Bureau 13: Damned Nation, page 24
"Who knows? I might it could have been the blackpowder from my guns,” Joshua wildly theorized, patting Estelle in greeting. “That could be deadly poison to them, and we keep burning it up to shoot the Drell with harmless lead."
"It's a strange world,” Logan chuckled, climbing onto Abraxas. The big stallion nickered at the rider, and he scratched him behind the ears.
Just then, a shape lunged out of the smoke. Both men instantly drew their weapons, only to falter at the sight of a singed bear dressed in a pink tutu frantically pedaling a tricycle.
"And getting stranger every minute,” Joshua murmured, lowering the revolver.
Heading back towards Washington, the men held an impromptu war council. Both of the special agents agreed that speed was essential to catch the Drell before they decamped from the Hoffman Estate. However, charging in ill prepared would be tantamount to suicide.
By the time they reached the outskirts of the city, a rough battleplan had been established. At a fork in the road, Joshua headed for the Executive Mansion, while Logan went straight towards downtown DC.
Less than hour later, the two men rendezvoused at an isolated tavern on the north road called the Drunken Badger. Located far from the sight of proper society, it was a favorite watering hole for the servants in DC, where butlers and maids could swap gossip, exchange recipes, date, complain out loud, and generally let their hair down to behave like free adults. The only house rule of the Drunken Badger was: No Corpse, No Crime.
There were a dozen horses tethered at the wooden railing along the front, either asleep, or contentedly chewing inside their feedbags. The porch was empty, but bright lights streamed around the edge of the door. A tinkling piano could be heard inside the tavern, and a drunken crowd tried to sing along with the music, but failed miserably. Giggles and delighted squeals were coming from the lit windows on the second floor, along with a great deal of highly poignant silence from the unlit.
Smoking a cigar, Joshua was leaning against a buckboard wagon, the rear stacked high with barrels, crates, and canvas bags. A matched team of chestnut geldings was harnessed at the front of the wagon. The reins wrapped about her pommel, Estelle stood nearby, rifles jutting out of her bulging saddlebags.
"Marco,” Logan said, halting a safe distance away.
"Polo,” Joshua replied, meaning that it was safe to travel closer. The two men had worked up an assortment of simple codes to use in battle on the long trip from the circus. During a fight, that would give them an extra edge. If we don't accidentally use the wrong word and kill each other.
"Busy place,” Logan said in displeasure, sauntering over to the buckboard wagon. “Was this a wise choice?"
"The best,” Joshua declared, removing the cigar from his mouth and dropping it to the ground. Estelle crushed it under a hoof as if she had done it a hundred times before for her former rider. “We need to stay low key. In Washington, this is the place. Nobody alive can not see something like a happy servant. Heck, the Badger is not even on the military maps."
"An excellent choice, then.” Logan surveyed the mounds of supplies filling the buckboard wagon. “Leave anything for the rest of the Union Army?"
"Just barely,” Joshua smiled wearily. Sgt. Montgomery had been reticent at first, but once Joshua explained about the rescue mission, the soldier stood back and let the munitions flow. Which was a good thing, because their task had just become twice as hard. There was a deadly world of difference between a long-range bombardment, and a covert infiltration.
"And how about yourself?” Joshua asked, tugging the leather gloves on tighter. The cuts were itching like crazy, which meant they must be healing. Why did getting better always make you feel worse?
"Oh, mission accomplished, I can assure you.” The major gave an impish grin. “There is very little that gold and guns can't get a man these days."
"So I hear."
Starting to open the containers, the two men began to parcel out the recent acquisitions. In short order, they were armed for battle, and started briskly along the north road out of town.
"Just remember that the unmarked tubes are filled with fulminating guncotton,” Joshua repeated from the seat of the buckboard. He shook the reins slightly, urging the team to go faster. Daylight was fading, time was short. “The tubes that say DuPont are merely filled with blackpowder and dimes."
"Silver shrapnel for the werewolves. Not full charges, I assume?"
"Nope. Quarter sticks. I'd rather not blow myself trying to kill the hairy bastards."
