by Thomas Webb
“Hold on, Levington,” Montclair said, holding up his hand. “This is my airship. You can’t just . . . how did you know we were bound for the Watervliet armory? What is this about, exactly?”
“President Grant will answer your questions, Montclair, if he sees fit to,” Levington said. “As of right now, colonel, you’ve received new orders. You’re to depart for Washington. Immediately.”
3 35 miles northeast of Greenville, North Carolina, April 1864
Congressman James Smythe placed the flower into the container, careful not to bruise the delicate petals. Cupping the rich soil in his hands, he potted the plant with the tenderness of a mother laying a newborn in its cradle.
“There you are, my dear,” he said.
The plant’s brilliant yellow center stood in stark contrast to its snow-white petals. The wild flower grew in abundance in the Nova Scotia Territory of British Canada, but it had required a great many resources to smuggle it south, especially given the recent hostilities between the Union and its neighbor to the north.
The Southern Congressman brushed the dirt from his hands and washed them in a marble basin near the door. The afternoon sun shone through the translucent glass walls, bathing the greenhouse in a golden glow. Smythe breathed in deep, reveling in the rich scent of blossoming plants, soil, and decay. Smythe was just beginning to grow impatient when there was a knock at the door.
“Ah. Finally. Perhaps Mr. Montgomery felt my time was not as important as his own?” Smythe asked, caressing the petals of his favorite lily.
Flowering plants were something a man could control from inception, shaping them as they progressed. They were beautiful to look at and a joy to be around. As long as a man understood the nature of a plant, it would grow and do exactly as he directed.
The heavy glass door of the greenhouse swung open. Wagstaff, Smythe’s massive bodyguard, bent down and squeezed his head and shoulders through the opening as best he could.
“Appointment’s here, congressman,” Wagstaff said. His baritone voice was low and deep.
“Thank you, Wagstaff. Please send Mr. Montgomery in. A bit of privacy if you will?”
Wagstaff nodded and showed the congressman’s visitor in, closing the door behind him as he stepped back outside.
“Afternoon, congressman,” Mouse Montgomery said. He grinned with a mouthful of sharp, rotting teeth. Montgomery had earned the name “Mouse” by virtue of his slight build, rodent-like facial features, and a mangled left ear that looked like someone’s cat had gotten the best of it.
“Mr. Montgomery.” Smythe frowned and wrinkled his nose, wondering when Mouse Montgomery had last bothered to bathe.
“He’s a big feller, ain’t he?” he asked, jerking his thumb back toward the door where Wagstaff stood guard. Montgomery laughed as he produced a tin flask from the pocket of his grease-and-mud-stained jacket. He took a long swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
“Some fancy shed you got here, congressman,” Motgomery said. He removed his dusty bowler hat and fanned himself with it.
The air, thick with the cloying scent of tropical plants, was so humid one could barely breathe. Fat drops of water vapor collected on the glass panes, condensing until they ran down the greenhouse walls. Ten long tables filled the small building’s interior. They stood in neat rows, covered with potted plants of every imaginable color and hue. In one corner was a pile of broken pottery. A stack of sacks filled with loam, piled as high as a man’s waist, sat next to it. Where one had ripped, rich black soil spilled out onto the stone floor.
“Your employer sent you here to give me a message, Mr. Montgomery,” Smythe said. He’d pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose with it. He wondered how Montgomery could stand the stink of himself.
“Allergies gettin’ to ya, are they? Mine give me hell this time a year, too.”
“The message, if you please, Mr. Montgomery,” Smythe said, his voice rising.
“Sure thing, congressman. But ’fore I get to that, boss man told me to be sure an’ ask you how them campaign greenbacks he fronted ya was workin’ out?”
“The funds have been used for their intended purpose,” Smythe said. “You can assure your employer that I haven’t forgotten about our agreement. One would think the profits from the brothels and the aether smuggling alone would keep him in greenbacks. Never mind his considerable interests in the black market. For some men, it’s never just about the money, is it?”
