Uncrashable Dakota (7 page)

In his dream, Hollis found himself alone on the main deck at night, surrounded by the high stone battlements of a castle.
Terrible airship design
, he thought. Above the castle-deck, a yellow moon dangled from two long cords like a stage prop. He climbed a narrow staircase up the side of the stone wall and studied the moon, which was only a few feet away. As he reached out to touch it—he’d always wondered what the moon felt like—he heard the unmistakable wet, raspy sound of his father clearing his throat. A gob of spit landed on the surface of the moon, and Hollis was suddenly afraid. His father had been dead for two years.

The spit on the moon was flecked with blood. Hollis turned. His father fixed his spectacles and frowned.

“Swear,” he said.

Hollis backed against the stone wall. Dirt poured from his father’s ear and gathered in a pile at his feet. Hollis cupped his hands to catch the dirt so he could fling it over the side.

“Swear,” his father said again.

Hollis awoke with a jolt, damp sheets twisted around his legs and waist. His head felt much better, but his heart was pounding. The only light in his bedroom was a thin rectangle that outlined his door. Was his mother still entertaining? It felt like the small hours of the morning. He slid from his bed and fumbled into an old pair of pants and a long-sleeved shirt, then opened the door just enough to peek out with one eye.

Four men in Dakota uniforms were scattered about the room—two flanking the door, two sitting in leather armchairs across from his mother, whose nightdress trailed on the floor beneath the sofa. One man was speaking in a low voice, barely above a whisper. The other man was sipping from a cup and balancing a saucer in his lap.

“So y’see, Mrs. Dakota, the doc thinks it might’ve been the liver pâté. At least, that’s what he’s determined might be the cause of the … uh…”

“Speak freely,” his mother said. She sounded amused.

“The cause of the bowel, uh, troubles.”

“
Digestion issue,
” said the officer with the tea.

“And just so we’re clear, he sent for all of us?”

The first man nodded. “He says to me, ‘Everett,’ he says, ‘Go and fetch Lucy and Hollis.’”

The second man chimed in. “He kindly requested your presence in the infirmary, ma’am, along with your son. And Robert, too.”

Hollis thought his mother was going to burst out laughing. “Should I wake Father Cairns for last rites? This sounds like a very serious episode of indigestion.”

“I’m sure he’s not in that kind of mortal danger, ma’am.”

“We’re just obeying orders.”

“Of course you are.” Hollis’s mother slapped her hands against her knees and rose to her feet. “But I see the rest of you haven’t touched your tea. How rude, to make poor Steward Bailey cart it here for nothing.”

It was then that Hollis noticed the tray, upon which rested three identical and untouched teas. What was going on? Why would his mother spend so much time entertaining Castor’s errand boys at such an hour?

“Wasn’t necessary,” said one of the burly men by the door.

The man’s barrel-chested partner rumbled in agreement. “Shouldn’t have bothered.”

Hollis’s mother hesitated for a moment, eyes fixed upon the door as if she were waiting for another guest to arrive. Then she threw up her hands in resignation. “Well, I suppose I’ll go attempt to lift his spirits. But I’m not waking the boys for this.”

The men looked at each other as if they were unsure of how to proceed. Hollis wondered if they’d forgotten whose name was on the ship. He stepped out into the sitting room.

“It’s okay, I’ll go with you. Let Rob sleep.” He was already anticipating the look on Castor’s face, crippled by stomach pains, his orders almost—but not quite—obeyed.

“Morning, Hollis.” His mother smiled.

“Is it?” He locked his fingers together and stretched his arms above his head.

“Half past four.”

“Ungodly.”

It occurred to him that an even more satisfying facial expression might be derived from Castor’s orders being completely ignored. He could try and talk his mother out of going altogether. But then he wouldn’t be able to see his stepfather’s face, which was the whole point. He decided to stall while he figured out how best to play his hand.

“What’s this about liver pâté?”

“It’s rendered your stepfather’s bowels inoperable, apparently.” She cast a quizzical eye at the man draining his teacup. “Or have they become
too
operable?”

Flustered, the man placed the cup and saucer carefully on the table. “Much obliged for the refreshment.”

