happened here,” Vasquez commented.

  “Bombed,” said Lazarus. “Bombed from the air like New York and Boston.”

  “This wasn’t a military target,” said Vasquez. “Why bomb pueblos?”

  It made Lazarus intensely uneasy. They were entering a restricted area, although nobody knew why it was off limits.

  Fortunately, they came within sight of a Hualapai village and approached cautiously. They let Hok’ee do the talking as he had some knowledge of their language, and although the Navajo and the people of the plateau had often been at odds in the past, the Hualapai were cautiously welcoming, although initially wary at the sight of his metal attachments. They conversed a great deal and Vasquez did his best to translate to Lazarus, possessing a smattering of tribal languages himself.

  “They’re asking if we’re warriors from the sky,” he said. “Don’t know much what that means, but they seem mighty frightened. They say that fire and death comes from the sky in these parts and has taken many lives.”

  “That probably has something to do with the ruined pueblo we passed,” Lazarus said.

  “Apparently many Hualapai have been pushed from their lands and many more killed,” said Vasquez.

  Once it was determined that they were not enemies from the sky, the Hualapai gave them food and water before wishing them well on their journey.

  The desert consumed them. Lazarus and Vasquez sweated profusely under their hats and Lazarus marveled at Hok’ee who walked ahead of them, nothing on his head but his shining black hair and not a bead of sweat on his forehead.

  As they neared Fort Flagstaff, a dirigible hove into view. The Confederate flag was emblazoned on its side and armed troops could be seen on its deck. It descended and threw out rope ladders, which the soldiers used to alight.

  “This is a restricted area. What’s your business here?” asked the ship’s captain through his curling whiskers.

  “I am an agent of the British Empire,” said Lazarus. “We have something for the eyes of whoever is in charge at Fort Flagstaff.”

  The captain looked them over, not liking what he saw one bit. He took them on board, either as prisoners or passengers—they weren’t sure—and they took off, ploughing through the air in a southerly direction.

  A great bulge appeared in the mist. Rising up out of the desert dust was the biggest airship Lazarus had ever seen. It had a deck the size of several British destroyers welded together and had not one balloon, but several, clustered like swollen hemorrhoids. On the side of the largest was the Confederate flag, and beneath it in white block letters was written; ‘Fort Flagstaff II’. Lazarus began to understand why the Hualapai lived in fear.

  “What in the hell is that?” asked Vasquez, his eyes wide.

  “This here is Fort Flagstaff on the move,” the captain answered. “It’s the Confederate navy’s greatest achievement. With five of these we could level the Union and win the war for good and all.”

  They descended into the shadow of the colossal balloons and on the deck below, Lazarus could make out several other dirigibles in dry docks, their balloons deflated. There were Interceptors like the Santa Bella and also other, larger craft. He realized then that this was more than just a dirigible. It was a dirigible carrier. They landed and clambered down onto the wooden deck. The captain sent somebody to fetch the general while he oversaw the securing of his vessel.

  A large man whose uniform had a white collar with three gold stars and a wreath on it marched over to them, flanked by several soldiers. He had wide side whiskers only touched with . “Gerard Vasquez,” the general exclaimed. “My lucky day.”

  Vasquez’s eyes blazed. “Reynolds! So those crazy bastards put you in charge of this airborne asylum. If my hands weren’t manacled, I’d choke the life out of you.”

  Hok’ee suddenly lurched forward in a furious burst of rage, and nearly reached the General before he was clubbed down by four soldiers. He cursed in Navajo and they continued beating him until he barely had his senses left.

  “General,” said Lazarus, stepping forward, alarmed by the vitriolic reaction of his companions. “My name is Lazarus Longman, agent of the British Empire. I believe you have been in contact with my associate, Morton.”

  “Yes sir, I have indeed. We were expecting you many days ago.”

  “There have been some unfortunate diversions from the original plan, but here they are and here is the map.” He held the iron box out.

  “Limey, if you give the map to this man, I’ll shoot you myself,” said Vasquez.

  Lazarus hesitated and then handed it over.

  General Reynolds opened the box and looked inside. He smiled. “Let’s adjourn to my office,” he said. “It’s mighty chilly out here on deck. Captain, escort the prisoners to the brig.”

  “General, these men have come here of their own free will to aid you,” said Lazarus.

  “Your mission was to deliver them to me,” said the general. “They are dangerous criminals; one a deserter and the other an escaped prisoner.”

  “I gave them my word that I would vouch for them, Sir.”

  “Then you’re a fool, begging your pardon. These men will shoot you in the back first chance they get. Now get them out of here!”

  “General, I must insist,” said Lazarus, wilting under Vasquez’s stare as he and Hok’ee were hauled away, under arrest for the second time in the same number of days. “These men have been the very word of cooperation in coming here.”

  “Insist? On my air-fortress? You’ve done your duty, Mr. Longman. Let me handle things from here.”

  Lazarus threw Vasquez an apologetic look and tried to reassure him that everything would be fine. But Vasquez’s eyes were outmatched only by the piercing stare of Hok’ee, who seemed to be able to tear holes through him with those black pupils. Lazarus was consumed by an awful feeling of betrayal as he followed General Reynolds to his office.

  They passed a platform in the deck that was being raised amid a fug of vapor. On it stood six mechanicals; highly polished, highly equipped war machines painted with Confederate colors. These were no rust-streaked tin cans like the Mecha-guard onboard the Mary Sue. This was the new face of war; clean, ruthless and efficient.

  “As you can see,” said Reynolds standing proudly
with his gloved hands behind his back as they watched the mechanicals, “we are equipped to deal with anything that might stand in the way of our pursuit of the golden cities.”

  “Do you really believe they exist?” Lazarus asked him.

  The general looked at him askance. “Got the map here, don’t we?”

  “It just seems a little unlikely, that’s all, General.”

  “Plenty of treasures have been turned up on this continent and the one south of Mexico. The Spaniards got the Aztec and Inca empires. Now it’s our turn to reap this land’s wealth that will bring us to further greatness.”

  “The Aztecs and Incas fell centuries ago,” said Lazarus. “This land may have precious few secrets left.”

  “Nonsense,” the general snapped. “White man has barely begun to reap the rewards of this land. The Southern states cannot afford to be shut off from all possibility of expansion by the hostile action of the federal government. We already own Mexico. And we shall push further—south as well as north—have no doubt about that. The tropics are still more or less uncharted. Do you know how much wealth might still be down there, undiscovered by the Spaniards, hidden by steaming jungles and brainless savages? No no, Mr. Longman, we are far from finished with this harvest.”

  General Reynolds’ office was decked out in green velvet with a wide mahogany desk, a fireplace and two studded leather armchairs.

  “Now then,” said the general as he poured them both some cognac from a decanter. “Let’s hear about these adventures you’ve been having. I received reports that the train from Yuma came into station with two carriages running with blood, and the post office and horse cars cut loose and drifting in the desert. You’ve got some explaining to do, young man.”

  The General’s reprimand was jovial. He threw himself down into one of the armchairs and indicated to Lazarus to do the same.