by Scott Mebus
They rode up to the door. The elegant structure was two stories of flagstone and mortar, a simple stone house just like its name suggested. But something about it seemed strong to Bridget. This was a house that survived.
Halting the horses, Whitman hopped out of the wagon to help Rory out of the back. Rory still swayed on his feet, so he needed both Soka and Whitman’s help making it through the door, where a surprise waited for them in the main room of the house.
“Fritz!” Bridget cried, running forward to greet the battle roach, who stood on an old pitted table with Clarence by his side. Fritz seemed both delighted and concerned to see them.
“I can’t leave you alone for five minutes!” he told them.
As Whitman and Soka helped him sit down in an overstuffed chair by the fireplace, Rory glanced around. The main room of the house sported worn stone walls and a big fireplace, with wooden beams crisscrossing along a hard wooden ceiling. It felt like a cozy safe place. “Is he okay?” Fritz was asking Whitman.
“I’m right here,” Rory said peevishly. “And I’m fine. How did your recruiting go?”
“Very well,” Fritz said, smiling. “The battle roaches know which side is just. Even my own clan finally came to my side.”
“Did Liv come, too?” Bridget asked.
“Yes, in fact, she did,” Fritz replied, trying not to grin but failing. “I left her in charge of the roach armies so I could come help you.”
“I knew you crazy kids would be reunited!” Bridget announced, and Fritz shook his head at her enthusiasm.
“Thank you for your belief.” He turned to Rory. “Did you find anything in Queens?”
“The second package!” Rory exclaimed, looking around in fear as he realized he didn’t know where it had gone. He sighed with relief when Soka pulled it out of her pouch. “Can you read it out loud?” he asked reluctantly. “I can’t focus that well, right now.”
“I’ll read it,” Whitman offered, taking the pages. “Soka told me about this agreement your father mentioned, about the rules all gods must follow. I’d never heard of it! We’d always assumed our restrictions were part of the natural order of things. But if this is true, it will change everything we believe we know about ourselves. We must ask the old-timers what they have been hiding. I am curious to see what else is in these pages.” He opened to the top page. “Three,” he read.
“I hate skipping ahead!” Bridget pouted. Whitman snorted and began to read: I found it difficult to keep Kieft’s manservant’s secret, especially since Kieft demanded that Henry accompany us on our journey. But I had promised, so I said nothing. Marta warned me before we left not to trust Kieft. She was certain he would betray me. I assured her that the stakes were too high for such games. Even Kieft knew that. As I took my leave, I could see the worry on her face, but what could I do? Survival was at stake, and that made for strange bedfellows.
Before we left, I asked Kieft why we needed to make our pact with the land in such a remote spot. Couldn’t we do it from the safety of home? He simply smiled and told me there was no other way, but not to worry. It would be a painless journey, he said. I should have known better. That journey would bring me nothing but pain—pain and sorrow. But even if I had known, how could I have turned away?
Rory glanced around in confusion. “What does this mean?”
“Who is Henry?” Bridget asked.
“This doesn’t tell us anything!” Rory said, annoyed.
“Perhaps it does,” Soka said thoughtfully. “He would not write about this man Henry’s secret, whatever it was, unless he thought it was important. He must be part of what Adriaen is trying to tell us.”
“But we don’t even know who this guy could be!” Rory said. “Who can keep track of Kieft’s servants, especially one from three hundred years ago!”
“Well, we know one thing,” Fritz said. The others looked at him. “Wherever they made this pact with the land, that’s where we’re going. It’s the only thing that makes sense. This isa treasure map, of sorts. And we have to follow it to the end.”
They stared at one another, mulling this over, until a loud knock on the door made them jump.
“There they are!” Whitman said, striding over to the door. “I asked some friends to bring us someone to take a look at your head, Rory.” After glancing through a peephole to make sure he knew his visitors, he threw open the door to reveal two men, who strode into the room like soldiers, escorting a small woman in a nun’s habit. Rory immediately recognized her as she hurried to his side.
