Dawn's Early Light (11 page)

“Absolutely not,” Eliza said. “We still don't know how they are doing this. We need to find Merle again.”

The librarian glanced at her own notes, then back over at the wreckage. “To see if there's anything else he can remember?”

“That”—and then Eliza glanced down to the two dead Usher agents—“and see if he's still alive.”

W
hen Eliza walked into Quagmire's, there was very little sign of their previous night's brawl, save for the absence of tables and chairs. The bartender must have recognised her, considering how quickly he reached for what she could only assume was a shotgun, concealed underneath the bar. The sound of Bill's own rifle hammer being pulled back and locking into a firing position, however, froze the man where he stood.

“Where does Major Brantfield live?” Eliza asked, her eyes boring into the bartender's.

“What makes you think, missy,” he seethed, “that I know where a drunk like Mer—”

Eliza grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and yanked. His face slammed hard into its smooth, worn wood with a crunch.

“Where does Major Brantfield live?” she asked again in exactly the same tone.

“All right,” he yelped clasping one hand to his nose. “Let me put this another way . . . fuc—”

Her fingers found his shirt collar, and once again the bartender's face connected with the bar.

“Next time,” she said, her voice never faltering, “I won't be so polite.”

She heard Bill chuckle as the burly barkeep, struggling to breathe, muttered the whereabouts of Major Merlin Brantfield.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, jerked her head at Bill, and stormed out of Quagmire's.

Wellington had already disengaged the hand brake before Eliza was settled in the passenger seat. They rumbled away from the saloon in a cloud of white steam, Bill on horseback only a few paces behind.

“Went well then, did it?” Wellington asked in a calm tone.

Eliza shot him a look, and pointed to a side track. “Down there.” She wasn't about to get into an argument with him about her methods. Bill was in many ways more in tune with her than the archivist.

They passed through low scrub, and bounced along the sand for a few minutes until they saw a shack that looked to be held together by willpower alone. Beyond the dilapidated dwelling, the powerful, grey waves of the Atlantic continued to pound and dig at the wide, sandy shore. She couldn't imagine a more desolate spot, and she had seen a few.

Eliza checked both pistols, glanced at the portable cannon Bill had so sweetly presented her at the
Delilah
, and then reconsidered as she calmly replenished her belt with spare bullets. Throughout she did not look in Wellington's direction. “What have we got, Bill?”

“We each have those shell-lobbers. I got the Peacemakers,” Bill said, dismounting his ride, “and I also got this.” He slipped free of its holster an impressive rifle. Running along the top of the barrel was a coil, connecting with the microgenerator just above what she could only assume was the receiver. It resembled a Winchester model, but there was no lever action. “Say hello to American ingenuity—the Winchester-Edison 96X. It's a prototype.”

“How many shots?”

“Six sixteen-gauge shells.” He then motioned with his head to the small coil running above the barrel. “The coil gets out a burst somewhere in the range of two hundred kilovolts to five thousand megavolts.”

“Five thousand
mega
volts?!” Wellington exclaimed. “That's a range between stun and incineration!”

Bill shrugged. “Told you it was a prototype.”

Eliza smiled slightly, but turned the conversation in the direction she wanted. “And you, Wellington, I take it you still have the Nipper?” She hated that damn thing, but at least he was armed.

He checked his left pocket, then went to his right, and fished out the tiny, bulbous weapon. Bill let out a snort and flipped the safety off the 96X, coaxing a tiny hum that grew higher in pitch with each second.

“Fair enough.” Eliza gave a nod. “Stay sharp, everyone.”

“Are you sure about the crest?” asked Felicity suddenly.

“You can say, without equivocation, that Usher and I have a past,” Wellington returned, his eyes darting between Eliza and Felicity. “I would know that raven's crest at a glance.”

“I've never met any of their agents before. This is fantastic!”

“Come again?” Eliza asked.

“This means a
second
correlation is being established between OSM and the Ministry. We already have such an instance, although that mission—Operation: Plutonian Shore—was not a sanctioned partnership such as our present one. It involved an agent of yours, a Mr. Bruce Campbell, if memory serves . . .”

Eliza stared at her, stunned into silence. Was Felicity's head rushing over a cross-reference? She looked over to Bill, who shook his head and shrugged.

