by David Luchuk
Stark headed in the other direction. He was going back to the slave barracks. Once he broke open the wall on his side of my apartment, afflicted slaves as well as all the bugs and pestilence from Shreveport and Wilmington combined would pour between.
Fighting slaves did not worry me. I was less sure how to keep from catching the fever. Again, it was Harris who provided an idea. He observed that neither me in my apartment nor Drysdale at his estate had gotten sick. It was the candles. That awful incense smell would keep the filthy bugs and disease away from us.
Stark held a lit candle in one hand, leaving him free to swing the melee gauntlet. Harris carried a candle for us. I needed both hands to break walls with the clapper. Harris climbed through the opening ahead. I signaled for Stark to open the wall behind.
He peeled it away. A smell of unclean bodies flooded the room. We could hear moans in the darkness beyond. Stark paused and let his head hang low for a moment before peering into the black void. I think he was afraid.
“Tell Robert,” he said.
Stark chewed on his words for a moment then made a gruff sort of noise in his throat and left it alone. I can imagine what he wanted me to say to Robert if I ever saw him again. Stark ducked through the wall. He was a stubborn ass right to the end.
Harris and I have made slow progress since. There are more barges on the front end than we expected. The candle provides our only source of light.
Harris’ plan is not going to work. Major Anderson will not be able to knock out the canal route ahead of these barges. The convoy has made too much progress. The barges must be close to Washington by now. That leaves only one option. He must destroy the vessels.
Corporal, we have reached the end. Bring the light forward. There is a hatch on this wall. It will take us to the lead transport. Bring the candle.
Corporal! You bloody stupid man. Is there not enough at stake? What good is a soldier if he can’t even be counted on to help break things?
There. I am through. It is even darker up here. Corporal, follow my voice. Are you still behind me?
Mercy, I hear them. They are coming.
I am installing the transmitter. There is so little time.
Can anyone hear me? This is Kate Warne. Acknowledge. I am transmitting from the Potomac canal. We are en route to Washington. You must destroy these vessels. Acknowledge, damn you!
I am Kate Warne. Whoever is listening: destroy these vessels!
No reply. We have done what we can.
Corporal? Is that you?
God in heaven! Get back. Don’t come any closer!
* * *
Robert Pinkerton
December, 1861
Dr. Lowe set the Protocol on a course for Washington. We hoped to find Papa at the White House, expecting that President Lincoln would bring his advisors in close once the trouble started. After our encounter with Major Anderson, the professor and I certainly expected there to be trouble.
Anderson had taken the Cumberland and its bomber north to follow breakaway ships from the slave flotilla. He said they were destined for New York. Dr. Lowe was mortified that Anderson lied to him. He wanted my father’s advice before making another decision that might threaten the country or the war effort. That suited me. I could not think about what was destined for New York until we knew Papa was safe.
The Protocol advanced up the coast. We veered over the mainland once we reached the dead zone that remained at Chesapeake Bay. Flying over that desolate crater, I thought of Kate and hoped she was having better luck than me.
The Potomac River led us through Virginia then cut north into Maryland. We encountered no resistance from Confederate forces. We saw training grounds around the rebel capital at Richmond. There were units on patrol, standard exercises. Nothing suggested the Confederate army was aware of the mischief at hand. Whoever created that flotilla of slave ships and planned the attack against New York City was not part of the military.
Like Dr. Lowe, I wanted to talk to my father. First, we had to find him.
The canal system connected to the Potomac River where the waterway moved up toward Washington. General McClellan’s forces gathered along the canal route as planned. The size of their ranks swelled the closer we got to the capital. This military presence peaked where the Potomac split, east and west, framing the southern tip of Washington. This was where the canal ports were located. Slaves from the flotilla were already disembarking from their barges by the time we flew overhead.
It was bedlam. Eager abolitionist politicians, along with their families, were dressed as though waiting to receive foreign diplomats. They stood on a platform overlooking the canal port. Bunting and Union flags swayed. These dignitaries were treated to a full view as the first waves of fever infected slaves tumbled off the barges.
At first, the politicians stood and cheered. Their applause stopped as soon as slaves started vomiting black blood onto saluting soldiers. Many of the slaves dropped. Others flailed and ran in random directions. They knocked soldiers down, tumbled into civilians and created a general panic. This initial wave was followed by another. Slaves greatly outnumbered the soldiers. Nervous recruits, straight from General McClellan’s training, held rifles tight. Once the first shot was fired, the scene turned into a free for all.
In the chaos, a pair of men caught my eye. They seemed the only ones moving with real purpose. They cut through the scene, away from the ghoulish mob, like a shot. One was white. He dragged the other, a slave from the barges, by the neck. The white man was shirtless, scarred all over. He pulled the slave in one hand with a melee gauntlet. Could that have been Stark?
