The 7th of Victorica

by Beau Schemery

  Sev nodded. “That’s understandable. They’re welcome t’go. We’ll send someone with them t’get them safely t’the North.”

  “That’s very kind. If ya would, they’ll need papers as well sayin’ they’s free.”

  “I’ll draw them up first thing in the morning,” Silas offered.

  That’s a good idea, Sev thought. He can use his alias to lend it authenticity. Nobody’ll be able to dispute it. “They’ll stay the night and rest safely here. Fair?”

  “More than fair, Seven. The rest of us’re stayin’ and fightin’. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like I saw t’night, and I got no desire t’live in a world where such a thing goes on,” Gert stated. Her mates called out in agreement.

  “We’re glad t’have the extra help. Now I think we all need t’find places t’bunk up fer the night.” A murmur of assent rippled through those gathered. Then everyone slowly dispersed in small groups. Sev noticed Midnight’s men all stuck together. Sev ran over to him. “Jack.”

  Midnight turned. “Hello, Sev. That was a fine little speech.”

  “Where’d all these men come from?” Sev asked, ignoring Midnight’s comment.

  “Some are thieves, some are disgraced soldiers, others are men who are just fed up with the South’s stranglehold on the country and its economy.” He shrugged. “Some are men that I’ve had controlling my interests here in the states.”

  “Ye’ve raised an army o’cutthroats and monsters,” Sev stated.

  “Among others.” Midnight didn’t argue. “Do you have a point, Sev?”

  Sev shook his head. “I ain’t under any delusions, Jack. I just wanted t’make certain I know what I’m gettin’ us into.”

  “And who you won’t feel bad sacrificing should the need for a suicide mission arise,” Midnight guessed.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “No. Of course you wouldn’t say it.” Midnight turned the corner of his mouth up. “They’re committed to the cause and no mistake.”

  “No mistake,” Sev said. “You’re the Masked Shadow.”

  “You’re only just figuring that out? Oh, Seven. I fear you may be slipping.”

  Seven barely had the strength to smile at Midnight’s jibe.

  “Get some sleep, friend.” Midnight rested his hand on Sev’s shoulder. “You need it.”

  Sev didn’t answer, only nodded. Then he and Silas chose a bunker to sleep in. The New Undertowners and former slaves found places together to rest through what remained of the evening.

  30

  “WHAT?” WILLIAM Thomas Sutherlin bellowed. He threw the crystal glass in his hand into the marble-trimmed fireplace, where it exploded into tiny pieces. He paced around the well-furnished study, pulling at his white beard.

  The young, uniformed man cleared his throat shakily. “Griswoldville has been compromised, sir,” he repeated, his voice cracking.

  “I know that!” he barked. “How could Fervis let this happen?”

  “Fervis is dead, sir,” the boy mumbled.

  Sutherlin fumed, his eyes wide as if they’d jump free of his skull. “Who is responsible for this?”

  “Brits, sir. We have reason t’believe they’re workin’ with Lincoln and the Masked Shadow. We think it was a strategic attack.”

  Sutherlin picked up another glass and threw it. This time whatever had remained in the glass burst into a fiery ball when the flames touched it. “Lincoln! Abraham God damn Lincoln!” He roared inarticulately with frustration.

  Sutherlin’s compatriots sat around the study in leather armchairs and tossed nervous glances about. “Lincoln needs to die,” Booth stated. “That will give their little movement a pause.”

  “How will we get to Lincoln?” Sutherlin asked. “We can’t just send someone to kill him.”

  “Leave it to me,” Booth answered. “My status as a performer gives me unique access to a variety of venues. I’ll organize a performance and personally invite Lincoln. There’s no way he can refuse. It would appear an act of war.”

  “What are we discussing here?” General Lee asked.

  “Strategy, sir. Strategy,” Booth answered.

  “No,” he said, standing. “This is not a war. What you are suggesting is assassination.”

  “Do you have a problem with doing what it takes to secure our position?” Sutherlin asked. The two older men stood, staring each other down, the tension floating palpable in the air.