A hurried knock on the door proved to be a formality, since it swung right open. Hollis recognized the dim shape of Steward Bailey, a modest crewman with whisper-smooth movements, well suited to darting about airship passageways and bustling kitchens.

“Mr. Castor is not in the infirmary, ma’am. I checked myself, and then I confirmed with Dr. Mapplethorpe on night admittance duty.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bailey. I thought not.” She turned to the man who’d enjoyed his tea. His face attempted an apologetic smile. “Where is my husband?” His smile didn’t waver. Her next statement was an accusation. “You’re the one who’s been phoning me.”

He laughed nervously. “Phoning you, ma’am?”

So the call on the bridge wasn’t the first one
, Hollis thought. This was too much to process so early in the morning, when everything still had the churning, not-quite-correct feel of a dream. Hollis half expected his father to stroll into the room, ear leaking dirt.

His mother beckoned to the steward. “Mr. Bailey, please join us while these men explain what kind of game they’re playing and who put them up to it.”

Steward Bailey stepped forward into the room. One crewman quietly shut the door while the other whipped the back of the steward’s skull with a leather sap. The first man caught him beneath the armpits and lowered him into the corner, chin resting senselessly against his chest.

“See? You shouldn’t have done that,” said the man with the sap.

Hollis yelled for his stepbrother to wake up as he lunged for his mother’s arm. The futility of the situation gave his movement a quick, desperate edge. If Rob would come bolting from his bed, they might have a fighting chance. Everyone in the sitting room seemed flung on a collision course with everyone else. His mother turned to him, arm outstretched, but was viciously bundled up by the two crewmen from the chairs. Her stockinged feet kicked heel-first at their shins. Hollis swiped nothing but air and tried, at the last second, to let his momentum slam him into the man on the left, who sidestepped him neatly and sent him sprawling against the legs of the sofa.

“Rob!” he screamed again, twisting away from the burly man with the sap.

“Keep him quiet,” growled the fourth man, who had remained by the stateroom door. Hollis wriggled beneath the sofa and sprang up on the other side. He was near the open set of French doors that led to the dining room. Beyond that, a kitchenette with a servants’ entrance led to the access corridor that ran behind the largest staterooms so that food could be delivered without disturbing the occupants. If it was unguarded, it would be his only escape route.

But he wasn’t thinking of escape. The man with the sap advanced on him. Hollis’s eyes searched for a weapon—like the deadly looking poker in the wrought-iron fireplace set. He’d never reach it in time. A strange calm settled over him. He was no match for these men, but he knew how to throw a punch. Sort of. Maybe, if he got one good shot on the big guy—

“Run,” said his mother, right before they clamped a soaking wet rag over her nose and mouth.

Hollis willed Rob’s doorway to burst open. Why wasn’t he getting up? His mother’s eyes bored into him. Then her body drooped like a deflated balloon. The big man swung the sap, and Hollis ducked. Leather whisked his hair. In the corner, Steward Bailey groaned, head lolling from one side to the other. The crewman by the door planted a boot in his ribs, and he slumped forward.

Hollis was faced with a decision that he had no time to ponder: lunge at the big man’s legs and try to catch him off balance or scramble through the dining room and out the servants’ door?

Take him down.

Already his body was obeying a more reasonable and insistent command, hurtling through the kitchenette, past a wooden block of razor-sharp steak knives, handles facing out.

Go back and fight.

The knives were behind him. He crashed through the door and out into the empty, undecorated hallway, where he did what his mother had told him to do.

THE HISTORY OF FLIGHT IN AMERICA

PART

TWO

UP ON THE ROOF
of the White House, Samuel Dakota brushed himself off, took a long look at the gas lamps of Washington, and began poking around in the darkness until he stumbled against a wide chimney. He climbed over the top and wedged his back against the bricks, knees bent, feet pressed against the opposite side. Reassuring himself that there was little chance of falling into a roaring fire in the middle of summer, he eased into a halting descent, breathing slowly to silence the pounding of his heart. After scraping his way down the narrow shaft for a few torturous minutes, he began to wonder if the presidential bodyguards were instructed to shoot intruders on sight. Perhaps he should have formulated a better plan.