The mob washed over. I lost sight of them.
The Protocol cruised past the canal port. Dr. Lowe did not intend to stop. There was nothing he could do. We approached the White House instead. Troops circled the building. The President was locked down.
Dr. Lowe brought us in close. He could not land so opted to hover above the carriageway in plain view of the main entrance. Some of McClellan’s trainees broke formation at the mere sight of us. It was not an encouraging sign for the revamped army.
My father stepped out of the White House. He walked onto the lawn and waved up at our airship. I felt such a relief. The sight of him brought back memories of being a child, seeing him after weeks away on a case. An unnamed dread was lifted.
Lafayette Baker followed behind. That was a less happy sight.
The professor dispatched a craft to collect Papa. I was resigned to the fact that Baker would come on board as well. Dr. Lowe’s voice crackled from the control module.
“Rumors out of New York. A fire is spreading. Some say, out of control. The President wants your father and the Security Chief to look into it.”
“Do you plan to tell Lincoln about your visitor?”
“Of course. I will advise your father and then perhaps Baker once they board. The President will be briefed on our return from New York.”
“Are you sure you want to tell Baker?”
“This is no time for cheek, Robert.”
“I was only asking.”
“I will send your father to the aeronautics lab to see you.”
“Aeronautics?”
Protocol engineers were having trouble with my switchbox. Dr. Lowe aimed to attach it to his new weapon system, which was extremely difficult to control. None of his navigators could maneuver it reliably in the air.
The weapon itself was a single pilot flyer. It was flat and round with a hull made of tightly interlaced steel, like a metal fabric. Two layers of this material were fused, one on top of the other, to create a disc shaped body. The aircraft was light. The hull was malleable but strong.
It was devised to launch on a runway of steam that extended from the Protocol. In all of Dr. Lowe’s tests to that point, the flyer had to remain on the platform of air because the controls were so sensitive. His pilots could not master it. The cockpit was housed at the center of a single round wing. From that position, it was hard to respond fast enough to sudden changes in pitch and trajectory. Dr. Lowe and I agreed that the switchbox might help.
His engineers did not understand how to set the device for a new set of calculations based on the unique design of the flyer. They wanted to know how to talk to the switchbox. I was happy to show them.
The Protocol set a course for New York. We were going to see about this fire.
* * *
My name is Allan Pinkerton. It is the 8th of December, 1861.
“Yes, Pinkerton. We covered that.”
What else is there to say, Baker? You know as much as I do now. Soldiers are deserting both sides of this war. They barter secrets down in the canals. If the information proves useful, the recruits earn a post in Anderson’s militia. That is how he knew the slave ships were a trap. That is how he foresaw the attack against New York.
I should have asked his advice on how to be a spy. If I had done so, I would never have sent Kate Warne to Wilmington. I would not have tried to blackmail an honorable man by using family shame as leverage.
“You would be tied to this chair just the same. Make no mistake. You and Dr. Lowe conferred in secret with Major Anderson. You hid crucial information from the President, burned the evidence. You can sneer at me, Pinkerton, but I did not betray the Union. You did.”
So be it. I am a traitor. Is that what you want me to say? Robert is gone. It is over.
“Yes. His aircraft slid off the end of the steam platform. I cannot see him.”
He is dead.
“Or burning in agony.”
Damn you, Baker! Is nothing sacred?
“My oath to the President.”
May it serve you well in hell. That is where you are headed.
“As you said, so be it.”
Robert will not even have a proper funeral. His body is sure to be lost.
Is that gunfire? Baker! Are you executing prisoners?
“Of course not. Lowe’s crew must be trying to reclaim the ship. Do not be alarmed. My men will restore order.”
Not those men, I hope. Are they yours? Do something, Baker. Help them. That one is scratching at a bullet wound in his neck. The other is holding pieces of his stomach under his shirt. Is this what you call order?
“Be quiet, Pinkerton.”
Someone is emerging from behind your fallen men. Good heavens. Kennedy! Is that you? I think you killed those two.
“Yes, Detective. I suspect so. Hello again, Mr. Baker. Your officers are not made of terribly stern stuff. They would not last long on my police force.”
“Those men are federal agents!”
“You are in New York City now, Mr. Baker. You need to do better if you hope to impress me.”
How did you escape? Wait. Never mind about that. Just help me out of this chair.
Blast! Stop it. Kennedy, I insist you stop this minute. There is no time for you to wring Baker’s neck. You can have your petty revenge later, if you must.
Kennedy. What do you think you are doing?
“I am going to kill this man.”
Stand down. Release him, I say. Get a hold of yourself. Put that infernal device away. Baker was base enough to use it on a hog. There is no reason for you to use it against him. You have beaten him down, Kennedy. He is helpless. Take that hose out of his throat. Desist!
“Would he do any different? If I did not answer his questions, would Lafayette Baker have treated me any better than that pig?”