  Lee gritted his teeth. “No. I have no problem,” he growled.

  Sutherlin shot him an angry glance. “Good. You have our blessing, Mr. Booth. Godspeed.”

  Booth nodded. “I will contact my brothers. We will stage a special production of Macbeth, or possibly Julius Caesar, and we will invite Lincoln as our special guest. It will be child’s play to end him at intermission.”

  “Very good, Booth,” Sutherlin answered. “We need to mobilize the airships and the troops. Get the priestesses in the air, and get our undead soldiers marching.”

  “Yes. Sir,” Lee said. Sutherlin sensed the man’s disdain. “Stonewall and I will ship out immediately.” He stood to follow Booth in his exit.

  “No.” Sutherlin slapped his hand on the table. “You will wait.” Sutherlin suspected that Booth might meet an unfortunate accident should Lee follow on Booth’s heels. “We need to discuss tactics, sir.”

  That’s just what they did. Sutherlin sensed Lee’s impatience with their obvious stalling, but he played along dutifully. Finally, he dismissed Lee and Jackson, satisfied that they wouldn’t be able to accomplish their duties to the Southern Brotherhood if they went after Booth. The two men exited, and Sutherlin leaned into his coconspirators. “Lee may have outlived his usefulness, brothers. Unfortunately.”

  The men gathered did not argue, only remained silent. They weren’t surprised when Sutherlin called for one of their payrolled assassins to pursue the general and his mechanically right-hand man.

  JACKSON FOLLOWED Lee as he stamped angrily out of the study, into the hallway, then out onto the grounds where their military carriage awaited. The steam-powered conveyance mildly chugged at the curb. Lee climbed into the cab roughly, and Jackson followed. He reached for the rail with his crude clockwork hand, thought better of it, and stepped gingerly in. The limb squeaked stiffly as he flexed the fingers before pulling the door shut behind him.

  He sat opposite Lee, who peered out the window with a dark scowl. The driver pulled the carriage away, and Jackson sat in silence, studying his superior and companion as they traveled north to the other hidden barracks with the undead regiments and their voodoo priestess commanders.

  Jackson scratched at the spot on his abbreviated arm where the mechanical limb was strapped. He grunted with the effort.

  Lee spared him a glance. “Problem?”

  “Damn thing itches like a bastard in this heat.” Jackson pulled out a pencil and levered it between his flesh and the metal. He kept it with him always for just this purpose. “This ain’t sittin’ right with you,” Jackson stated as he continued his digging. “And I don’t mean this blessed mechanical limb.”

  “No, my friend, it most certainly does not.” Lee folded his arms over his chest and fixed Jackson with a gaze more serious than he’d ever seen on the man’s face.

  “What is your solution?” Jackson paused, drawing his pencil out.

  Lee shifted in his seat but did not speak. He growled deep in his throat.

  “Sir?”

  “Jackson, you are mah right-hand man.” He nodded toward Jackson’s mechanical arm. “No offense.”

  “None taken, sir,” Jackson answered with a chuckle.

  “I trust you more than I trust any other man in this Federation.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And that is why I can say to you now: this is wrong.” He pounded his fist on the bench. “Reanimating the dead? Utilizing the devil’s savage religion, voodoo? No sir. None of this is congruent with a good Christian life.” He shook his head.

  �
�What do you suggest, sir?”

  “I have my orders. I must follow through with organizing the devil hordes.” He leaned forward. “But you do not.”

  Jackson leaned forward as well but did not speak. He listened intently.

  “Our enemies may be trying to free the savage negro, and that will make it harder to tame them and bring them to the Lord, but they clearly have their heads on straight when it comes to their treatment of the cursed undead.”

  “We need to warn them?”

  “Exactly, Jackson. Exactly. But not ‘we’—you.” Lee sat back and refolded his arms. “At our next stop, you will take a carriage to Griswoldville and warn our enemies. You will tell them where they will find our secret stores of corpse soldiers. They will be able to preempt our attack on the North.”

  “But, sir,” Jackson started. “General Lee. You will be with one of those contingents. If they attack, you could be injured or killed.”