“You are one of the nuns, aren’t you?” Rory asked as the nun bent over him to check his wound. “From the Abbey?”
“I am Sister Charity,” the nun said. “The Abbess sent nuns to the different boroughs to assist with the wounded in your struggle. I was traveling with these soldiers’ regiments when Whitman’s request for medical help came. And when I heard it was you . . . the Abbess told us to keep an eye out for you. She’s taken a liking to you, I think.” Sister Charity inspected his wound. “This was quite a crack you received. Normally, you would have to rest for weeks to recover. But I know you don’t have that much time. Luckily, in your case, I am allowed to call on some extreme measures.” She muttered strange words to herself as she placed her hand over his wound. Rory began to feel warmth spread through his head. The feeling was familiar; he’d experienced this touch before. Her touch, he thought, and then wondered where that thought came from.
“Is that the Abbess?” Rory asked, his voice weak as the healing power flowed through him. “That touch I feel?”
The nun paused in her chanting, though her hand still covered his wound. “Not exactly. We nuns serve man, but not only man, and this power comes from she whom we also serve.”
“Who?”
The nun said nothing, returning to her chanting. Rory felt another wave flow through him and he had no strength to ask more.
Meanwhile, Whitman was introducing the soldiers as Colonel Wood and Colonel Smallwood.
“The same Colonel Smallwood from that story you told me about the heroic Marylanders?” Bridget asked, popping up to say hello. The shorter, fatter of the two colonels gave her a slight bow, his round red cheeks flushed with pleasure. He wore a blue overcoat with gold tassels on the shoulders, and his hair was powdered white.
“So you’ve heard of my brave men and their valiant stand?” Smallwood said, his voice booming as he waved his arms about energetically. “What a day that was, let me tell you! The British surprised us, but my men had blood of pure ice water. You should have heard the muskets fire. Boom! Crack! The smoke from the gunfire covered us all in a fog, turning the damned red-coated foe into demons in the mist. It was enough to scare the pants off of a Hessian! But we would not break! That’s where you learn who you really are. Out in the thick of it!”
“Wow!” Bridget was impressed. “You’re hard-core! And was your friend in your brigade?” She nodded at the taller colonel.
“Oh no,” Colonel Wood said, smiling. He sported a long blue coat with two rows of big gold buttons that hung down over a pair of bright red trousers, which were tucked into a pair of big black boots. He had the coolest mustache Bridget had ever seen—it ran down from his ears along his jaw until it leaped up above his lip, leaving his chin completely bare.
“Colonel Wood was the leader of the famous Red Legged Devils,” Whitman explained. “They were the fiercest fighters in the Civil War. I remember them vividly—I was mortal during the war, and I wanted nothing more than to be a solider in Brooklyn’s Fourteenth regiment. Lincoln’s favorite, you know. He often asked them to attend public functions with him.”
“President Lincoln appreciated our backbone,” Colonel Wood said modestly. He was less effusive than Colonel Smallwood, but he seemed just as brave.
“So will both your regiments join the fight against Kieft?” Whitman asked them.
“How can I fight for one oppressed people and not another?” Wood asked. “The Red Legged Devils will answer
the call.”
“I always did like my tragic last stands,” Colonel Smallwood said. “It’s no fun if it isn’t hopeless.”
“That’s heartening,” Fritz said wryly.
“What are you lot doing here, anyway?” Smallwood asked the roach. “Recruiting?”
“Actually, they’ve got another mission,” Whitman told the colonels.
“It’s nothing really,” Fritz cut in quickly. Bridget could tell that he didn’t quite trust the two soldiers. “Just a little task we have to finish.”
“Spies, eh?” Wood said, nodding knowingly.
“I hate spies,” Smallwood cut in. “Either fight or go home. None of this lurking around—that’s not true soldiering.”
“We’re not spies!” Bridget retorted, stung. Fritz gave her a warning look, but she ignored it. “We’re looking for the Fair Engineer!”
“Is that ironic?” Smallwood asked. “There’s only one engineer around here, but I don’t think anyone would call him fair.”