Mouse removed his bowler hat again and scratched his head, a blank expression on his face. “Not quite sure I follow you, congressman.”
“Just as well,” Smythe said, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Tell your employer he’ll see his investment returned tenfold—after I assume office, of course.”
While Smythe was talking, Mouse picked up a potted plant. The flower was a brilliant shade of orange, the color of a summer sunset. Mouse studied the plant, turning it in his hands. Smythe’s face reddened. He snatched the pot from Montgomery’s grasp.
“I’ll have that message from your employer, Mr. Montgomery. Now if you please.” Smythe placed the potted plant back on the table.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Montgomery said, grinning an ugly grin. “I’m sure you heard by now, as it’s been the talk of the land, but the deed is done. Davis is dead. Friday evenin’ of this week past. All the loose ends been tied up, just like you directed.”
“And what of the actor we paid to do the job?”
“Oh, him? Peacekeepers chased ‘im all the way from Richmond to a barn outside the city. Our man inside the army finished ‘im off ‘fore he could talk any, just like you ordered. All them that conspired with ‘im’s been taken care of too,” Mouse said. “But it don’t matter none about him gettin’ away. Why, those men huntin’ him were right on top—”
“What do you mean ‘it doesn’t matter?’” Smythe asked. Smythe could feel the vein in his forehead begin to pulse. “Surely you’re not telling me, Mr. Montgomery, that one of the coconspirators was allowed to escape alive?”
“Well, it weren’t anyone’s fault, really,” Mouse said, seeming to take offense. “Out of the six you had us hire on, he was the only one left breathin’. And then not for long. You asked us to hire the best an’ we hired the best. He was so good he gave both us and the peacekeepers the slip, for a time.”
Smythe picked up the plant he’d just set down and hurled it against the wall, shattering the pottery and cracking the greenhouse glass. Mouse jumped back in surprise.
“Idiots!” Smythe screamed. Spittle flew from his lips. The skin from the top of his balding head to the bottom of his turkey neck turned an angry shade of crimson. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Whoa. Get aholt of yourself, congressman,” Mouse said, placing his hands protectively in front of him. “You’re like to blow a gasket. Surely it ain’t as bad as all that?”
“Get out, Mr. Montgomery,” Smythe whispered, “while you still can.”
Smythe had no idea when, but at some point, Wagstaff had appeared inside the greenhouse. The sight of the massive former infantry soldier and the livid congressman were enough to convince Mouse he’d worn out his welcome. He tipped his hat and left without another word.
“How much of that did you hear?” Smythe asked.
“Every word, congressman.”
“Despite my request for privacy?”
“You don’t pay me for privacy, congressman. You pay me to look after you and your interests.”
Smythe nodded. “Something I admit you’ve done exceedingly well. I’ll need you to confirm with our sources what Mr. Montgomery told me. I admit the man is effective, but I don’t trust him for a minute. We can’t risk any loose ends remaining.”
“I’ll get on it right away, sir.”
“While you’re at it, have Benjamin order the Confederate Congress into emergency session. Calling them in will buy us some time
while we try to get in front of this.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yes,” Smythe said, eyeing the crack in the glass wall and the remains of the plant he’d destroyed. “Schedule a man to come out and repair my greenhouse. And get someone in here to clean up this mess.”
4 Airship field at Mason’s Island, just outside Washington, D.C., April, 1864
“Damned balmy tonight. Being so early in spring and all.” The sergeant major took a puff from his pipe and exhaled. Montclair watched as the cloud of tobacco smoke dissipated in the damp evening air.
“Heat this soon means a bad summer ahead,” Montclair replied, his mind elsewhere. A low fog rolled off the river, covering the marsh.
They’d made excellent time after parting ways with the Gryphon, achieving landfall in less than twelve turns o’ the clock from when Levington delivered them their orders. One more turn found them flying over a sleeping Washington D.C. under heavy escort until they finally landed at the airship field on the city’s outskirts.
