by David Luchuk
Despite the obvious danger to himself and his crew posed by having Major Anderson on board, Dr. Lowe spoke with complete authority. It made me proud to hear his stout conviction in the face of the monstrous vigilante standing in front of us.
“The Protocol will not be used in that way.”
“You do not have to do the killing, Doctor. You only need to stay out of my way.”
“I will do neither.”
Dr. Lowe sent a series of emergency orders that brought his airship down. We descended so fast that the ocean surface rushing toward us made me feel nauseous. The flotilla of slave ships came into view on the choppy Atlantic waters. It was surrounded by Union vessels commanded by newly appointed General McClellan.
President Lincoln’s plan to lead the boats inland and ship the slaves by canal was progressing smoothly. From our height, we could see further out to sea than McClellan. The Cumberland was rounding into position. Anderson’s renegade warship was taking aim. So was a short range bomber that launched from Cumberland’s port. Both were targeting the flotilla.
Anderson had hedged his bets. In the event Dr. Lowe refused to cooperate, he planned to attack the flotilla from two directions at once. The Protocol would be helpless to intervene.
There were two things Major Anderson did not anticipate. First, he did not think Dr. Lowe’s mind was nimble enough to improvise a geometric miracle. Second, Anderson did not imagine we would sacrifice ourselves to save a few boatloads of fever infected slaves.
Dr. Lowe positioned us inside the Cumberland’s firing trajectory. Always holding that critical angle, he and the Protocol navigators then shifted the array so that modules swung under the bomber’s drop zone as well. It was a complicated dance. I watched in awe as they made minuscule adjustments based on split second calculations. Hundreds of lives hung in the balance below. They held the Protocol in the line of fire. Major Anderson seemed amused. He did not act like his plan had been thwarted.
“Do you really think my troops will spare your ship? They are on orders to blow you out of the sky.”
“I do not doubt it, Major. However, the real question is this: do you think your army of deserters will sacrifice your life just to follow your orders? They would not dare kill you. They have invested every hope in you. Watch, gentlemen. We are going to learn something about the mentality of a turncoat today.”
“Are you willing to risk your life on this theory?”
“Yes.”
I doubt my response would have rung as true. We waited. After a time, soldiers on the Cumberland and pilots in the bomber accepted that they could not outmaneuver us. They had to shoot us down. To follow Anderson’s orders, they would have to kill him. The recruits did what Dr. Lowe expected. Nothing happened. It was a stalemate.
If Anderson was angry, his impairments prevented it from showing. He stood by as the minutes passed and the flotilla ferried toward the canals for the journey north. The final ships lined up in the canal bays. The Union navy had its hands full.
At that point, with the entire Union force occupied, a pair of boats from the slave flotilla broke away without warning. They moved fast, headed north along the coast.
“There it is. Robert. Dr. Lowe. You have done your country a great disservice today. Those boats are headed to New York City.”
We did not understand. Only Anderson saw the complete sweep of events in real time. He disembarked. We were not equipped to seize or hold him. As we watched his airship depart, I turned over what he said about an attack against New York. It was likely to be true. The flotilla was a trap. I floated in my harness, feeling pathetic and helpless.
“What should we do, Dr. Lowe?”
“We had better retrieve your father and get to Manhattan, wouldn’t you say? On the way, I have a notion of how we might put that switchbox of yours to use.”
* * *
Kate Warne, Detective
December, 1861
Nate Drysdale told me a worrisome story. The night he tried to kill me at the bank, he followed me back to my Wilmington apartment and admitted to murdering his best friend, George Gordon. He said it happened in a dream. That is how it seemed to him. The murder took place while he was asleep.
My first impulse was to suspect him of lying. Good liars first convince themselves that their tales are true. After that, convincing other people becomes easy. Nate Drysdale did not give the impression of being a good liar. For one thing, he was barely able to stay awake. For another, he was distraught. Most liars get so caught up in their story that they forget to be upset about its abhorrent details. Drysdale faced the ghastly truth of what he did without trying to gloss it over.
I believed him. I found it plausible that he was sleepwalking when he murdered the bank teller. It was consistent with everything I had witnessed at his estate. Once I accepted that notion, the rest was easier to understand.
I asked Drysdale what could have compelled him to crush his best friend’s skull? His answer was outlandish but, reflecting on my brief time in Wilmington, I found it credible right away.
Drysdale and George Gordon became friends as young men. They were junior members of the Chamber of Commerce. They dined together at the investors’ club. Their ambitions were the same. Both wanted to blend fortune with civic achievement. Drysdale and Gordon dreamed of having boulevards named after them when they died. It was impossible for young men with those kinds of hopes to avoid the politics of the day. Progressives that they were, the topic of slavery became a recurring point of discussion between them.
Drysdale was master of his family estate. He kept a small staff of slaves. They were holdovers from his parents’ lifetime. If he thought they might enjoy a better fate as free blacks in the south, he would have sent them away.