“I thought of him,” Whitman said. “But it didn’t make sense. He’s the opposite of fair.”
“Maybe they mean fair-minded,” Colonel Wood mused. “Of course, I don’t know if we’d call him that, either . . .” Bridget couldn’t take it anymore. She hopped right in the middle of the room.
“Who are you talking about!” she cried. “Do you know who we’re supposed to meet?”
“Maybe,” Whitman said slowly. “He doesn’t quite match the description, but the colonels are right. Maybe the word fair doesn’t mean what we think it does.”
“There you go,” Sister Charity told Rory, standing up. “You should be fine now. Just try to protect the area.”
Rory pushed himself to his feet. He felt much better. “Then let’s go see this guy, fair or not. Before we run out of time.”
Peter Hennessy sat in his chair, stone-faced, as Kieft stared down at him. The First Adviser did not look pleased at what he was hearing.
“Where has this unexpected backbone come from?” the man with the black eyes asked, his eyebrow raised.
“I won’t do it,” Mr. Hennessy said, as he’d been saying for the past half hour. “I’ve broken too many promises in my life. I won’t betray my children.”
“Was that why you led Moses on a wild-goose chase?” Kieft asked. “He told me that you must have circled Queens three times before he realized what you were doing.”
“They’re my children,” Mr. Hennessy repeated, his arms crossed protectively across his chest.
“What about your wife?” Kieft asked. “Aren’t you afraid of what I’ll do to her?”
“I realized that you won’t dare do anything to her,” Peter said. “She’s not just leverage against me, but also Rory. And Rory is more important than I am. So you wouldn’t harm her or Bridget’s body.”
“How . . . calculating of you,” Kieft said. “But you are not the only one who can hedge his bets.” He held out his hand and a small fly buzzed down to land on his palm. “Have you met any of Hearst’s little pets? Very useful for overhearing secrets. This little one spent the past day nestled in your shirt collar. She listened in on everything and then she relayed it all to me. So I know all about Van der Donck’s journal and his account of the Agreement.”
Mr. Hennessy’s face fell as he realized that he’d betrayed his children just by being in their presence. Kieft leaned in. “You can imagine my delight at learning that they are following such a doomed path. You well know how difficult it is to travel. Still, it is time to stop this charade. You not only carried this little fly with you, you also transported a few of her siblings, who are even now nestled in the clothing of your progeny. Once they have gathered enough intelligence, they will return to me and then I will find your son and finish this. Your son has proven quite adept at slipping from my grasp, a skill I salute him for, by the way. But I am done playing games.”
Mr. Hennessy let out a moan. Kieft smiled. “Don’t worry. Your son is mine, but that doesn’t mean I will kill him. He is much more valuable by my side than he is under the ground. So you still have a role to play. He doesn’t have to know your part in this. Help me one more time, and he will go the rest of his days remembering his daddy the hero, not his father the turncoat. How does that sound?”
Mr. Hennessy stared back in horror, unable to face this choice. No matter what he did, he always ended up hurting the ones he loved.
10
THE FAIR ENGINEER
Nicholas, Alexa, and Lincoln heard the strains of the jazz band playing down the hall as they approached the unmarked door in the back of an unremarkable building in Greenwich Village. They reached the door, knocking once, then three times, then once again. A small panel slid back in the middle of the door.
“Password?” a voice demanded.
“Salamander salad,” Lincoln replied, having picked up the password from a friend. The music washed over them as the door opened to reveal a dour-looking mobster in a pin-striped suit.
“Welcome to Chumleys,” the man said, and the Rattle Watchers pushed past him into the memory of one of New York’s most famous speakeasies. During Prohibition in the late twenties and early thirties, the government made it illegal for anyone to drink alcohol. So secret bars, called speakeasies, popped up in cities all over the country, where if you knew the password you could dance to the hottest music, rub shoulders with celebrities and criminals, and, most importantly, have a drink.
