The 7th of Victorica

by Beau Schemery

  Brown whipped his head around to look at Roth. His mouth snapped closed at the same time as Brown’s. “Sorry, Commander,” Brown whispered. He tried not to stare at their surroundings, but it wasn’t every day two lowly army grunts walked the halls of the Loyal League. They stopped in front of a polished mahogany door deep within the building. Grant dismissed the servant and opened the door.

  The parlor they stepped into shocked Mason Brown, not because of the thick brocade curtains drawn over the windows or the fancy wallpaper and furniture. He wasn’t even shocked by the low lighting. What shocked Brown sat near the hearth, reading a book. The tall, lanky figure unfolded from the high-backed chair. “General Grant,” the man said in a soft, smooth drawl.

  “Mr. Lincoln, it’s Commander Grant now.” They shook hands warmly, like old friends.

  Lincoln smiled and raised a hand. “How could I forget?” He looked toward Brown and Roth. “And who are these, fellas, General? May we speak freely in their company?”

  “We can, Abe. These are two of my most reliable men, Mason Brown and Burt Roth.” Grant indicated each as he introduced them.

  “Mr. Brown, Mr. Roth.” Lincoln shook each of their hands in turn. “What brings the four of us together today?” He folded his arms behind his back and studied them intently. “I’m afraid I’m causing you some amount of distress, aren’t I, Mr. Brown?”

  Brown nodded.

  “You’ve no reason to be intimidated by me, young man. Why don’t you have yourself a seat, relax, and we’ll discuss this like men. How does that sound?” Lincoln’s eyes twinkled with amusement in the low light of the lamp.

  “That sounds fine, sir,” Brown responded. He, Roth, Grant, and Lincoln sat down in the club’s fancy chairs. Lincoln’s calm demeanor and rhythmic speech acted as a balm on Brown’s nerves, and he began to relax.

  “Brown and Roth have gathered some information on a few new visitors from across the pond,” Grant stated and pulled out a cigar. “Anyone mind?” No one objected. He nibbled the tip off before lighting it with a match.

  “Mmm.” Lincoln rested his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his hands in front of his lips. “The inventor and his retinue. I’ve gotten some conflicting intelligence on those fellas, some good, some rather less so, but all of it quite vague. Have you any further insight into their business here?” Roth and Brown both sat dumbfounded, staring at Lincoln.

  “Dammit, say something to the man, he doesn’t bite!” Grant barked, gesturing with his smoldering cigar.

  Brown shook himself and sputtered before he finally started explaining about Stephens, the inventor, his young lawyer, and the ragtag group of street urchins he employed. “We suspected he was abductin’ the children, but it seems they’ve managed to turn ’em t’their cause, whatever that may be.”

  Lincoln closed his eyes and nodded. “I’ve had word from the lawyer. His name is Jameson. He desires a meeting with me.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend that, Abe,” Grant stated. “After what these men saw yesterday.”

  “Oh? And what did you see, son?” Lincoln directed the question to Brown. “Please continue.” Brown did, telling him all about first Robert E. Lee’s men paying them a visit a few days ago, then Lee and Stonewall as well. “That is disturbing, Mr. Brown, especially if the young fellow is as talented as you say. I must admit, I am curious about those gearcycles.”

  “Oh, they’re mighty flash, Mr. Lincoln. They really barrel through the streets. I can see why Lee wants ’em,” Brown said, admiration in his tone. Grant cleared his throat. Brown took the hint. “There’s more, sir.”

  Lincoln gestured for Brown to continue.

  Brown leaned forward. “Kettlebent,” he said in a dramatic whisper. He went on to describe the strange man with the mechanical gait and the strange metallic voice. He told Lincoln of the auto-hansom the bearded man rode around in and how he often picked up children, but never dropped them off anywhere.

  Lincoln’s frown grew with intensity the more he heard of Kettlebent, his forehead furrowing above his slightly bushy brows. “I’m not a violent man, Mr. Brown, but I must confess that I do not care for a man who takes advantage of those who cannot take care of themselves. And children are a precious resource that we must protect at all costs, no matter their skin color. If I’m ever to cross paths with this Kettlebent, he’ll see what happens when Abraham Lincoln gets his hackles up. By the Almighty, he will.” Lincoln’s big hands gripped the arms of the chair, and even as old as the man was, Brown could tell strength remained in those hands yet. He almost felt sorry for Kettlebent if Lincoln managed to get those hands on him. Almost.

