Fiddlehead

“Navigate,” he said as he slipped a pair of goggles over his glasses and urged her to do the same. He used another key from the ring to remove a steel lock from around the ignition, then leaned out the window and deposited the keys and the lock into a basket provided for the purpose … and cranked the dirigible to life.

Its motor purred willingly, if with a faint clatter, while it warmed, then quivered, and then lifted them off the ground. Henry took an experimental turn or two with the thrusters, testing them for responsiveness. He fiddled with the steering mechanism and flipped switches and tugged levers.

Maria didn’t think this looked very complicated, in the grand scheme of things. She resolved to learn how to fly a dirigible upon her eventual return to Chicago—assuming she didn’t freeze to death in the sky above north Georgia. Well, assuming also that her mission was a success. And that the world was not overrun by necrotic leprosy.

Though, as the dirigible gained altitude, she considered that a plague might be all the more reason to learn how to fly. Victims of the ailment could run and eat, but they couldn’t chase her off the ground, could they?

Henry valiantly fought the drafts and currents, forcing the Black Dove high enough to pass the ridge. His gloved fingers were tight on the controls, and his eyes dashed back and forth between the readouts, the levers, and the sky. Without looking at Maria, he asked her, “I gave you Troost’s map, didn’t I?”

“Got it right here,” she said, withdrawing it from the satchel where she’d stashed it. Keeping a firm grip, she splayed it across her lap. “Do you see the southbound road?”

“No, but it can’t be far.”

He was right; it wasn’t far. They found it fast, puttering and swaying against the intermittent rain and wind, dipping up and down above the trees, only to drop back down into the valley as they soared past the wall, so near that Maria could’ve stuck out her hand and touched it. Her stomach dropped and lurched, but luckily she hadn’t eaten since the night before, so there was nothing present to cast out over Lookout Mountain as they careened off to the south.

The weather worked against them every mile of the way. It buffeted them head-on, and sometimes threatened to throw them off course. Henry wore himself out keeping the craft as steady as he could, and eventually found some violent rhythm to the trip. Maria couldn’t see his eyes behind the lenses, but she had a feeling that they were hard and unblinking.

“There’s a spyglass in my bag,” he shouted to her over the rushing air and rumbling motor.

“I’ll get it.” She nodded, and fished around until she found it.

“I’m not seeing much traffic down there, are you?”

“No,” she said loudly back, though her view through the spyglass was compromised by the lenses she wore to protect her eyes. “That’ll change as we approach Atlanta. It’s picking up even … even now.” She gestured at the road, then off to the side, where a large factory compound coughed out soot from three tall towers. “That’s Dalton, I believe.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“So”—she squinted back down at the map, and pointed to a spot with one gloved finger— “we’re about here. Still ninety miles from the city, I’d estimate, but I’ll keep my eyes open. If we’re lucky, they’re still quite a ways outside town.”

“If we were lucky, Troost would’ve gotten us a ride with a heater,” Henry said. His icy cheeks were round and red, and he wasn’t smiling.

“Just one more reason to hope we find them fast,” she replied, though she couldn’t feel her face at all, and her jaw must surely be freezing shut.

Talking was difficult, so they soon gave up and concentrated on their respective chores. Henry kept the craft aloft, and Maria watched the ground below, tracing the comings and goings of carts, horses, and diesel carriages as they chugged along the southbound route to the biggest city in the Confederacy.

She did not take her eyes off the road as she asked, “How much fuel does this thing hold?”

“Enough to get us to Atlanta, but not much farther. These little ones aren’t made for the long haul, but we’ll make it to the city,” he assured her. “Even fighting the sky like this.”

“Good,” she said quietly. And then she closed her eyes, listening for something she heard very faintly, behind them and off to their left. “Even if we take a detour or two?”

“Detour?” He frowned hard enough that the goggles dipped on his forehead. “Why would we detour?”

“Not a detour, then. Call it evasive action.”

Her ears pinpointed the noise and she turned her head far enough to catch it with her eyes. A ship was incoming, far enough away that she couldn’t suss out the details, but it wasn’t alone—and that was the main point of note. It had a friend, and that friend was approaching from the right.

“Two ships, Henry,” she said evenly. “Coming up behind us.”

“They could be merchants or military fellows,” he tried, but he didn’t sound convinced even as he said it. “This is a common enough trade route.”

“Henry, we’re being flanked.”

“That … can’t be by accident.”

“I shouldn’t think so, no.”

“It might be nothing,” he said, hands tight on the controls. “We haven’t seen any other ships today because the flying conditions are nothing short of awful, but this section of sky is a regular roadway. They have no reason to confront us.”

Maria turned the spyglass outward and caught the first ship in the round viewing area. It was small and nondescript, and still too far away to see with any great clarity. But the second ship was larger. She could just make out some lettering on the side, but not quite read what it spelled.

“What do you see?”

“I see…” she said, slowly, “a military ship, I think. It’s big, but doesn’t look well armed. Cargo, transport, something of that sort. It’s CSA gray, at any rate. With … yes. The Bo

“You think it’s one of the Union decoys?”

“Might be, but if the Maynard device wouldn’t fit on something that size, it must be bigger than I’d assumed.” She adjusted her grip on the spyglass and tried the other ship again. “The smaller ship … it’s not marked for the military. I’m not sure it’s marked at all.” It was gaining on them faster than the CSA ship, but still she saw no identifying flag, insignia, name, or registration numbers.

“That isn’t good.”

“It might mean pirates. Pirates wouldn’t bother a pair of adventurers in a tiny rented craft, not when there are travelers below and big city docks another hour or two out. I do hope it’s pirates,” she concluded.

“You’re a peculiar woman.”

“I’ve had good luck with pirates. I’ve been told I’m a bit of a pirate myself.”

“Let’s not talk of luck anymore, shall we? Or pirates, either,” Henry pleaded through teeth clenched with chill or nerves. “We’ve already noticed that luck isn’t with us. And as for pirates, you are no such thing. That having been said, you’ll have to tell me that story sometime.”

“Not much to tell,” she lied, keeping one eye glued to the spyglass lens. “My first assignment as a Pinkerton agent had me working with a pirate crew. The captain was a runaway slave named Croggon Hainey. He’s the friend of mine that Troost hopes to call in for backup in Washington.”

“A friend of yours?” Even through the goggles, Maria could see Henry’s eyes widen with incredulity. “All right, I’m not a man to judge. But if he’s a pirate … do you think he’ll help us, or the Lincolns, or anyone else? Even if Kirby Troost asks him to?”

Still peering through the glass, she told him, “Yes, I do. He’s an adventurous sort, and no fan of Southern politics, as you might expect.” She shifted her grip on the device, and directed the conversation back to more pressing matters. “And I wish to God that he was here with us right now.”