Читать книгу President Lincoln's Secret - Steven Wilson - Страница 12

Eleutherian Mills

Near Wilmington, Delaware

Major Bloom was a liar, Fitz thought. Or at the very least he was doing a very poor job of avoiding the truth. The major had met Fitz and Asia at the Hagley Yard of the E.I. du Pont de Nemours and Company site on Brandywine Creek. The meeting had started badly with Bloom being disagreeable about Asia’s presence.

Fitz silenced him with a curt, “She is not your wife but mine. And even I do not presume to tell her where she may or may not go.”

Bloom relented, either because Fitz outranked him and carried a warrant from the president or because Asia’s cold gaze caused him to reconsider his position.

“Very well,” Bloom had grumbled, “but this is a dangerous place and I will not be held accountable for her.”

“No,” Fitz said. “That is why I married her. Has a man from the Navy Department named Abbott arrived?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Bloom said.

They traveled a short distance in a carriage to the scene of the explosion. Fitz smelled the desolation before the vehicle stopped. It was the heavy stench of burned wood, and damp earth mixed with the sharp, stinging scent of fired powder. When the carriage stopped Fitz was first to dismount. He said nothing as he surveyed the destruction. All that remained of the three buildings were charred timbers jutting from mounds of shattered bricks. The steady pillars of smoke that floated into the afternoon sky and the remnants of fires that glowed within the rubble reinforced the notion.

As Fitz studied the macabre landscape, Bloom spoke, stacking explanations and observations atop one another so effortlessly that no seams were apparent in his conclusion.

“One of the workmen was smoking,” Bloom said. “There are several hundred here, and you don’t expect a man to be denied a cigar. There were no rebel agents.” He laughed at the thought, adding, “For God’s sake, Colonel, this entire area is safeguarded by the 178th Michigan.”

“You command the regiment?” Fitz asked.

The question startled Bloom. “What? No, sir. Colonel Greenwood.”

“I would expect Colonel Greenwood to have met us with his explanation,” Fitz said. “Where is he?”

Bloom grew defensive. “Called away, sir. Important business.”

“Gentlemen.” A man hurried toward them. Seeing Asia, he amended his greeting. “Oh. My apologies, madam.” He removed his hat, and nodded in place of a bow. “I am Kinnane, the mill manager.”

Bloom introduced Fitz and Asia but did not continue explaining his theory.

Fitz spoke to Asia, to spite Bloom. “That makes perfect sense, doesn’t it, my dear? A moment of inattention, an unguarded flame, a clumsy attempt to light a cigar?”

Kinnane’s eye’s widened before he blurted, “What is this? What are you implying, sir? What have you told them, Major Bloom?”

“I?” Bloom said, offering the appropriate amount of innocence.

“A workman’s doing,” Asia said. She aimed her charms at Bloom. “Isn’t that what you said, Major? Oh, silly me. My woman’s brain is often unable to grasp such complex theories, but I believe, Mr. Kinnane, the good major plans to lay this fiasco at your feet.” She cocked her head to one side, as if she had just noticed something. “You were a lawyer before the war, weren’t you, Major Bloom?”

Bloom’s face reddened. “What of it?”

“I’ve spent my life among lawyers, Major Bloom,” Asia said. Her tone was cool. “I can tell when a lawyer is forced to argue a weak case.”

“Bloom,” Fitz warned the major. “Do not banter words with my wife. She has a sharp mind and a quick wit. I can testify to those traits personally.” He turned his attention to Kinnane. “What happened?”

The mill manager, relieved to have his chance to talk, barely drew a breath before the words tumbled out. “The fire started there, at the Number Two shed, I think amid the wagons ready to be loaded.”

Fitz saw a string of bright red enclosed wagons in the distance, the du Pont name painted in gold letters over the word explosives. A driver sat under a shelf that extended from the roof of the wagon. “Like those?”

“Yes. Yes,” Kinnane said. “We’re very careful.” He tossed Bloom an accusing glance. “Our men are very careful. They know what one spark will do. The buildings are well separated to prevent incidents such as this. One building setting fire to another.”

“And yet it happened?” Fitz said.