Gordon, on the other hand, lived under his father’s roof and rules. On their property, a large contingent of slaves labored hard. As George grew into his own man, these conditions became intolerable to him.
Before long, the friends became convinced that the practice of slavery was holding southerners back. If they were going to meet the challenges of the modern world, the south had no choice but to abandon slavery. Spreading abolitionist pamphlets was George’s idea. He knew that the material would create a stir. That is what he wanted most. George Gordon believed that, given enough talk, everyone would come to see things the same as him.
The pamphlets made people angry, especially George’s father. That was the point. George hoped that anger would lead to a moral breakthrough. It did not. People were angry. They stayed angry. That was all.
After a time, George Gordon became a social pariah in Wilmington. His father allowed him to work at the bank but the pair barely spoke. The only person other than Drysdale who was willing to talk to him about politics in the south was a radical agitator, the kind of man who did not dine at the investors’ club. This was not the sort of person who would help George get his name on any street signs. Nevertheless, George responded to letters and agreed to meet him. Drysdale did not know any specifics. It became too crazy for him at that point.
When George came back to Wilmington from this meeting in Shreveport, he was very excited. George said that the man had shown him letters from a sailor based in New York trying to ruin the good name of a hotel owner who was sleeping with his wife. The letters claimed this hotelier was part of a scheme to bribe Union pollsters and buy a seat in Congress.
The tale was little more than speculation derived from the cryptic letters of a cuckolded husband. George believed they outlined a Confederate plan to infiltrate the Union government. He thought he’d uncovered a dangerous secret.
Drysdale believed it was nonsense an
d tried to tell George as much. It was no use. George brought the story to his father and threatened to take it to the press. Mr. Gordon was furious. The crusty old banker blamed Drysdale for turning his son into a radical and even went so far as to call in Drysdale’s debts to coral them both. It did not work. George was undeterred. According to Drysdale, that was when everything changed.
The following excerpt will be retained as evidence. Sound recordings have served as a substitute case file since I came to Wilmington. I intend to submit this conversation as official testimony should we ever lay charges for the murder of George Gordon.
“The first change came among my slaves. One morning, out of nowhere, there were more of them. The little girl you met was one of the new ones.”
“What did you do?”
“What could I do? I made inquiries. It seemed an odd thing to discuss with police so I asked around the slave quarters. My usual slaves were afraid. They knew something was happening but did not feel they could help me.”
“Maybe they did not want to help you.”
“Perhaps. I never learned where the new slaves came from. It was around that time I started having trouble at night. I slept but never rested. I was sleepwalking for the first time in my life.”
“When you woke, could you remember your actions from the night before?”
“Not once the deep exhaustion got its hooks in me. No.”
“I know that feeling.”
“Yes. They targeted you as well.”
“As well as who?”
“George. He was being a fool. They killed George to make him stop.”
“Why bother, if he was such a fool?”
“Maybe he uncovered a secret after all. Maybe that’s why they brought the fever to Wilmington, too.”
“Who are they?”
“That woman. The one you call my wife. She was one of them.”
“Collette.”
“If you say so. She turned up one morning just like the new slaves. That was when I went to police. It was too late. The city was in a panic. No one wanted to help me.”
“What about George’s father? He wanted the killers to be punished. He even called the Pinkertons.”
“You think he needed the Pinkertons to solve George’s murder?”
“Why else?”
“He gave George to them. He is part of this whole thing.”
“Mr. Drysdale, there are limits to what I will accept on your word alone.”
“George’s father got infected with the fever on purpose. He tried to sacrifice himself to save his boy. The others wanted George. They insisted.”
“To stop him from spreading the rumor?”
“And the pamphlets. And all of it. George’s father agreed. He gave them one condition. If George had to die, he wanted them to spill Union blood as well.”
“That is why they called for the Pinkertons.”
“Yes. Whichever detective they sent down was fine.”
“No. If Gordon or Bannan wanted to kill me they had ample opportunity.”
“Not them. Not that way. I was supposed to kill you. It was part of the ritual. I killed George with the hammer. The same was in store for you.”
“I remember having a hallucination at the bank when you attacked me.”
“Think about what happened. George’s clothes? The bank records? Your friendship with Collette?”
“It brought me into contact with you.”
“Yes.”
“Each day I became weaker.”
“Yes.”
“If not for my tent shield at the bank.”
“You would be dead.”
“I would be dead.”
“What are we going to do?”
The rest of the audio record is useless. Drysdale succumbed to a fit of despair. I made an effort to calm him but we were both so tired. I lacked the patience and he lacked the stamina to contain his outbursts. Without realizing my mistake, I encouraged Drysdale to lie down. He drifted to sleep. I tried to concentrate.