"I heartily agree,” Logan said, flipping a DuPont tube in the air before tucking it inside his vest. Gunnery crews always said that warm blackpowder had more force than the cold stuff. Of course, that may have just been their clever way of also staying warm during winter combat. True or not, the major decided to lean in its favor. “These petards should fit nicely on the crossbows that I ... ah, recently acquired from the friend, of a friend."
Acquired? Stole was more likely. But Joshua decided not to push the point. Needs drive, where the Devil must. “And what about the lens?"
"It took some wheeling and dealing,” Logan said, pulling out a cigar to start chewing. There were far too many explosives around to dare lighting a Lucifer. “The Hungarian oculist I found was having dinner at a restaurant, proposing marriage to a lady friend. However, I managed to convince him to leave her for a few minutes and go back to his shop."
"Lord almighty. How much did that cost?"
"You don't want to know,” Logan said, leaning sideways in the saddle to pass over a small brown paper box. “Here it is."
Wrapping the reins around a peg, Joshua took the package and carefully cut it open with his folding knife. Inside was a small jewelry box containing a monocle. Lifting it to an eye, Joshua saw that the occult lens worked the same as before.
"I tried looking through it and saw nothing,” Logan said enviously. “The gypsy was right. It will only work for the person who scraped it clean."
"Sorry.” Tying the precious object to a sturdy piece of silk ribbon, Joshua tucked it away inside his vest. For emergency use only. And just in case, Joshua had a small packet of willowbark tea to counter the expected headaches. The Apothecary-General at the Executive Mansion had tried to press some heroin on the Bureau 13 agent, but Joshua didn't trust those newfangled drugs. Willowbark tea would be just fine. Besides, everybody knew that heroin gave a man terrible wind.
Evening fed into night as the two special agents headed into Maryland. Soon, the roads became dirt as the farms changed into wildwood. A curve brought a covered bridge into view, and Joshua cocked the hammers of the Remington shotgun lying across his lap.
"I hate these things,” Logan muttered, studying the rafters overhead. “Can't tell you how many men I've ambushed in one."
As the buckboard rattled across the wooden planks, Joshua hunched his shoulders and said nothing. He had deliberately omitted telling the major about the incident before. Let the dead bury the dead.
Sensing that something was bothering his companion, Logan decided to tactfully chance the subject. “Out of curiosity, what did you do before, ah..."
"Stalking the night fantastic?"
The major gave an easy laugh. “Yes. Were you a military courier, or a bounty hunter?"
"Protocol administer,” Joshua said smoothly, the words flowing trippingly off his tongue. In a way, that was quite true.
Logan blinked in surprise. “A butler? I'm working with a butler?"
"A head butler,” Joshua corrected stiffly, relaxing as the wagon rolled out of bridge and back into the starry night. “So what did you do before...."
"Blockade runner. For the Confederacy, of course."
"No ... Really?"
"Yes, indeed. I'm no Rhett Butler, but I did well enough."
"Who?"
"Nice fellow, strange ears, bad taste in women."
"That must complicate his life."
"You have no idea."
On through the night, the two men rode across the Maryland countryside, discussing tactics, and the possible weaknesses of the Drell. Along with where the bizarre things might have come from.
The moon was high among the stars by the time Joshua and Logan reached the sleeping city of Laurel. Finding an inn, they fed and watered the horses, then went inside for a quick plate of Brunswick stew, and copious amounts of coffee. Empty bellies made empty heads, as the old saying went.
Fortified for the coming battle, the men rode east with growing trepidation. They were in enemy territory now, and every moonshadow seemed to hold a Drell, a werewolf, or some even more ghastly creature of the night. Twice they almost fired their guns at a squirrel, and once at a scarecrow fluttering in the breeze.
"So tell me, how did you get this plumb assignment?” Joshua asked, trying to keep his mind off things that went bump in the night. “Dally with some brother officer's wife?"
"Mind your tongue, sir. I am a gentleman from the Old South!” Logan shot back, sitting upright in his saddle and radiating a fine Carolinian fury. Then he recanted with a smile. “And yes, I did. However did you guess?"
"People are people."