Felicity continued to drone, “The Ministry was seeking a bizarre artefact—”

“Agent Lovelace,” Eliza bit, her patience for the woman slipping faster than the final grains of sand in an hourglass, “I don't know if you have taken account of the current situation, but what we are about to do demands stealth.” She closed in on her, and Felicity leaned back as Eliza drew close enough to smell the touch of perfume on her. “Therefore, with all due respect, shut it!”

Felicity's eyes widened, and she nodded. She bit her bottom lip and then whispered, “My apologies. It's just . . .” And the strange excitement returned to her eyes. “This is a cross-reference in the making.
This is so exciting!
”

Eliza narrowed her gaze on her, contemplated stuffing her into the boot of Wellington's motorcar, but instead made the mental note that librarians were on par with archivists as odd ducks that could work her last nerve to its breaking point.

“We go in quiet, we go in ready,” Eliza said.

“Stay close, Felicity,” Wellington whispered to her, “and stay low.”

Yes, Felicity,
Eliza seethed,
you do that.

She motioned for Bill to flank their position while the three of them crept up to the front porch. With the exception of the ocean, there was no sound, not even the creaking of a rocking chair that sat motionless against the few warped floorboards. Her eyes looked over the sides of the shack. She noted a few bullet holes in the window, but it was impossible to tell if said bullet holes were from earlier today or the previous decade.

Bill peered from around the opposite end of the house, his 96X up and ready, but only for a moment. It slowly came down as he tried to make sense of something he was looking at. Eliza glanced back at Wellington and Felicity before she stepped out into the open.

“Merle?” she dared to call. “Merle, it's Eliza. The girl from the pub.”

Another step, and then Eliza saw what was holding Bill's undivided attention.

The dead man was still gripping the Smith & Wesson Schofield but from the splatter of blood on his hand and wrist, he had tried to stop a wound before pulling the trigger, and there was a good chance he didn't manage to do that. Eliza pointed both her pistols forwards as she stepped up to the porch.

“Merle, you okay?”

The response she heard from inside was nothing more than a low gurgle.

“He's alive!” she shouted, holstering her weapons.

Merle was sitting up against the far wall of the shack; a shotgun and two pistols, both more appropriate for history books than battle, were scattered across his lap. He looked exhausted, but Merle's eyes widened with relief and perhaps hope on seeing Eliza. She tried to count the number of holes they had put in him, but there were just too many. A couple in his stomach, she knew that for certain. One in his left shoulder. His right knee was completely mangled.

“Oh dear God, Merle,” Eliza said, not sure where it was safe to touch him.

He winced as he pointed with his unscathed arm. “Out,” he whispered, the pain in his breath cutting Eliza deep. “Out.”

“You want to be outside, on the porch?” she asked. She could tell in his eyes that he hadn't been drinking. He was terrified.

“Out!”
he wheezed, pointing again for the doorway.

“Bill!” she called, grabbing underneath his good arm.

Bill slipped in; but on working his arm underneath Merle's injured arm, the old man lurched, letting out a gurgled groan.

“The man's bleeding internally,” Wellington said, slipping behind Merle to give Eliza additional support. “Hold his arm steady, and watch the knee.”

The three of them hefted Merle and carried him low on the ground. This was when Eliza saw not only the dead man in the doorway but two more opposite Merle. Three against one, and the “Magician of Manassas” had bested them with antiquated firearms. She could see as they carried him that he was in agony, but when he felt the open air in his hair, his features softened.

“Let me take a look at him,” Wellington said, removing his coat and bending down.

Merle slapped Wellington's hands away from his shirt and slowly shook his head.

“Major,” Bill said quietly, “you got to let us help you.”

“I've seen this before in Africa,” Wellington said sombrely. “He doesn't want us to.”

Merle stared at Wellington knowingly, perhaps recognising another soldier. He then looked over to Eliza and smiled. “Knew—” he whispered, “you'd—come.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Despite all the horrors she'd seen, her throat tightened. She took his hand. “Merlin, you were right. We found another ship. Something happened to her.”

He nodded. “
Delilah
. Know its sound.” His eyes rolled in his head, but Merle blinked, took in a painfully deep breath, and snapped his eyes on Eliza. “Curri—tuck. Light. Something—not right.”

“Did you see it again? Last night?”

“Saw—something,” he wheezed.

