The Last American Wizard

by Edward Irving

  “No. I’m multitasking. Neither your conversation nor these hopped-up Atari sprites requires my complete attention.” The voice broke off. “Goddamn it! They’re coming in through the netsukuku! I thought we had that damn breadboarded piece of crap nailed down!” There was a pause, and then Barnaby continued in a much calmer voice. “I am sorry. Private Howard, please continue.”

  Ace added, “You were detailing the nature of your crime, I believe.”

  “Ah.” The ghost looked ashamed. “Well, the husband and wife were engaged in conjugal relations above the covers at the time and the neighbors were watching.”

  “I’d think that was the neighbors’ fault, not yours,” Steve said. “Bunch of peeping Toms.”

  Old Howard shook his head. “No, I’d opened the shutters and tipped the bed up a bit so Mr. De Neal could get a better look. The Bonehart family–that was their name–moved out the next day. Said they couldn’t bear to encounter Mr. De Neal on the sidewalk or at the market.” The apparition sighed deeply. “Then there were the incidents with the young ladies–undressing them while they were sleeping and all. I couldn’t argue with the verdict when all was said and done.”

  “It doesn’t sound like anything I wouldn’t do, given the chance. What do you think, Ace?”

  The scowl from the driver’s seat was so cold that Steve could feel his testicles heading for cover. He gulped and made a decision. “Well, I’m tired of being outnumbered. I say we give you a lift.”

  Old Howard looked puzzled. “Outnumbered? But she’s only one woman–at worst, it’s an even battle.”

  Steve looked at him with frank disbelief. “What tombstone have you been under? The Master Chief could have taken the Halls of Montezuma all by herself. Get in; I need all the help I can get. Oh, wait. Is that OK with you, Hans?”

  Sind seine Schuhe sauber?

  Steve looked down at the smartphone

  IS CLEANING HIS SHOES?

  Steve looked out at Old Howard’s worn but immaculate brown shoes and wrapped puttees. “At a guess, I’d say his are a lot cleaner than mine.”

  The engine made a sound that could only have been transcribed as “Humph.” Steve said, “I’ll take that for a ‘yes.’ Climb in, old-timer. Where are you going, anyway?”

  “Jenkins Hill.” The ghost settled into the back seat. “Oh, I guess you’d know it as Capitol Hill. I’m on my way back from Bloody Run. The Commodore was out for his duel and I generally attend as his third.”

  Steve asked. “OK, I’ve heard of a second in a duel, but what does a third do?”

  “Well, it can go so far as to involve killing everyone on the opposing side, but usually I put the body in the undertaker’s carriage and then perform a bit of howling and wailing so onlookers know there’s been a manifestation.” Old Howard shrugged. “It’s not a great job, but after the demotion, I have to take what I can get. Sadly, today, I was beaten out of even that lowly position by young Daniel Key.”

  Barnaby’s voice came through the stereo again. “The son of Francis Scott Key?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Barnaby. He defended his honor against another midshipman here over some childish wager and he never saw the sunrise on his twenty-first birthday.” Old Howard frowned. “This is the fourth time the wee bastard has pinched my engagement with the Commodore. Is it any wonder my raiment has gone all rags and tatters?”

  Ace asked. “The Commodore? You mean Decatur?”

  “Of course.” Old Howard nodded at the grassy area tucked behind the trees across the street. “That’s Bladensburg Dueling Grounds. More than fifty duels were fought right there. Place is bloody swimming in ghosts, I can tell you.”

  The blonde woman shook her head wistfully. “I’d love to meet Decatur. One of the greatest sea captains in the American Navy.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, but you’re a bit late. A couple of hundred years in one sense and about twenty minutes in another.”

  “I guess I should go and deal with this slow and agonizing death issue before I can go all fangirl over the Commodore, in any case,” Ace said wistfully.

  The stereo exploded in the distinctive grating honk of a World War Two call to battle stations. The front doors of the BMW flew open, the seatbelts unlatched, and the pneumatic seats tilted, withdrew, and finally ejected Steve and Ace from the car. Steve felt a wash of searing cold as he passed through Old Howard, and then he was in a sliding sprawl on the gravel verge. He looked back and watched, fascinated, as a full-armored carapace snapped into place about the BMW–not only the windows and wheel wells but every inch of the car was being quickly covered by a double layer of blued steel.