  “That is a chance I am willin’ t’take, Stonewall. This entire endeavor is an abomination. It began with good intentions, but we have lost sight of our true purpose in the name of wealth and power. I can no longer condone this course of action, and while I will not abandon my duties, I certainly won’t march into this battle blindly and ignorantly.”

  Jackson was reminded once again of just how much he admired the man before him. He could feel tears of pride welling in his eyes, but he’d be damned if he wept like some skirted little girl. “You can count on me, sir. I think the Good Lord would be disgusted with our compatriots.”

  “I knew I could count on you, Stonewall.” Lee slapped Jackson’s knee. They spent the rest of the journey in discussion about tactics and where they would rendezvous. Before they knew it, the carriage pulled into the first station to refuel, and Lee bid Jackson farewell.

  Jackson paused in the door of the carriage. Something had been worrying the back of his thoughts, and he needed to ask his superior before he could continue on his mission. “Sir?”

  “Mm?” Lee looked up, regarding him with raised eyebrows.

  “We will be traitors, sir. Is this how we want to be remembered?”

  “We will be traitors only to the Federation. They are traitors to the Lord. I feel confident that we will not be considered traitors in his eyes, and his eyes are the only eyes that matter to me.”

  “God bless you, sir.” Jackson reached out with his flesh hand to shake Lee’s. He tipped the man a salute before he slipped back out of the carriage.

  Jackson stood on the dirt road of the small Southern village as the station agents refueled Lee’s carriage, shoveling coal into the feeder shaft. Lee waved as his carriage chugged northward fully fueled. Leaving Jackson in a cloud of dust to look about, searching for a transport to Griswoldville.

  No one he asked was willing to go near for fear of the rebels. The rumors of its capture had already reached this tiny town. Jackson clenched his metallic fist, wishing he could punch something to splinters when someone hissed at him. He turned to see a negro with a large-brimmed straw hat. The man lifted his gaze to meet Jackson’s.

  “You got somethin’ t’say, boy?” Jackson asked.

  “We’re takin’ folks t’Griswoldville because those men are offerin’ freedom,” the man said.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Jackson barked.

  “I’m runnin’ folks t’they freedom.”

  “Negroes?” Jackson took a step toward the man.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “But we ain’t against givin’ white folks a ride as well.”

  Jackson snorted. Everything this man did contradicted Jackson’s compatriot’s beliefs. He also realized he’d have to ride on a convoy with a bunch of negroes who might not be too keen on traveling with a Southern soldier. “Fine,” he growled, out of options.

  The man tossed his head, indicating Jackson should follow. They walked a twisted trail through alleyways, until they reached a ragged, nondescript carriage. It was led by flesh and blood horses. When Jackson climbed into the cab, he found himself surrounded by what appeared to him to be opium addicts. He realized soon enough they were just neglected and undernourished. He remembered a few rations in his satchel and pulled them out to distribute the tins of potted meat among his fellow passengers.

  They keyed open the tins and dug in without ceremony, attacking the salty meat in an animalistic manner. One of the younger passengers, a girl, looked up at him as she scooped the meat out, and though she was obviously starving, she offered Jackson the tin, willing to share despite her own discomfort. Jackson declined, though it wasn’t because he didn’t want to eat after a negro; it was because he didn’t want to deprive the poor creature of her nourishment. When she had finished off the meat, she proceeded to lick the tin clean.

  The passengers tentatively thanked him, some of them daring to hug him. Jackson shook his head with a frown. He leaned out the window of the carriage and instructed the driver to stop at the very next inn he spotted. Less than an hour later, the carriage slowed and pulled up to a shabby-looking establishment along the road.

  “Wait here,” Jackson told his huddled companions. He climbed out of the carriage and marched into the building.

  The gruff, muscled man behind the bar scrubbed at the counter with a grim expression. When he noticed Jackson, he brightened slightly. “Good day, friend, how might I help ya?”

  “I’ve a carriage full of people who are in need of a fine meal,” Jackson answered. “Can y’all offer a fine meal?”