“Sir,” Wellington spoke softly, “we will look into it. You have our word.”

Merle's hand clenched on Eliza's. “Know—you—will.”

From behind her, she heard Felicity say, “I couldn't find anything on these men in the way of identification. Except for these.” Eliza looked over her shoulder to see Felicity pass on to Bill a silver ring she recognised at a distance.

“Usher boys,” Bill said.

Something brushed against Eliza's ankle. She looked back to Merle, now looking down at his good hand. “Heard this name—after—you left.”

Eliza looked in his hand. A small piece of paper with a name: Clayton Mercersion.

“Smuggler,” he whispered.

“We need to find out who this is,” Eliza said, passing the name to Felicity.

“Certainly,” she replied.

“Merle, thank you.”

Eliza went to take Merle's other hand but she paused. Apparently underneath the slip of paper, there had been a medal. Now in plain sight, it was warm to the touch. How long had he been holding on to that?

“Southern Cross of Honour,” Bill said, his voice tight. “Awarded for valour.”

“Stay,” Merle managed to gasp out.

She took the old man's hand and smiled. “Okay, Merle. Okay.”

Wellington and Bill, in tune for that particular moment, both doffed their hats and held them by their sides while Felicity took a seat on the dilapidated stair connected to the porch, her head bowing as she did so. Eliza took Merle's hands, the Southern Cross pressing into their palms, and settled in next to him.

“You're not alone,” she whispered to him. “You did what was right, and you're not alone. Rest now.”

In silence, they watched the eternal machinations of the earth, a simple splendour of nature, as the waves rolled and churned against the Carolina shore. Regardless of his time lost in drink and loneliness, today Major Merlin Brantfield would die with honour, and with respect.

T
he horse clipped and clopped its way down the beach, the glow from Thomas Edison's gaudy display of light casting their shadow ahead of them. Seeing that monstrosity on the beach in the daylight was an eyesore, but seeing it lit up at night was nothing more than technological posturing. It also cast a strange glare that made stargazing difficult. Once free of it, however, she could then enjoy the Outer Banks nightscape.

Eliza looked down at the horse and suddenly asked, “What's your horse's name?”

“Athena,” he said, urging their mount forwards.

“An appreciation for the classics,” Eliza said with a chuckle. “You're a man of hidden interests, Bill.”

“Don't be lettin' your mind wander now,” Bill chided. “Maybe our partners are enjoying a night off, but we are still in the field. Tonight, it's a lot of hard sweat, boredom, and watching your back, since the crew would stick you in the kidneys for a share of loot.”

“Last night it was a saloon brawl. Tonight, we're smuggling contraband with outlaws and cutthroats.” Eliza cocked her head. “Are you trying to sweep me off my feet or something?”

They both chuckled as Athena continued to trot deeper into the darkness. Now free of Edison's silly display, the night sky opened up before them.

“It's damn beautiful out here,” Bill murmured, pressing closer to her. “Mind you, the company helps.”

She'd heard that tone of voice from a variety of men on a variety of continents. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed Bill as covertly as she could, and wondered what Wellington would have said had he been with them instead of with Felicity at Edison's lecture.

Yes, Wellington.

Eliza pressed her lips into a hard line. The archivist who had kissed her so thoroughly in the middle of his own shelves, still stubbornly refused to talk to her about what had happened. What's more she was sure that he was actively avoiding being alone with her for that very reason. Wellington Books was many things, but he was most certainly a man of conviction. He had told her in the Archives that he did not want to put her at risk simply by loving her.

No, wait—he never said love. He said he
cared
about her a great deal, and that was hardly the same as being
in love
with someone. Could the kiss have been nothing more than an impulse on his part?

Merely thinking about all this was draining away her good mood, but still she began to plot ways to get Wellington alone and force out of his mouth what was going on in his head. Perhaps he was in the adjoining guest room, but there was not a lock built yet that she couldn't pick. She contemplated with a grim smile the archivist waking up with her atop him, pinning him to the bed, and demanding some explanation of his behaviour. He wouldn't be able to wriggle his way out of that one.

If only she'd brought some of Blackwell's truth serum from the chemistry clankertons. The side effects were supposedly minor.

“Eliza.” Bill interrupted her train of thought most effectively by pulling her even closer. Athena had come to a halt.