  “Oh, dear,” Barnaby said from the cell phone.

  Steve was a bit surprised to find that Send Money was still firmly clutched in his hand, even after the violent movements of the past seconds. As he climbed to his feet, he said, “That has an ominous ring to it. ‘Oh, dear’ what?”

  “I’m afraid that I was using Hans’s cellular instead of Send Money’s,” Barnaby said. “We’ve been tracked again. I suggest you move away from the car.”

  “Incoming!” Ace yelled from the other side. “Move across the road and down the hill.” She immediately turned and raced across the road, jumping the Armco barrier, and sliding down the dirt slope. Steve surprised himself by managing to be only seconds behind her–he put it down to the motive power of sheer terror.

  It was only when he slid down beside her that he noticed she was grimacing and holding her side where the makeshift bandage covered her earlier wound. “Is it worse?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer–but her look of pain and fury was enough. “Well, what do we do now?”

  Again, Ace was silent except for a muffled grunt, as she threw an arm around his neck and slammed him hard into the inch or so of standing water and mud that had gathered at the bottom of the slope. This time, he was on his back and could see the flickering yellow light on the nearby trees and the blinding flare as the missile hit the car. The slope protected them from the concussion waves, but he could see the enormous trees in the park whipping back and forth under the pressure wave.

  When it all seemed over, he said, “Wow. That was close.” Turning to Ace, he continued, “I guess that’s two I owe you.”

  Ace didn’t move. Steve prodded her shoulder to no effect and then put a palm just over her mouth. He could feel her breathing but she was clearly unconscious. It was a strange feeling; she had been a complete pain in the butt for most of this disconcerting day, but now that she was out of action, he realized how much he’d come to depend on her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “So. Swooned, has she?” Old Howard floated gently down the embankment.

  “No, she’s unconscious,” Steve replied. “And you have no idea how lucky you are that she didn’t hear you say ‘swooned.’”

  “What can she do to me? I am, after all, incorporeal.”

  “And you think that makes you safe from Ace?” Steve smiled. “She’d find a way.”

  “Resourceful, eh?” The ghost looked up. “I see that you’ve attracted the attention of most of the regulars. Strange. They don’t generally pay any attention to those we like to refer to as the ‘temporarily embodied.’”

  The small park was a close-cut grass space with a stand of large trees on the left and a small brook on the right. At the far end, he could make out a milling crowd of men who seemed to fade in and out like that picture on an old television with a rabbit-ears antenna. Many of them were pointing at the bank where Steve sat and were apparently arguing about something. Most were carrying antique pistols, but several had long guns ranging from flintlocks to what looked like Napoleonic muskets with bayonets.

  “Shit. There’s Weishaupt.”

  “Who?” Old Howard asked. “Oh, you mean that one-handed fellow in the suit? I don’t know him. He’s not one of the regulars– we get to buy clothes but we can’t upgrade to anything like that Armani he’s got on.”

  “I don’t think
he’s dead,” Steve said.

  “Well, that would explain it, then.” The ghost seemed relieved. “I’d hate to think I’ve been wearing these rags all this time for nothing.”

  Dead or alive, Weishaupt was speaking forcefully to the crowd of duelists, and from the way he angrily pointed towards them–with his left hand, Steve noted with a bit of pride–he was urging the apparitions to some form of action.

  “General Howard?” Steve asked. “Those gentlemen can’t actually touch the living, can they?”

  “Generally speaking, no,” the ghost said. “On the other hand, I’ve been feeling a good deal more corporeal today. Let me see…”

  Old Howard’s fist smacked into Steve’s temple with full force and Steve went flat in the mud next to Ace. Rubbing his head, he asked, “What the hell?”

  The ghost was hopping around in a circle, holding his right fist in his left, and howling in pain. After a moment, he calmed down, although still shaking his hand to ease the pain. “Well, that was a success.”

  “You slugged me!” Steve said. “By what definition is that a success?”