  “What’s your take on all this, Abe?” Grant asked.

  “I must be perfectly honest with you, General, I’m without a clue. The only thing that seems clear at the moment is the South has found themselves a new ally, and I believe we can all agree, they have too many of those already.

  “I am tempted to meet with this Jameson. See what he’s made of, maybe glean some information about his employer.”

  “I still think that’s ill-advised,” Grant said.

  “I appreciate your concern, my friend.” Lincoln chuckled. “But I think I can handle one young lawyer. I used to be one myself.” He offered them a smile that Brown found particularly disarming. He’d always heard of Lincoln’s charisma and rhetoric, but seeing it firsthand, Brown thought the stories didn’t quite impart the power of the man’s honest kindness and genuine nature.

  “Have you seen the local newspapers?” Grant asked, standing and walking over to lean on the mantel.

  “I’m afraid this is the only thing I’ve had a moment to read since I have been in New York,” Lincoln answered, holding up a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  Grant sniffed and cast the book an apprehensive glance. “While you’ve been perusing that children’s book, a new player has made some interesting headlines. A masked highwayman.”

  “We still have those?” Lincoln asked, sounding amused.

  “I’m afraid it’s no laughing matter, Abe. This mysterious man in black has killed two prominent men: a Southerner, Major-General George Pickett and Delaware’s governor, who was a Southern sympathizer. He’s since been replaced by the lieutenant governor, who is loyal to the abolitionists.”

  “Fortuitous,” Lincoln said. “Is he one of ours?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Grant answered. “He’s obviously working toward our goals, but I didn’t authorize anything like this.”

  “Neither have I. Curiouser and curiouser.” Lincoln seemed to realize what he had said and smiled. “What’s your plan to deal with him?”

  “Assuming it is just one man and not some sort of underground political group, we must, at least publicly, appear to be searching for him to bring him to justice. He is a murderer after all.”

  “Yes. Of course you’re right. I certainly don’t approve of his methods, but I also cannot argue with his results.” Lincoln stood. “By all means find the man, stop him killing our enemies in cold blood. His actions may be perceived as an act of war, and Lord knows that is something that our country does not need. Can you even imagine? A war between the North and the South? It would be brother against brother. The casualties would be innumerable.”

  “It may yet come to that, Abe.” Grant’s words came out in a puff of smoke.

  “I’m all too aware of that, friend. All too aware.” Lincoln’s shoulders sagged as if a great weight sat upon them, and Brown thought the man suddenly looked ten years older than he was. “Are you familiar with the African mystical religion, voodoo?”

  Grant’s look of shock answered that question. “I’ve heard something of it. I don’t see what it has to do with our current state of affairs.”

  Lincoln scrubbed his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then fixed Grant with a serious look. “I have intelligence, reliable intelligence that our neighbors to the south are exploiting voodoo for their plans.”

 
“How?” Grant asked.

  “That I do not know. I can’t begin to imagine what they hope to accomplish or what manner of plan they’ve implemented, but I shudder to think what depths they are willing to stoop to if arcane magic is part of their strategy.” Lincoln’s eyelids fluttered closed, shuttering his inner turmoil. It only lasted a moment before Lincoln mastered whatever emotion he felt and regained a more confident air. “But we must cross that bridge only when we come to it. For now, it is our duty to ensure the safety of all Victorican citizens, whether they agree with us or are damn fool Southerners.”

  Grant nodded. “Very well. That was my intention, but I always appreciate your insight. We should leave you. It looks like you could use some rest.”

  “Thank you, General. I believe that I could.” Lincoln shook all their hands as he led them to the door. Brown and Roth exited first. Before Grant could join them in the hall, Lincoln stopped him with a hand on his arm. They discussed something in low tones. Brown strained, trying to hear what they were saying. Lincoln patted Grant’s shoulder, and he turned back to his men. Brown tried to look like he wasn’t attempting to eavesdrop.