The idea puzzled Kinnane. “Yes.” He looked over the rubble. “But I don’t know how. Unless the fires were set at once.”

“But the major assures me the mill is safe,” Fitz said. “Surrounded by a regiment from Michigan.” Kinnane had no response, so Fitz continued. “It was either an accident or the work of traitors. Why are you reluctant to offer any details, Mr. Kinnane?”

Kinnane hesitated. “We had a report, you see. A very puzzling event. I did my very best to investigate the explosion, but—” He decided on a solution. “We must speak to Gideon.”

A large black man sat on an upturned bucket in the shadow of a drab, brick building, wrapping a soiled bandage around his hand. He stood when he saw the party approach, touching his knuckles to his forehead in salute.

“Hello, Mr. Kinnane,” he said in an English accent. He moved his bandaged hand behind his back.

“Mr. Gideon,” Kinnane said. “This is Colonel and Mrs. Dunaway.” A moment passed before he was compelled to add, “This is Major Bloom.”

Bloom was incredulous. “A nigger? We bring this incident to a nigger?”

“Mr. Gideon knows more about powder than virtually anyone here. Mr. du Pont himself has said as much.”

Bloom turned to Fitz, outraged. “Colonel, surely you cannot place any value on the word of a common nigger. He could be the very cause of this horrible accident. Look at his hand. Show us your hand, boy. I’ll wager it’s burned.”

“Major,” Fitz said. “Shut up.”

“I beg your pardon, Colonel. I see no reason—”

“It’s because you’re ignorant,” Asia explained. “That is the reason.”

Bloom stiffened but remained silent. Gideon had been examining his injured hand while the conversation took place, waiting for an appropriate moment to speak.

“I caught it on a bit of iron,” he said, offering his hand to Bloom. “But you may look it over if you must.”

“What can you tell us about the explosion?” Fitz asked.

“We had the line ready,” Gideon said. “Six wagons. Three and three. That is to say, three up to be loaded and three well back on the off chance that an accident occurs. One can never be too safe in dealing with explosives. The first set had been loaded, and the driver took them one hundred yards from Building Number Two.”

“That is how we load and transport the powder through town,” Kinnane said. “The wagoneers are steady hands.”

“What could you possibly know about explosives?” Bloom asked.

“I was nearly a decade a gunner in the Royal Navy,” Gideon said. He returned to his account. “I came down the line and handed each driver two copies of the bill of lading. I had just signaled for the first wagon of the second set to move forward, when I noticed a glow in the night sky.”

“See! See,” Bloom said. “A cigar, no doubt. Or someone trying to keep warm. It was near midnight, wasn’t it? And very cold out?”

“It was,” Gideon said. He remained polite despite Bloom’s interruption. “A cold night. But closer to ten. The glow, a yellow light, came from above.”

“A lantern, then,” Bloom tried. “A clumsy attempt to illuminate the area.”

“Above me, sir,” Gideon said. “From the sky.”

Bloom was stunned into silence, giving Fitz time to speak. “Explain yourself.”

“Sparks,” Gideon said, searching his memory. “A stream of fire. Like wax dripping. The first wagon of the second set caught fire near the tailgate. Then the roof of Number Two. Bill Ward was driving the wagon and he must have seen the fire because he whipped his horses into a gallop, away from the building and the other wagons. His wagon exploded about fifty yards from the building. I was knocked to the earth but arose in time to see the building on fire. There was another explosion, and I was blown clear.”

“Fire from the sky,” Bloom said.

“Major Bloom,” Fitz said, taking the officer by the shoulder and leading him away from the group, “a word with you, please.” He placed himself between the others and the startled major, and kept his voice low. “This is what I think. I think your Colonel Greenwood knows damned well that this is somehow the work of Confederate agents, and rather than take the responsibility, he has excused himself from the scene. I further think that you are here deflecting any accusation that your colonel’s incompetence, or the entire regiment’s for all I know, led to this catastrophe.”

“Colonel! I must protest.”

“I carry a warrant from President Lincoln,” Fitz said, fighting to control his anger, “with instructions to determine the cause of the explosion. Your actions indicate you haven’t the slightest idea what happened, but you will make certain to lay the blame at someone else’s feet. I don’t have that luxury. This is what I recommend. Go away. Go away now, go far from my sight.”