“You could throw a stone and hit the Potomac from here,” the sergeant major said, noticing Montclair’s mood. “You thinking on that battle again?”
Montclair said nothing. He looked out over Mason’s Island and into the dark river. There was a stillness in the air. Not so much as the cry of a night bird disturbed the midnight quiet.
“Men die in war, Julius, even under the best of leaders.”
“Not my men, sergeant major.”
“Sooner you avail yourself of that notion, the better off you’ll be.” The sergeant major smacked the back of his neck, killing a mosquito. “Too early in the year for these damned ‘skeeters. Bugs. Stink of mud. Smell of the river. Yep, this is Mason’s Island, all right.”
“It may not be the loveliest place, but I like it,” Montclair said. “Reminds me of New Orleans.”
“Maybe,” the Sergeant Major said. “’Cept a hell of a lot less comfortable, and the food’s nowhere near as good.”
Montclair laughed. “That’s true.”
Mist floated off the Potomac, creeping across the airfield and wending its way through the island’s maze of barracks and maintenance sheds. Moisture from the fog settled and clung to every surface.
Vindication, her engines silent, floated peacefully above the ground. Her decks were still except for Montclair, the sergeant major, and the few soldiers standing watch. A few minutes later, Montclair listened as the thunder of mechanical hooves on wooden planks disturbed the peace of the evening. He watched as mounted soldiers emerged from the fog, riding hard across the causeway linking the island to the banks of the Potomac.
“Looks like your welcoming party's here,” the sergeant major said, taking a puff on his pipe. “I count ten men, not including your pal the Marine major—hardly a welcome befitting the Hero of the Battle of the Potomac.”
Montclair frowned. “I’ll be back before daybreak,” he said, ignoring the sergeant major’s poor attempt at lifting his spirits. “Can you have her ready to fly by the time I return?”
“I’ll see it done,” the sergeant major said. “Still think you should take a few of the airship’s guard along. Just in case.”
“The president was gracious enough to provide an escort. Bringing the lieutenant and her guardsmen along would send the wrong message.”
“An old man knows when he’s beat,” the sergeant major said, holding up his hands. He put away his pipe and came to attention, saluting Montclair.
Montclair retuned the salute. As the sergeant major departed, Montclair checked his cavalry saber’s fastening and gave the Colt revolver strapped to his thigh a reassuring pat. Union capital or not, never hurts to be prepared.
Confident that all was in order, Montclair pulled the black leather glove snug over his clockwerk hand and strode down the gangplank toward the waiting escort.
“Julius Montclair! You’re a sight for sore eyes, son!” General Buxton’s booming voice echoed across the sleepy island.
A smile split Montclair’s face at the unexpected greeting. “Pleasure seeing you again too, sir.”
The general sat astride the stormcloud-gray mechanical horse with relaxed authority. Montclair envied him his effortless air of command but also noticed quite a bit more white in the general’s beard than he remembered.
“Colonel Levington said there’d be a contingent of Marines meeting me. He didn’t mention you specifically though, sir.”
“Levington? Ulysses sent that damn ghoul out to fetch you?” The general leapt from his clockwerk horse with the agility of someone much younger. He walked right up to Montclair and scooped the taller man up into a tight bear hug. “Well, step back, son, let me get a good look at you!” The general pushed Montclair out to arm’s length and looked up at him. “Who would have thought that scamp from West Point would turn out to be such a fine soldier?”
“Thank you, sir,” Montclair said. “Means a lot coming from you. After Louisiana seceded and my family cut ties with me, I had nowhere else to go. I’ll always be grateful to you and Mrs. Buxton for taking me in.”
“Your father and I fought Greek pirates together when you were barely out of diapers, Julius. If he’d been alive, that foolishness with your family would never have stood. You know you’re like a second son to Florence and I. There will always be a place for you in our home should you ever need it.”
“All due respect, sir,” one of the mounted Marines said, “I hate to break up the reunion, but I know if I want to get a word in edgewise with Montclair, I’d best speak quickly.”