  “Come on,” Grant said as he marched past them. “Let’s grab a drink before we leave. You boys have an important assignment tomorrow morning.” He continued down the hall without pause. Brown and Roth regarded each other for a moment before rushing to catch up with Commander Grant.

  21

  THE NEXT morning found Mason Brown and Burt Roth once again on East Seventeenth Street in a hansom outside of the Loyal League Clubhouse. “This is mad,” Brown said. He fidgeted with the bowler hat he wore by way of a disguise.

  “Escortin’ Lincoln to spy on those limey toads? It’s like Christmas has come early,” Roth said.

  Brown glanced over at his partner in his odd, vaguely Indian costume with the silly fringe. “What the hell are you wearing, Burt?”

  “It’s an authentic frontiersman outfit,” he stated smugly, thrusting his chin out arrogantly.

  “You look like a prat.”

  “Don’t use those Brit words,” Roth snapped. The door opened, interrupting the partners’ argument.

  “Good morning, men.” Lincoln climbed into the hansom and sat on the bench opposite Brown and Roth. “Are we ready for our reconnaissance this morning?”

  Brown cleared his throat and smoothed down his suit. “Certainly, Mr. Lincoln. We’re ready for anything.”

  “Excellent,” Lincoln said with a nod. “Might I inquire why your partner is dressed as an Indian from a dime novel and why you’re wearing that hat?”

  Roth grimaced. Brown attempted an answer, “I, well, I’m not sure why the hell he’s dressed like that”—Brown gestured at Roth—“but we felt the need for disguises. Stephens and his associates may have seen our faces yesterday.”

  The hansom began to roll along through the streets as they spoke. “I understand your precaution, Mr. Brown, but I question your partner’s judgment.” Lincoln squinted suspiciously at Roth’s fringy leather outfit.

  Brown sighed. “How couldn’t you? He obviously doesn’t understand ‘don’t draw attention to yourself’.”

  “Piss off,” Roth growled.

  “You’ll need a disguise as well, sir.” Brown passed a small box to Lincoln, ignoring his partner’s insult.

  Lincoln opened the box and pulled out a pair of goggles and a false beard. “You cannot be serious, Mr. Brown.”

  “You are one of the most recognizable citizens in the country, Mr. Lincoln. Your face is often on the front page of major newspapers. You need to disguise yourself. We can’t afford to have you found out.”

  “I would dearly love to disagree with you, Mr. Brown. But I cannot help but acknowledge you make a valid point.” Lincoln slipped the goggles over his head, pulled the false beard over his face.

  Brown winced at Lincoln’s disguise. Except for the fact he was missing the hat, he looked just like Kettlebent.

  “What is it, Mr. Brown?” Lincoln asked, seemingly puzzled by Brown’s reaction.

  “Nothing, sir,” Brown answered, unsure if he should reveal the similarity. The decision became moot when Roth’s exclamation interrupted his thoughts.

  “There he is, by God.” Roth pointed at the lumbering figure of Kettlebent, emerging from a hansom just across the street.

  “Well, this is fortuitous,” Lincoln said, leaning close to the window.

  Brown grabbed the speaking tube and told the driver to pull their hansom over to the curb. They waited, watching as Kettlebent ascended the front stairs to a derelict tenement building. “This is no good,” Roth grumbled.

  “Bravo, Roth. What was your first clue?” Brown asked, hoping his sarcasm wouldn’t be lost on his partner.

  “Can we keep this professional?” Lincoln asked. “Now is not the time.”

  “Sorry, sir,” they responded in unison.

  “Here he comes.” Lincoln pointed out the window. Kettlebent approached his hansom and opened the door. Six children walked out after him, two colored girls, one white boy, and three black boys. They piled into the strange man’s hansom. “No,” Lincoln growled. “Absolutely not.” He threw the door open.

  Brown grabbed at Lincoln’s coat to stop him but couldn’t get a grip. “No. Mr. Lincoln, stop.” Lincoln ignored him, and Brown couldn’t keep up with the other man’s impressive stride. Brown was vaguely aware of Roth chasing him as he watched Lincoln peel off his coat and roll up his sleeves.