All Bloom managed was, “Sir?”

Fitz sighed in exasperation. “For God’s sake, man, are you that thick? Leave now, or I will shoot you.” Fitz returned to the group.

“I do hope you weren’t too harsh with him, dear,” Asia said. She smiled at Gideon and Kinnane. “The colonel and civility are distant cousins.”

Fitz slid his arm carefully from the sling, lifted the fabric over his head, and handed it to Asia. Unbuttoning his tunic, he slipped his arm in, settling it in place. “Your bandage needs replacing, Mr. Gideon. If you don’t keep burns aired out they will putrefy.”

“Burns?” Kinnane said in shock. “I thought you told the major—”

“He was irritating me, Mr. Kinnane,” Gideon said, dropping his bandage in the dirt. He allowed Asia to dress his burn with the sling.

“The fire?” Fitz prodded.

Gideon winced as Asia tied off the bandage with an apologetic glance. “I haven’t seen anything to compare to it in twenty years. I was a boy, on H.M.S. Hesperus. We were in a gale off the Land of Fire. Between the wind and heavy swells we were all convinced the sea would swallow us. I heard the men shouting, and then an able seaman next to me cried out, pointing to the rigging. The sheets and spars were ablaze, glowing in the darkness like a fiery cross of old. I was struck dumb, and could do nothing but watch the flames leap from spar to mast, race down the ratlines and sheets, covering everything aboard that good ship.”

“Saint Elmo’s Fire,” Fitz said.

“It was,” Gideon confirmed. “Harmless, but a frightening event nevertheless. Especially for poor, ignorant seamen in times of peril.”

“But this fire?”

“From the heavens as well,” Gideon said. “But terrible. It flowed like the other, but there was heat to it.” He sought a way to explain. “It appeared to be raining fire.”

“Could someone have gotten close enough to throw a bomb? Or an infernal engine of some sort?”

Gideon gave the question careful thought before answering. “No, sir. These buildings are spaced apart. Each set is surrounded by an earthen bank. Where I was, at Number Two, I could see everything. It was a clear sky. The fire came down, straight down from the sky. A giant could have been pouring molten lava from his boot.” He dug in his pocket, remembering something. He pulled out a scrap of fabric and handed it to Fitz. “I found this a short distance from Number Two.”

Fitz took it. It was a bit of silk, no larger than his palm, scorched around the edges. Its surface was smooth, and almost liquid in its texture, but the odd thing was its reverse. It was coated with something that was tacky. He put the fabric to his nose. Fumes from the silk stung his eyes, and the stench was that of machines. He looked at Gideon, seeking an explanation.

“That has no business on these grounds, sir. It’s not the remains of a powder bag.”

“I hope you have an explanation, Colonel Dunaway?” Kinnane said.

“I have a speculation,” Fitz said. “But it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Don’t be modest, Fitz,” Asia said. “We have more than our share of mysteries here. Let us hear your theory.”

“Arrows,” Fitz said. “I’ve seen Indians use flaming arrows to fire prairie. They fire them nearly straight in the air. They travel in a high arc, on their target.” It was obvious that the others weren’t convinced. Fitz understood their reluctance—they thought the idea just shy of ridiculous, but he had nothing else to offer. “Let us not waste time talking about Indians and flaming arrows. I hope that Mr. Abbott, when he finally appears, will condescend to give us his opinion. He should have been here by now.”

“Don’t belittle the navy, Colonel Dunaway,” Asia said.

“They are not punctual. To me that means unreliable. Unreliable and unseemly.”

Asia smiled. “Be patient, dear. Not everyone is fortunate enough to be as infallible as you.”

Fitz noticed an army courier riding toward them. The soldier called, “Colonel Dunaway?” as he stopped his horse.

“Yes?”

The soldier pulled a folded dispatch from his tunic and handed it to Fitz. “From Washington, sir. The War Department.”

Fitz took the message, stepped away from the others, and read it. He slipped the message into his coat, nodded to the messenger that he was dismissed, and turned to the others.

“Phillip Abbott has disappeared,” he said.