As I tried to formulate a plan to get us both out of Wilmington, Drysdale’s head lifted from the sofa. The pupils of his eyes, one dilated and the other contracted, told me everything I needed to know. I did not wait for the sleepwalker to attack. I used the clapper to knock him down. Blows to the legs, chest and head made certain he stayed there. I took no chances.
Part of me felt guilty. It was not Drysdale’s fault. He could not control what he became in his sleep. I looked at his body on the floor. Blood pooled next to his head. Maybe I was too aggressive.
Drysdale’s body began to tremble and I thought he was going to get to his feet again. I raised the clapper but soon realized he was not the only thing shaking. The whole room was lifting under my feet.
I fell back against the desk. The clapper split it in half when my arm swung back. Through the window, I saw Wilmington harbor pitch and roll. My apartment was being lifted from the outside.
I heard a crowd gather on the street. Voices were united, chanting. This chorus was interrupted. A man barked orders, trying to impose his authority. Throughout the exchange, my apartment lifted further. The confrontation led to violence. These things always do.
Gunfire echoed. There was a short volley. My apartment jerked to a halt then dropped. A long exchange of rifle fire followed. Something fell on the roof with a thud. I heard footsteps overhead, first one set then two. They drew gunfire toward the apartment. I rose to my feet and lifted the clapper. Whatever was out there, I expected it inside before long.
A hole in the ceiling peeled open like a can. A soldier jumped down. He landed beside me at arm’s length. His eye was drawn to Drysdale on the floor. I knocked the wind out of him with the clapper. Another man followed. He was shirtless, wearing a melee gauntlet over one arm. It was Ernie Stark.
I would not have been more surprised if George Gordon himself rose from the grave and jumped through that hole. Stark made some quip about being my husband. I nearly struck him down just to wipe the smirk off his face.
Gunmen outside could not penetrate the apartment. The firing stopped. Rather than try to shoot us from a distance, they reverted to the initial plan. My apartment jostled. We rose again, as before.
I guessed what brought Stark to Wilmington. Robert must have sent him.
The scars across his chest were more of a mystery. Something wicked had happened to Stark in the distant past. I decided not to ask. I did not particularly care.
The soldier who jumped down before Stark regained his senses on the floor. He rolled over, holding is head. I noticed pock marks on his face.
“Do you recognize that man?” Stark asked.
“From the checkpoint.”
“Corporal Harris. He is one of Anderson's recruits. Pulling you out of this morass is his entry to the Anderson militia, if you can imagine.”
“What does Anderson care about George Gordon’s murder?”
“Not a lick.”
Stark and I needed to get our facts straight. He told me what he learned from Harris. I told him what I learned from Drysdale. Together, we managed a rough approximation of what was about to happen.
My apartment would be loaded onto a barge along with containers full of slaves. We would be rounded up in the Union blockade then travel north by canal. President Lincoln wished to welcome slaves, rescued in his blockade, to a life of freedom. Instead, he was going to usher an epidemic of yellow fever into the capital. I was to be the hoodoo’s ritual sacrifice, a Union spy murdered by an entranced abolitionist to appease some blood thirsty spirit or other.
We could not allow the fever to hit Washington. To my surprise, Stark raised no object
ion when I suggested we allow my apartment to be transferred into the canal. I thought he might prefer us to break free and take our chances outside.
“I came this far.”
“Then it is agreed. We wait for the barges to assemble in formation down in the canal. Then we destroy this convoy.”
“Don’t be crazy. I am only here for Ray.”
“If yellow fever breaks out in the capital, the Union will be crippled.”
“People will get sick. Some will die. I did not come to stop a fever. Neither did Webster.”
“Webster? What are you talking about?”
We argued for some time. There was no reasoning with Stark. Corporal Harris sat up. He must have thought we were husband and wife after all.
To my surprise, Harris was more eager to help than my fellow Pinkerton. I cannot say what motivates a man to want to join Anderson’s militia. I might have guessed cowardice before encountering Harris. Whatever he was, it was not a coward.
“Let him go. Your man, Stark, ain’t gonna help us.”
“Us?”
“Sure, Miss Detective. I got an idea how to break up the barges. Major Anderson don’t wanna see this convoy reach Washington any more than you.”
“How do we stop the barges?”
“With that sound device yer’ using. I seen ‘em before. Anderson uses the same kind. The sound runs both ways on those things. If we get up to the lead transport, we can send a message forward.”
“What good will that do?”
“Anderson’s people will be listening. Tell ‘em where we’re at. He’s got firepower. Could knock out the canal ahead of the barges.”
“Alright Corporal. How do we get to the lead transport?”
“You still got that stick you hit me with?”
“Yes.”
“Figure that’ll do it.”
My apartment was mounted into a barge. The hole in our roof was covered by the rounded shell of a canal transport. We could tell when that barge entered the channel because the bobbing on open water was replaced by a steady surge inside the sealed tube. Before parting ways, Stark tore open the walls of three containers ahead of us. It was a kind of head start. I did not think there would be many more before the lead transport.