She spoke over her shoulder, finding herself nuzzled quite comfortably in the crook of Bill's neck. “What's your game, Bill?”

“Look,” he urged, pointing forwards, “just ahead.”

Against the expanse of stars, gigantic shadows bobbed back and forth along the beach. Men could be heard clambering between the cut-out suspended in the night's sky and the shore. Bill eased her down to the sand, slipped off Athena, and pushed her in the direction of the resort.

“No need to fret,” he said. “She knows where to go. And so do we.”

They had not walked for more than a few minutes before torches became visible. The calls between ship and shore were discernable now. Eliza felt her blood rush. New Zealand was an island nation, and she knew smugglers when she saw them.

“This place is still a den of pirates.” Bill chuckled. “Just like in Blackbeard's day.”

Eliza rapped her knuckles against his chest. “So what's the plan?”

Dusting the sand off his clothes he stood up. “Follow my lead.” He held out his hand to her. She kept her eyes on him. “Now come on, Lizzie, have a little faith in your Wild Bill.”

After a moment's further hesitation, Eliza let him lead her towards the torches and shadows.

They could just make out the pale canvas of the dinghy's balloon when a torch appeared from the dunes. One of the men advancing on them was armed with a rifle. It was too dark for Eliza to tell which one; but in the present setting, any rifle pointing in your direction was a bad rifle. “Who the hell are you?”

It was a reasonable question. The rest of the people loading the boat froze, their gazes on the agents as intent as foxes. Eliza crossed her arms, appearing to shiver in reaction to the cold, warming her hands inside her jacket. Under the lapels, her fingers gripped each of her pistols, just in case they decided to be more like wolves.

Bill threw his hands up in the air and gave a friendly chortle. His broad Texas accent was gone, suddenly transformed into the southern drawl of the Carolinas as he said, “Clayton Mercersion sent us here. Said there was work to be had.”

The rifle lowered, but Eliza still kept a hold on her pistols. The rifle was still too high for her liking. “Clayton sent you?”

“Yessir. Told us to hitch our horse by Swan's Retreat then start walking. Said we'd find you here.” When Bill turned to Eliza, his face and posture were softer. He looked meek. “Me 'n' my girl here, we're good workers, never stop. Ain't that right, Mary?”

Eliza stepped up, tightening her grip on herself. She felt herself hunch, and let her eyes hop back and forth along the shoreline. “Yessir,” she muttered.

That was all she dared. She
desperately
needed to work on a southern American accent.

The smuggler's face was still concealed in the darkness, but he was taking measure of the two of them. It seemed possible to actually hear the cogs turning in his head.

“So Clayton sent you?” the leader's voice trailed off. “And what's Jack's thinkin' about this, I got to wonder?”

Bill turned to Eliza, and shook his head in such a way only she saw it. She looked down, but refused to let go of her pistols.

“Well, seeing as Jack is still in jail, I don't know. I jus' talked to Clay over at Quagmire's and—”

“Goddammit,” he swore, dropping the rifle to his side. Eliza's grasp on her own pistols eased as the smuggler spat and said to the crewman closest to him, “I'm tellin' you, one day Clayton's going to be recruiting a greenhorn outta that pisspot and it'll be the law! You watch!” He shook his head. “Well, climb on in.”

“Yes, indeed, sir, yessir,” Bill said. “I'm Joshua, and this is my gal, Mary. Clayton said you really needed the help, and I'll be honest, mister, we really need the coin.”

“Clayton's got a soft spot for every sob story in these parts,” the smuggler grumbled.

They climbed into the small airship alongside three other men and the cargo. A moment later, they were away from the surf and in the air, slipping upwards into the night. The men around her were as silent as rocks, remaining stoic until another shape appeared above them. The larger airship they were positioning themselves under, via controlled venting of the balloon above them, bore no running lights of any kind. Its engines were silent.

When a rope ladder was dropped and the lead smuggler from shore offered it to her, Eliza shared a glance with Bill. He merely smiled wolfishly. This was indeed a test for a couple of new smugglers.

Bill held the base of the ladder steady as two of the crew started climbing up. Bill motioned with his head for Eliza to climb, and so she did. Halfway up her climb, she looked around her—the endless stars above, the cold and unrelenting Atlantic below.

She was back where she belonged—in the field.