  AN HOUR before Lincoln marched across that cobblestone lane, Silas strapped on his over-skeleton before he slipped into Kettlebent’s coat, beard, goggles, and hat.

  “Where are ye off to?” Sev asked.

  “We’ve a few new recruits in a tenement over on Avenue A,” Silas explained. “I’m going to retrieve them.”

  “Why don’t ye have Linsey and Brooks get them?” Sev asked, still in bed as Silas dressed.

  “They’re missing.”

  “Missing? Bollocks.”

  “I know exactly how you feel, but they’re missing in action. Their house girl hasn’t seen them in weeks.”

  “Where the hell are they off to?” Sev asked.

  Silas shrugged. “At this point, it doesn’t matter. Wherever they are, the children in that tenement need to be recovered.”

  “Go get them,” Sev said. He planted a kiss on Silas’s cheek.

  “I’ll be back soon, and we can leave for the South,” Silas said. He wrapped his arms around Sev. “I’ll see you in a bit.” He kissed the top of Sev’s head and retreated. “Teddy,” he called. “Do you want to drive the hansom?”

  “Ya need to go somewhere?” Teddy asked, pausing as he forked his morning eggs.

  “I need to gather a few more allies.”

  Teddy shoveled the remainder of his eggs into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “I’ll grab my coat and drive you.”

  “Thanks, Teddy.” Silas climbed into the modified hansom with the clockwork engine and the trapdoor in the floor. Teddy climbed into the pilot’s seat and guided the hansom out of the warehouse while Silas gazed out the window.

  His thoughts drifted to the possibility of meeting with Lincoln. Their mission might be decided depending on how that prominent man viewed their motives. He wondered over how to present their case the most favorably. Before Silas realized it, Teddy pulled the hansom up to the curb outside the shoddy tenement. He stepped out onto the boards of the sidewalk and spared a look around before he knocked on the peeling gray door. A moment later Maria ushered him into the building.

  “Hello, Mr. Kettlebent.” She led him into the parlor. “Can I take your coat? Your hat?”

  “No, thank you, Maria.” He paced about, slightly amused by the way she winced at the sound of his metallic voice. He often wondered what people thought Kettlebent was.

  “Can I offer you some tea?” she asked in an accent he’d begun to associate with residents of the city.

  “No, Maria. I fear that I’m under a bit of a time cons
traint at the moment.” He paused. “I would appreciate it if you fetched the children so we might be on our way.”

  “Of course, sir.” She dipped a slight bow and retreated. A moment later she reappeared with six children in tow. “Here they are,” she said. “Lucy and Kate.” She introduced two young black girls. “Jack, Mark, and Yardley.” This time she indicated the three black boys. “And this is Jimmy.” She pointed out the only white-skinned child.

  “Hello, friends,” Silas said. “Are you fully aware of the journey you’re about to embark on?”

  The young white boy stepped forward. “We’re goin’ t’free black folk. Just like y’all freed your Blackside.”

  Lucy nodded. “We know just what we’re in for, Mr. Kettlebent, and believe you me, we are ready and willin’ t’fight. It’s past time we set things right.” The other children nodded and mumbled their assent.

  “Good,” Silas answered and walked them out to the hansom. He opened the door to the vehicle as they filed out. Immediately his attention was drawn to some commotion in the street. Silas stepped away from the hansom to get a better look, and he had just enough time to register a man appearing to be his twin striding toward him before the man’s fist connected with his jaw. Silas stumbled back, shocked, his hat tumbling to the ground. “What the hell?” he bellowed, cradling his chin.

  “No more, sir. No. More.” The tall stranger with the matching beard and goggles planted himself in a strong fighting stance, his fists balled in front of his face.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Silas said before another powerful blow struck him across the cheek. He spun away from the attack, stumbling a second time. He ground his teeth as he rubbed his face. He felt the color rising in his cheeks as his anger rose with it. “That’s the last one, stranger.” Silas held up a warning finger. “You strike me one more time and you will be sorry.”

  “No, sir.” The bearded stranger growled. He cracked his knuckles. “You will release those children, or you will feel my wrath. I am normally not a violent man, sir. But your immorality has offended me on the basest level. I absolutely will not see these children exploited in any way.”