  “Oh, yes, suh,” the man answered. “Mah wife is an excellent cook and she can make a damn delicious dish.”

  “Good.” Jackson nodded. “I’ll bring my party in. You’re guaranteein’ you’ll be able t’serve them?” he asked, purposefully coaxing the man into agreeing without revealing the skin color of his companions.

  “I am, suh.”

  Jackson flashed him his papers. “I am General Stonewall Jackson, son. I hold y’all to that promise.”

  The man’s face split into a shining grin. “Yessuh. O’course, suh.”

  Jackson spun on his heel and marched determinedly back to the carriage. “Come along,” he said to his traveling companions. They all stared at him apprehensively, but no one made a move to follow. “Hop to it,” he barked. “There’s a proper meal awaitin’ us.”

  His companions spared glances to one another before rushing past Jackson and into the inn. “You too,” Jackson said to the negroid driver.

  “Thank yuh, suh.”

  Jackson shook his head and motioned for him to follow.

  The passengers and children escaped into the inn’s dining room with Jackson close on their heels. He was not surprised to find the scowl on the owner’s face as he stood with his burly arms crossed over his chest, blocking Jackson’s guests.

  Jackson marched up and placed himself between them. He folded his own arms and raised his chin. “These are mah personal servants, suh. I am paying for all my employees to eat a fine dinner and spend the night in respectable rooms.” Jackson thrust out his chest, balling his fists at his sides, both flesh and metal.

  “I ain’t servin’ no nig—” the innkeeper began, but a firm metal hand in his face stopped him.

  “May I remind you, suh, that you gave me your word that you would serve my party?” The two men stared each other down intensely. “Make your decision, son,” Jackson growled.

  The innkeeper breathed angrily through his nose. His eyes squinted almost imperceptibly, but it was just the sign of weakness Jackson watched for. He knew he’d won before the man stepped aside. “This way.” He led Jackson and his companions through the main dining room and into a small, private room. They filed around the table that dominated the center.

  Jackson grabbed the innkeeper’s arm as he tried to pull the door shut behind him. “Ya’d best not skimp on the food either, friend.” He squeezed harder with his mechanical hand. “We’ll have words, suh, if you do.”

  “I gave mah word, suh.”

  Jackson
nodded and released him. A moment later a large jolly woman, presumably the innkeeper’s wife, bustled into the room with baskets of bread and a crock of butter. She was as hospitable as her husband was gruff and attended to her guests happily. Jackson thanked her. She apologized for her husband’s attitude. Soon enough, a few young girls entered with steaming bowls of stew, distributing them among the guests. The company ate heartily and later were shown to a large room upstairs. Jackson bade them to use the room and took up a post outside the door. As kind as the wife had been, he wouldn’t be surprised if the innkeeper showed up with a lynching party in the middle of the night. He sat vigilantly until dawn.

  THE NEXT day found Jackson and the company back on the road, with him dozing as they traveled. After a short break for everyone to answer nature’s call, Jackson bade the driver to push on to Griswoldville with minimal stops. The man, Mick, nodded. They piled back into the carriage and continued onward without incident. Jackson used the time to speak with the former slaves, to hear their stories and experiences, and to get to know them. They claimed a place in his heart. For the first time in a long time, he began to question the wisdom of slavery as an institution, and if it really was helping to educate the slaves.

  When the carriage finally pulled up at the gate of Griswoldville, Jackson engaged in a bellowing laugh at something one of the young children had said. “Wait here,” he said when the carriage stopped. He exited with his hands held up at shoulder height to illustrate he meant no harm. He could hear hammers being cocked on guns, saw barrels poking over the wall.

  “State yer business!” someone called.

  Jackson thought he recognized Stephens’s voice. “Stephens?” he called back.

  “Stonewall Jackson?”

  “Yes, suh. What brings you to Griswoldville?” But Stephens never had a chance to answer. Jackson slapped his forehead, suddenly realizing that Stephens and his entourage were the ones organizing the army. He wondered if he was behind the Masked Shadow as well.

  “Hands where we can see ’em!”