When he reached the bottom, he paused, listening, just above the pool of light seeping in from the room. Empty and quiet, as far as he could tell. He put a hesitant foot down, expecting a pile of ash but finding smooth brick, and unwedged himself from the chimney. It smelled vaguely charred, but otherwise the fireplace was free of soot.
Well, this is the White House
, he thought.
Of course it’s clean.

He crawled out and was surprised—again—to find himself in a hallway rather than a room. Scowling portraits lined the walls. He smelled the rich, lingering odor of savory, slow-roasted meat, and his stomach gurgled and growled. It had been months since he’d eaten a decent meal. He placed his hand over his belly and willed it into silence.

He wondered what President Lincoln was in the habit of doing after supper. With the war still raging, Samuel guessed the man would be in his study, poring over battlefield assessments and reports, absorbed in his work. He had always heard that Lincoln was a melancholy loner.

Just ahead, the hallway split, forming a T-shaped corridor. To the right, the delicious smell of the presidential dinner seemed stronger. He guessed that the offices were separate from the living and dining rooms, so he took a left.

Suddenly the strident, overlapping voices of two men drifted toward him. He froze for a second, then darted beneath a sofa that was not quite long enough to shelter his tall frame. Wedged once again in a narrow space, he hugged his knees as best he could and peered out between the polished maple legs as the two men strolled past.

“I commend General Sherman’s single-mindedness,” one halting voice said. “His zeal is not the issue, Mr. Stanton.”

The second voice, much fiercer: “Then what
is
your issue, sir?”

“It has more to do with— Ah! These drafty halls strike again.”

A stovepipe hat tumbled to the floor and rolled to a stop in front of the sofa, inches from Samuel’s face. He pressed himself back against the wall, but it was no use. He felt a sudden tense stillness in the air as the two men froze in surprise at the sight of a filthy vagabond stuffed beneath a sofa in the hallway of the White House.

The fiercer voice spoke first.

“Come out of there at once and identify yourself, soldier. And bear in mind that we are most inclined to have you shot for trespassing, so move slowly and carefully.”

Samuel crawled out on his belly and picked up the fallen top hat. He struggled self-consciously to his feet and extended the hat to its owner, President Abraham Lincoln himself, who accepted it with a mystified smile.

Samuel bowed his head. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

“Well?” the other man asked. In nursery-rhyme contrast with the gaunt, lanky president, this man was short and fat, with spectacles pressed into his round face and a bushy gray beard covering his thick neck. He looked upon Samuel with revulsion. Samuel wished he had spent the afternoon taking a bath and scrubbing his uniform instead of sitting on a bench in the heat.

“Shall we hear the explanation for your desertion and this unwelcome trespass, or shall we summon the guards?”

Samuel thought of the unsmiling man at the front gate who had shooed him away at the end of a gun. If sent for, that man would certainly not hesitate to shoot him on principle.

Samuel cleared his raw throat and drew himself upright. He ignored the fierce little man and addressed the president directly.

“My name is Samuel Dakota, and I request a brief audience with you, sir, in order to demonstrate a top-secret new method to achieve total victory over the rebel secessionists in a matter of months, if not weeks.”

Lincoln’s smile remained. The other man tried to speak but instead began to cough.

“Mr. Dakota,” the president said, “please allow me to introduce Edwin Stanton, my secretary of war, who seems a bit taken aback by your offer. As for me, I had assumed you were an assassin and am quite overjoyed to find that you are not.”

Cheered and emboldened by the president’s oddly genteel manner, Samuel began to speak with greater confidence as Mr. Stanton looked on in disbelief.

“What I can offer you,” Samuel said, “is the means to conquer the cities of the South—”

Stanton interrupted, “General Sherman currently has that task well in hand, and may I remind you that you’re speaking with the president of the United States—”

Samuel held up a finger for silence. Stanton sputtered.

“As I was saying,” Samuel continued, “the means to conquer the cities of the South
and
demolish her armies, all the while keeping our soldiers completely out of harm’s way.”

Lincoln replied, “I confess, I don’t see how you can demonstrate something so outlandishly large in scope and ambition to me inside these walls.”