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.
Chapter 5
The President’s