Nicholas, Alexa, and Lincoln were interested in none of these things as they pushed their way through the crowded room. The little place was packed. Tables were set up all around, with a bar in the corner and a lively five-piece jazz combo playing on a small stage. Brightly dressed spirits danced the Charleston in the middle of the room, laughing and spinning. Some were mobsters, some were thrill seekers out on the town. But most were children of the gods. Which was why the Rattle Watch was here.
“Don’t they know there’s war coming?” Lincoln muttered, glaring at the dancers.
“Of course they do,” Alexa replied. “That’s why they’re dancing.”
They made the rounds, speaking in low tones with various groups of children of the gods, trying to recruit. But no one seemed to care. And then a voice rang out.
“Well, look who it is! Mr. and Mrs. Goody Two-shoes!”
In the corner, squeezed around a small table, sat Nicholas’s old gang: Teddy Twiller, Randolph Morris, a very drunk Robert de Vries, an embarrassed Jane van Cortlandt, and their ringleader, the one who’d called out with a sneer in her voice, Martha Jay.
“No surprise to see you here,” Nicholas said as they approached the table.
“No luck getting idiots to join your little army?” Martha asked, waving a drink in her hand.
“It’s weird how no one wants to go get killed!” Teddy Twiller said mockingly.
“You won’t be laughing if Kieft wins!” Lincoln announced, his eyes burning.
“Why are you so sure Kieft is such a bad guy?” Randolph slurred. “He gave us such pretty knives!”
“So it’s true!” Alexa leaned in. “Tell me you are not dumb enough to go running around with those evil knives! What are you thinking!”
“Haven’t you heard?” Martha asked. “Anyone can be a god now. Isn’t our old friend Simon now the God of Plates, or something like that? Why should he have all the fun?”
“You don’t understand what you’re messing with, Martha,” Nicholas said.
“Don’t you always say we need to have a goal, a purpose?” Martha asked. “Well, my goal is to be a god. I can have a purpose, now. I can matter. All it takes is one little stab with this!” She pulled out a familiar knife, and the Rattle Watch stepped back in alarm. Nicholas noticed that not all of Martha’s companions seemed happy at the sight of the knife. Robert de Vries looked green and Jane van Cortlandt glanced away unhappily.
“This will end badly,” Alexa warned. “Kieft didn’t give you that knife so you could become a god. He did it to sow chaos a
nd fear. You can’t murder your way to the top.”
“If you want to be a part of something noble and just,” Nicholas said to the others, realizing that there was nothing more they could say to Martha, “then join us. We hope you do.” With that, he led a disheartened Alexa and Lincoln back the way they came, leaving Martha Jay and her friends playing with the knife like the children Nicholas feared they’d always be.
After taking leave of the colonels and Sister Charity, Whitman bundled up Bridget and her companions in his wagon and quickly drove them west across Brooklyn toward the river. The light was beginning to fail as they trotted into Brooklyn Heights, the upscale neighborhood of old brownstones and quiet, tree-lined streets hugging the river directly opposite the soaring skyscrapers of downtown Manhattan. They pulled up outside an unassuming brick building, poured out of the wagon, and followed Whitman up to the front door.
“Who are we here to see?” Fritz asked at Whitman’s feet as the god knocked heavily on the thick wooden door.
“His name is Washington Roebling, and he is the God of Dangerous Projects. He built the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Well, that sounds like an engineer, all right!” Bridget said. “So why didn’t we come here in the first place?”
“Because he didn’t fit the description. Fair is not a word I would attach to him, in any definition of the term.”
“Because he’s ugly?” Bridget asked innocently.
“You’ll see . . . ” Whitman replied cryptically, and the door creaked open before Bridget could press him further. A young maid stood in the doorway, dressed in an old-fashioned frock and apron.
“Are you here to see the master?” she asked, not looking any of them in the face.
“Yes, is he in?” Whitman asked.
“He is, sir, but the Mrs. is not home. That might make it hard . . .” She trailed off. Bridget was dying of curiosity to learn about what was going on with this mysterious engineer.