You are above this, Kennedy.
“No, Pinkerton. I am not.”
Think of your honor. Think of your wife.
“You should be on my side, Pinkerton. Your son is dead. So is mine. My unborn son. Neither you nor I were given the chance to save our boys. Because of him.”
Stop this. Untie Baker from that contraption. This is too far. He is quaking on the floor. Have some mercy.
Ach!
“I think the hog held together longer than he did.”
What have you done, Kennedy?
“Absolutely nothing. How many people perished today? How many thousands? The city is lost. In the face of that, what did I do here? Nothing at all.”
Do not rationalize to me. That is murder! Take your hands off me. Get away.
“Calm yourself. You are free. Now we can watch my city fall in peace.”
You watch. There may yet be some hope. You did not kill Dr. Lowe, did you?
“I am here, Allan. The Superintendent set me loose.”
Where are you?
“Please speak into the transmitter, Allan.”
Where are you?
“Returning to the control module. Once there, we will reconnect with Robert.”
Robert is dead. His flyer slid of the edge of the steam platform.
“Yes, I saw.”
He is dead.
“You sentimental old man. Of course he’s not dead. We always planned for him to coast beyond the platform.”
I scoured the skyline, Thaddeus. He is not out there.
“He is cresting just above the fire. His flyer makes rather small movements with its woven hull. It can maneuver on columns of heat so long as a pilot is quick at the controls. Sadly, the system is sensitive. Few can fly it.”
Robert can?
“Lord, no. But his device can.”
The counting machine?
“Yes. Scan low above the crown of the blaze. He should be flitting along. The flyer moves like a scrap of paper caught in the breeze.”
I see him!
“I am almost at the control module. My sightline will be broken for the next few moments. Keep talking. Tell me what you see.”
He is moving as you described. The flyer is skittering over the blaze. It hits the occasional hot burst and climbs higher. Then it drops low again, bobbing ahead.
You told me Robert was helping you calculate the location of furnaces feeding this fire. I assume you know where to find them now.
“No.”
What do you mean?
“It was impossible, Allan. There were too many unknowns. That fool Anderson wasted his entire arsenal trying to shoot out the furnaces. He accomplished nothing.”
Where is Robert going then?
“To the canal port. New York City is a hub on the network. Pressurized water in the sealed channel flows into the city. The flyer is a weapon, Allan, not a crepe.”
I see the port. It is on the East River across from Williamsburg. Robert is holding the flyer steady over that spot. He seems to be lining it up, targeting some part of the port. I did not see any weapons on that aircraft, Thaddeus. What does he hope to fire?
“The aircraft is the weapon, Allan.”
I might have guessed. Something is happening. The flyer is spinning faster.
“The hull will expand now. It will get thinner and use its own momentum to harden the outer shell.”
It is tilting toward the port at a sharp angle. What is he doing?
“Robert is using his counting device to aim.”
Aim at what? Mercy! The flyer has plunged into the canal channel. It hit ground like a hatchet coming down on a butcher’s block.
“If luck is with us, the hull will drive deep into the canal port.”
The flyer is swelling like a balloon filling with air.
“Steam chambers are engaged. Good. T
hey will fill the space between both halves of the hull.”
The aircraft looks as hard and round as a billiard ball now. It is many times its initial size. Only a small portion of the sphere is visible above the ground. It is turning the earth over like a till. Nearby buildings are falling over. Port installations tip into the river. Still, the flyer expands. Spurts of water from the canal are pushing through. They are bursting past the steel sphere in jets. An enormous amount of pressure must be building.
“This is what Robert believed would happen. Pressure from the channel will continue to build.”
An explosion. The shoreline has been obliterated. A column of water is surging out of the channel. The canal port is gone. Robert’s flyer has been launched like a cannon shot. Water has arced up from the crater left behind. The huge wave gets wider as it stretches over the city grid.
“We cannot save the whole city, Allan. However, that crater will pump enough water to salvage some of it. Pressure inside the canal is doing the work for us.”
Robert is in a freefall. The sphere is deflating fast.
“He will need to bring it under control in a hurry.”
His life depends on that counting device. He wagered everything on it. I was wrong to say a person cannot feel betrayed by a machine. It is madness but, should my son crash into the burning city, I will feel betrayed.
The two halves of the flyer are flattening again. The woven hull is coming back together. Robert’s descent is slowing. The one round wing is fluttering like a flag in the wind. It catches hold of rising heat. The flyer is motionless. Is it stalled? No. It falls then catches another gust. He is climbing again, Thaddeus! The flyer is fluttering back to the Protocol. Is the platform extended?
“Yes.”
I see. He is settling onto it. The flyer is spinning on the drawbridge.
“I will send a module around to collect you, Allan. I trust you will want to see your son as soon as he docks.”