“I was wondering how long you’d be able to keep quiet,” Montclair said. “I’m impressed you held out, Greg. Must have been at least two whole minutes.”
Major Aldan Gregory dismounted and snapped off a quick salute. Then, he pulled Montclair into a quick, rough embrace. “Good to see you again, old friend.”
The major stood equal in height to Montclair and was of a similar muscular build. His complexion leaned toward pale but had tanned reluctantly under the sun of numerous military campaigns. The major wore a thick mustache. His hair, sandy-brown in color, hung long and unruly from underneath his cavalry Stetson.
“Never thought when we made major together, I’d be saluting you the next time we met,” Gregory said.
“It wasn’t by choice, Greg.”
“I know it, Julius. I was sorry to hear about Colonel Hawkins. I know the old man wouldn’t have wanted anyone but you at Vindication’s helm.”
“Battlefield promotions don’t always turn out as well as we might hope,” General Buxton said, placing his hand on Montclair’s shoulder. “Lucky for the Union, yours did.” He gave Montclair a pat on the back before mounting up again. “All right, boys,” the general said, turning his brute back toward the causeway, “enough jawing for now. There’s an extra mount for you, Julius.” The general pointed toward a clockwerk horse of midnight-black iron. “Let’s get you in the saddle and on your way. Won’t do to keep the president waiting.”
Montclair grasped the pommel seat of the mechanical horse, which the rank and file troops had taken to referring to as “brutes.” The beasts were works of art, the majesty of nature captured in metal and animated with clockwerk technology. Like all brutes, Montclair’s mount stood at eighteen hands high. The machine was fashioned in the likeness of the Scottish draught horse known as the Clydesdale. They were well-muscled and strong, with an arched neck, high withers, sloped shoulders, and a wide muzzle. In place of a horse’s shining coat and mane were telescoping rings of armor plating. In place of joints, there were giant gears at the creatures’ hips and smaller ones at its knees. Montclair swung up into the seat, settling into the saddle.
They rode north, racing across the Mason Island causeway and galloping through dark woods where only whippoorwills and startled deer marked their passage. Soon, they came to a mud-filled thoroughfare and followed it east for half a mile until they arrived at the ferry landing. The drowsy soldiers manning the landing greeted Gen
eral Buxton, saluting as he and the rest of the party rode past and onto the waiting boat.
The river was dead quiet as they crossed; only the sound of water slapping against the hull intruded on the silence. The rainclouds from earlier were gone, swept away by a warm evening breeze. With the clouds gone, the stars were finally free to shine. Montclair watched as they sparkled like diamonds on black silk. He gazed at them until they were halfway across the river, and he caught sight of the lights of Washington.
A quarter turn o’ the clock later, they landed. Montclair and his escort trotted down the ferry’s gangplank and rode in silence as they entered the city.
The streets were as empty as a ghost town. Montclair saw two acolytes of the alchemist’s guild, unmistakable in their hooded, wine-colored robes. Other than the acolytes and a few candles burning in the windows of the Temple of the Order of the Healer, they saw no signs of waking life.
The brutes moved at a brisk trot, their metallic footfalls echoing through the silent city. They rode along K Street until it intersected Pennsylvania Avenue. Then, as they passed 17th Street, Montclair looked south toward the National Mall.
“No use dwelling on what’s done,” Gregory said. “Nothing but ghosts down that road.”
“Ghosts can haunt a man,” Montclair said.
“Better to think on the lives you saved that day. Not the ones you lost.”
“Try telling that to a grieving widow. Or a fatherless child.” Montclair shrugged, hopeful that Gregory would press the issue no further.
They came to an ornate wrought iron gate with a vast green lawn behind it. Ten-foot stone walls, their parapets topped with iron spikes, lined the estate. Behind the walls, soldiers patrolled the most fortified acres of land in the western hemisphere. The bronze placard beside the gate gave the address simply as “1600.”