  “Yesterday, my fist would have passed right through you.” He reached into a pocket with his left hand. “Perhaps we should experiment with my pocket knife as well.”

  There was loud bang, a thwup sound, and something hard and fast smacked into the slope just over Steve’s head. Across the park, a cloud of blue smoke was drifting from one of the rifles, and Weishaupt was practically dancing with joy. Steve looked at the round half-inch hole in the dirt behind him. “Hold off on the pocketknife, General. I think they’ve just proven your point,” Steve said. “And quite dramatically, too.”

  “Well, then, aren’t you lucky I knocked you down?” Steve looked balefully at the ghost and didn’t comment.

  There was a pair of the loud bangs from the crowd and Steve could see Old Howard noticeably fade just before two more bullets whipped through him, and hit the grassy bank. The ghost turned to look at the new holes. “Luckily, it seems that I can control the terms of my existence.”

  “Well, I can’t,” Steve said bitterly. “I need to get behind something.”

  He almost began to run towards the biggest of the old trees but stopped and turned back for Ace. With a sigh, he rolled her surprisingly light body over on her back, took a tight hold of both hands, blocked her feet with one of his, and leaned his weight back until she came upright. Releasing her hand, he leaned down and stuck his shoulder in her stomach, letting her limp torso slump down on his back.

  When he tried to stand, he found her weight had suddenly increased. It was either that or he was a lot weaker than even he had imagined. He struggled but couldn’t get his knees locked. Sweating and grunting, he was about to fall ingloriously to the side when someone reached in from the side and pulled him upright. He looked over and saw a clean-shaven man with long sideburns and tangled hair dressed in a blue coat with every sort of frog, epaulet, and embroidery.

  Steve nodded his thanks and staggered over the tree, managing to get Ace to the ground behind the trunk by the simple but efficient method of allowing his knees to collapse. Luckily, the young man managed to get a hand beneath her head before it smacked into a large root that poked above the grass. Steve rolled over and lay on his back, panting heavily. When he had the breath, he said, “Thanks. I don’t know if I could have done that without your help.”

  “It was my pleasure, sir.” The young man made an elaborate bow. Another bullet came whistling past and his body briefly faded as it passed.

  Steve said, “Ah, another ghost?”

  “Indeed, I am merely a shade. Allow me to introduce myself. Stephen Decatur, at your service.”

  “I’m Steve and this is Ace,” Steve said. “It’s too bad she’s out of it. You’re one of her heroes.”

  Decatur smiled. “Indeed? Due to the exaggerated tales of my amorous escapades, no doubt?”

  “I doubt it,” Steve replied. “More because she’s a Master Chief in the Navy, I think.”

  “Really?” Decatur seemed a bit disappointed. “The world has certainly changed while I wandered through my endless whirl of duel, death, and challenge–much as Odysseus was caught in the circling waters of Charybdis.” He shook himself and looked toward the other end of the field. “Happily, I appear to have been delivered from my dreary round today, and just in time, I think. Your foes, as I assume these men to be, are advancing.”

  “Oh, shit,” Steve said as he scrambled to his feet and peered around the trunk. “This is usually Ace’s area of expertise. I’m not sure what to do.”

  Steve jumped violently as Old Howard spoke from behind him. “Well, as an old Marine of the Line, I’d advise waiting until they’ve fired their volley and then attacking. Isn’t that right, Commodore?”

  “Certainly,” Decatur agreed. “I believe I’ve met you before, old fellow. Weeping or something.”

  “Yes, sir. I often serve as your third in the duel and I’m a right enthusiastic pallbearer. I suspect you remember me from those duties. I never was one of your fighting men–after your time, I’m afraid.”

  Steve interrupted. “Could you continue these introductions at another time? Now, I’m all for avoiding the first volley–or all possible volleys, to be honest–but won’t they shoot us as we attack?”

  “Hardly,” Decatur said. “Takes too damn long to reload. It was the same at sea. One shot and then go for ’em with swords, pikes, marlinspikes, or whatever was at hand.”