"Not always,” Logan replied with a heartfelt sigh. “I sought the lady's favor only to get close to her to confirm she had been bitten by a vampire."
Those Joshua know about from the rabbi. “Did you save her from turning? Er ... I mean, Turning?"
"Sadly, no,” Logan growled, tightening his grip on the reins. “I barely managed to kill her before she reached General Jackson. My gun and sword did nothing, so I grabbed a tent peg and hammered it through her heart with my empty pistol right there in Stonewall's tent. I only wanted to pin her helpless, but she exploded into ash. The general promoted me to Lt. Major right on the spot, and I've had the awful nickname of The Hammer ever since."
Joshua chewed a lip. “Well, you could always tell people it comes from your accuracy with a pistol,” he suggested.
Startled, Logan's eyes went wide. “Why, yes, that's what I meant,” the major backtracked glibly. “I'm a hell of a shot. Even Stonewall Jackson calls me The Hammer."
"Very impressive,” Joshua grinned back amiably.
"And we could nickname you the Tea Tray Killer."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The Tea Tray Killer.” Logan frowned. “No, that seems a bit long. How about the Anvil?"
"The what?"
"Goes well with The Hammer. Would you prefer to be called The Tong? How about The Nail?"
"I am armed, you know."
"Just asking,” Logan chuckled easily, rocking to the gentle motion of the stallion.
Taking a curve, the two men tensed as dim figures appeared ahead in the darkness. But the special agents eased their stance when they saw it was only a couple of barefoot teenagers guiding a milk cow along the dirt road. The two groups nodded politely as they passed at a respectful distance.
"How far to the mansion?” Logan asked, holstering the Colt.
"Another couple of miles,” Joshua said grimly, placing aside the Remington shotgun. “We'll get there long before dawn."
"Good. We need the cover of night, and I would dislike waiting another day.” Pulling a canteen off the pommel, Logan took a drink of cold coffee. Mexican beans, indifferently ground, beet sugar. Still, it keep his mind alert, and that's a fact.
Just then an owl hooted, and both men went deathly silent. Owls were supposed to be omens of good luck, but tonight they wouldn't have trusted a shining angel from above. With weapons in hand, Joshua and Logan stayed on the alert, and didn't speak again until reaching the Patuxent River. The dark waters rushed past the rocky shore, the surface alive with wisps of misty fog.
Nervously pulling out the monocle, Joshua studied the forest carefully, but the area seemed clear. There was no sign of anything magical in the vicinity. Or else the aura was so purple that I can't see it in the night.
Notching an arrow into the crossbow, Logan rested the weapon on a shoulder. “See anything?” The ancient weapon held a plain wooden shaft with a steel tip. The sharp metal had been blackened in the flame of a candle so that it wouldn't reflect moonlight and give away their position. No blackpowder charge was attached to this arrow. From here on, stealth was the watchword for the rest of the mission.
"Nothing magical,” Joshua murmured, tucking the monocle away, and rubbing his burning eye. Even a brief use brought pain.
"Well, stay sharp, my friend, there's something in the wind,” Logan muttered uneasily. “I can feel it in my bones."
Reaching down, Joshua lifted a loaded crossbow from the floor. “When your bones starting talking, let me know, because mine aren't saying a word.” The man could feel the old panic bubbling in his mind, quickening his heart. He would not fail this time. Free the girl, kill the Drell, blow the house. Would could be simpler than that?
Proceeding along the bank of the river, the special agents noticed a mist rising from the damp ground. Soon a fog covered the landscape, and they rode through a billowing cloud, the trees only dark shapes in the swirling clouds.
Cresting a low hillock, the two men brought the horses and wagon to a halt as a bridge came into view. The river could be heard splashing below, but the other side of the river was an impenetrable barrier of fog.
"Something wrong? You look pale,” Logan said, tucking a handful of Lucifer's into a vest pocket, strategically near the dangling gray fuse for the blackpowder stick, sticking out of his belt like a Japanese war sword.
"Must have been the Brunswick stew,” Joshua muttered, checking the draw on the LeMat, and then the Colt. “I don't think they used real hedgehog."