Bill had just pulled himself over the side of the airship as its engines were spinning up with some mechanical protest. A crewman manning the rope ladder handed each of them a long leather coat. It didn't stave off the cold completely, but it helped.

“The other two not coming?” she asked, bunching up the leather duster around her. It was ridiculously large on her petite frame.

“No, they were in charge of securing the cargo for hauling. That”—and Bill looked at her—“and they mentioned something about not being paid enough to board this ship.”

“An' here I was worried,” Eliza said, her voice trailing into her best approximation of an American drawl, “this was all too much excitement for an old-timer like you.”

“Are ya done talkin' in tha' moonlight, greenhorns?” someone barked from above them. Bill and Eliza turned to see a squat man advancing on them. He was not as intimidating as his facial hair. It was a beard thick and wild enough to offer a cosy home for a hedgehog, and in the man's glassy eyes was a madness that insinuated he might welcome the company in his beard. “The name's Silas. This is my operation, so my word is second only to the Lord.” He jerked his head up and shouted, “Yes, Father, I'll tell 'em!” He shook his head, as if bothered by the interruption and continued. “Do as you're told, you'll leave with coin. Keep with the jibber-jab and lover's talk, and this will be a very short night for you.”

Bill looked around at the threadbare crew, then peered down to see only three men tending to the newly arrived contraband. “Mind if I ask, Captain,” he began, seeming to steel himself for something unpleasant, “can your direct line to the All Mighty give us thoughts for tonight's run?”

A wild fury filled Silas' gaze as he babbled wildly,
“I won' be toleratin' blasphemy of any kind on this ship!”
Silas blinked, and then looked up. “Beg ya pardon, Father?” He looked at the two of them, then back up to the sky. “Of course. My mistake.” He cleared his throat and then addressed both Bill and Eliza in a calm, reasonable tone. “I do not converse with His Lord, but me pap. Captain Elijah Cornwich. Lost at sea, he was”—and Eliza caught in the ship's gaslight a strange twinkle in the man's eye—“which is why I took to the air.” He slapped Bill in his arm, and smiled, a sight that made Eliza flinch on seeing the condition of the captain's few teeth. “Welcome aboard the
Sea Skipper
.”

With that Bill and Eliza ceased to be of much interest to the captain. He disappeared deep into the bowels of the airship, leaving them in the middle of the deck with no orders. From here, Eliza observed the
Sea Skipper
was as far from
Apollo's Chariot
as a donkey was from a racehorse. Gaps in the woodwork—that creaked alarmingly—did not inspire much confidence, and its engines did not purr like a kitten so much as they hacked and sputtered like an elderly cat coughing up a hairball. The bladders high above their heads, though, were the largest she had ever seen for such a small gondola as this. Eliza could only speculate the balloons were compensating for heavier cargo when the
Sea Skipper
's hold, precarious as it was in its construction, was at full capacity. Whatever this airship's spoils of smuggling were, the profits were clearly not invested into the
Sea Skipper
itself, as the craft was clearly held together by string, fencing wire, and faith. As for its captain—

“Mad as a hatter, that one,” Eliza said.

“Aww shit,” Bill swore, whipping off his hat and running his fingers through his hair. “
Cornwich
. I read this idiot's file. ‘Crazy Captain Cornwich,' folks call him 'round these parts. Washington's got a bounty on his head, but thing is no one can catch him on account—”

“Let me take a wild guess,” Eliza stated, watching the captain climb out of the hold, shimmy up the ship's rigging, swing over to the ship's wheel, wet the tip of his finger to check for something in the air, and then bark out a few commands. “Aerial evasions?”

“I got friends in the Air Calvary. They told me about this clown and how many times he should have died.” Bill replaced his hat, pinched the bridge of his nose, and whispered, “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all . . .”

“Too late now,” she hissed back.

“If we make it out of here alive, I'm goin' back to Quagmire's, track down this Clayton Mercersion—”

“About that,” she said, placing a finger on his chest.

“That's all Felicity,” he said, beaming. “Once we got back to the Retreat, she did what she does best. Clayton Mercersion has been the sole visitor of one Jack Flanders. Flanders' last rabble-rousing involved the mayor's son and landed him in jail for an extended stay. Clayton is Jack's right hand, running the operation in Jack's absence.”

“She got all that between Merle's and tonight? Nice work.”