  “That’s right, sir.” Old Howard agreed, “I can remember swinging a particularly well-balanced fish gaff in a battle off the Barbary Coast…”

  “OK, OK,” Steve said. “I hate to ask, but will you gentlemen join me in defending our poor, helpless shipmate?” Steve was once again grateful that Ace was unable to hear him–he’d have suffered for that “poor, helpless” line.

  “Most assuredly,” Decatur said as he pulled a curved saber from where it had been hidden under his coat. “Are you with us, Private Howard?”

  “Uh. Yes. I suppose I am,” Old Howard said with a great deal less enthusiasm. “I’ll stay back here and defend the prize.”

  Steve thought that Ace might well have disliked being a “prize” even more than “poor and helpless.”

  Decatur asked Steve, “Where is your sword, sir?”

  It seemed like a first-rate question, but Steve was damned if he had a first-rate answer. Then he remembered the thin needle he’d been able to create the last time he’d faced Weishaupt. Hopefully, if he only tried to modify it and not learn an entire new magical weapon, he wouldn’t end up lying like a agonized piece of cordwood next to Ace. He closed his eyes and cautiously repeated the steps he’d learned with so much pain in Bowie.

  There!

  Now make it shorter. Thicker. Sharpen one edge.

  Attach a handle. Perhaps a bit of engraving on that flange that protects the hand–

  “Very nice, sir, but I would hurry it along if at all possible,” Decatur broke into his concentration. Steve staggered a bit as he opened his eyes but, to no small surprise, he found that his right hand was firmly wrapped around a golden-colored sword.

  Old Howard had picked up a thick branch from somewhere and was looking at Steve’s creation with a decidedly skeptical eye. “I hope that’s not really gold, sir. Gold’s a very soft metal, you know. Looks quite nice but won’t hold an edge worth a damn.”

  Steve held the weapon up and inspected it. “Well, this is all I have, so let’s just hope it’s just gold-colored or something. Now, could one of you go all misty and surveil the enemy?” Facing a pair of blank looks, he said, “Yeah, I don’t think ‘surveil’ is a real word, either. Could one of you take a look and tell me how many are coming and how far away they are?”

  “Ah,” Decatur said, “Of course.”

  The slim man immediately stepped away from the tree. There was a little fusillade of gunfire and Decatur turned misty until the bullets had passed, then returned to the others.
“I’d say that there are about twenty men, along with that one-handed fellow in the strange black clothing, and they are quite close–perhaps no more than ten yards.”

  Steve felt fear sweeping up from the pit of his stomach, threatening to freeze his thoughts, and turn his arms and legs to useless blocks. His own fear was worse than any enemy. “OK, first, you two step out and draw fire, then protect Ace while I go after the leader.”

  Moving immediately before his fear could overpower his determination, Steve took two steps and made a diving leap as far from the tree as possible, tucking at the last moment, and turning what would have been a slide into a somersault. He heard what sounded like a number of pissed-off bees passing high over him and then shouts and more shots–this time aimed at the tree he’d just abandoned.

  Ancient muscle memory from his high-school soccer days brought him to his feet right out of his forward roll and he kept moving at his best speed, curving around the line of elaborately- dressed duelists, and angling in towards Weishaupt, who was shouting orders and encouragement from a command position a few cautious paces behind his troops.

  To Steve’s dismay, two of the duelists spotted him and angled to cut him off. The first, a tall and elegant man in a red silk shirt (“I suppose it doesn’t show the blood,” Steve thought) pulled a thin sword from a walking stick and stepped forward in a fencer’s stance. Steve was already moving at his best speed and decided not to try and stop on the slick grass, so he rammed his sword down and beat the rapier out of the way, and then simply barreled into the man with his chest, sending him flying.

  A short man with blazing red hair and extravagant sideburns flowing right into a red mustache cut at him with a much thicker weapon, but Steve dodged around the reach of the sword and ignored the outraged call of “Come bank and fight, coward!” that erupted after he passed.

  Now Weishaupt was directly ahead. Steve raised his sword over his head in a clumsy two-handed grip and—to his surprise— increased his speed. The Bavarian crossed his forearms–and one hand–over his head to block the attack. Steve was suddenly trying to do two things at once: slow himself from the mad gallop that had gotten him this far, and flail downward with the sword.