"They so rarely do these days."
Chucking the reins, Joshua led the way across the bridge, the hooves of the team clumping preternaturally loud in the mist. Here we go....
But as the wagon reach the middle of the span, Joshua saw the clouds part to expose a vast and empty field of weeds. The Hoffman Mansion was gone.
"Are you sure this is the right place?” Logan demanded, then waved that way. “Never mind. I can see in your face that it was."
"Now why did they destroy the mansion?” Joshua demanded rhetorically. He felt cheated. They were all revved up for battle, only to find the enemy had skedaddled. It wasn't fair!
Leaving the bridge, Joshua and Logan spread out to advance to the field. But there was no sign of wreckage, or ashes, or even a foundation. There were only compressed weeds, roughly in the shape of a rectangle, with an outer box about five yards thick.
"The Drell didn't burn the place,” Logan muttered, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise. “They spirited it away somehow. Perhaps it flew like the castles in fairy tales."
"Or is it just invisible?” Joshua muttered, stoically using the monocle. Nothing.
Climbing off Abraxas, Logan slung the crossbow behind his back, and pulled the Colt to slowly walk forward with his hand outstretched. Reaching the cloudy limit of the depression in the ground, the major paused before taking a single step forward. He crossed the line without incident, feeling only the misty air.
A breeze rustled through the evergreen trees, almost sounding like laughter. Estelle snorted unhappily, then so did Abraxas, and the team of geldings, the horses obviously agreeing with each other's opinion on the matter.
"It's gone,” Logan cursed, lowering his hand. “Where in Hades could they be now?"
"If the building really did fly away,” Joshua said in pensive thought, “then it could be anywhere on Earth, from Tasmania to Timbuktu."
"All right, when you don't know what to do next, always start again at the beginning,” Logan declared gruffly, turning up his collar to the chill breeze. “What do we know about the owner, Alexander Hoffman?"
Extracting his notebook from an inner pocket, Joshua flipped through the pages, until findings his notes taken from the newspaper article. “Alexander Hoffman ... born in Harper's Ferry, Virginia ... yadda yadda ... went to school, blah, blah, blah ... self-made man ... eccentric millionaire ... recluse ... never seen again ... oh, this is useless.” He tucked the book away once more. “I'm stumped. Any clever ideas?"
"Not a mucking ... wait a second. Where did he come from again?” Logan demanded sharply, his eyes flashing. “What was the name of that town?"
"Ah ... Harper's Ferry. Why?"
The major closed his eyes in pain for a moment, then snapped them open again. “I've seen the medical reports on the wounded soldiers,” Logan snarled, beside himself with rage. “Unless I'm mistaken, the first case was reported just after a battle in Harper's Ferry."
"Us, too,” Joshua whispered, remembering the Surgeon-General's report that President Lincoln had shown him in The Shop. “And Alexander Hoffman came from Harper's Ferry..."
"It seems that stupidity is its own reward,” Logan snarled. “May God damn our foolish pride! We've known the source of the monsters for twelve hours. Twelve! Carried it about in our pockets like children with stolen cookies, neither of us willing to share.” The major seemed ready to burst. “From now on, we're full partners. Brothers in arms!” Pulling out his cigar case, Logan thrust it at Joshua. “Here, read ‘em. Read all of my secret reports!"
"Thanks, perhaps later,” Joshua countered, climbing off the buckboard and starting to release the team of horses from their harness. “If we're right, the Hoffman Estate has been taken back to where it came from, Harper's Ferry. That's over eighty miles away on horseback. It would take two days, mayhap longer, to haul this wagonload of explosives that far.” As the animals came free, Joshua slapped them on the rump. “Git!” he shouted.
Bolting for their freedom, the geldings needed no further prompting to breaking into a full gallop and disappear into the dark woods.
"What about the explosives?” Logan asked, climbing back onto the stallion.
"Leave ‘em. I can send a note to Sgt. Montgomery to retrieve them later."
"Fair enough.” Pulling out his pocket watch, Logan checked the time. “If we hurry, we can catch a westbound train at the Baltimore station."
