2. Ascension.
When I woke the next morning, my head felt as though someone had split it with an axe.
A sunbeam shimmered through the window beside me, its golden light silently illuminating glowing motes of dust as they drifted into its domain. As the drapes wafted in an almost non-existent breeze, I studied their myriad number, brilliant but identical in minuteness, each glistening briefly as they wound and turned a random path across the shaft. Finding shadow on the opposite side, they winked out of existence as suddenly they had appeared.
Against the ringing inside my skull, I noticed the lone envelope amid the scatter of tokens glinting upon my desk. Laying in the clammy linen sheets as the honk of automobile horns carried in through the open window, the woman's face came to mind, the same one that had haunted my dreams. I glanced over to the desk, rose on one arm…forced myself to stand. Treading the creaking floorboards, I opened the envelope and looked at her again…dark hair and face caught in profile. Into my hands I took a gilded ticket in hand, golden wreath about the blue silhouette of a fanciful metropolis in the clouds. White City Lines.
Air travel.
Feeling yet like a team of mules had flattened me, I sauntered to the lavatory and turned the handles to the bath. As the water poured into its cracked white enamel, I turned to see myself in the mirror. Dried blood caked beneath my right nostril. I wiped the black crust clean and stepped out into the other room in search of a bottle with booze remaining, only to find all dry. As I returned disappointed, Annabelle's dust-covered jewelry case caught my eye. Quietly I closed the lid and headed for my morning rinse. Twenty minutes later, clean and shaven, I packed my gun and headed out.
A stream of men and women trod the sidewalks as I joined Bowery outside 108, attired in various color of suit and dresses. Overhead a train clattered down the El, ratting the red brick canyon as black model V's and Chryslers chased horse carts through its shadowy under course. Through the stanchions of the El on the other side of the street peeked the bright red letters of Dougherty's. In dire need of something to sooth my pounding gourd and thinking that Leroy might have something, I dodged the El's pylons and traffic for a cup of Joe.
Dougherty's was narrow inside, little more than a bar lined with stools. A dozen or more men sat upon them, imbibing the dark coffee its proprietor was famous for. I ambled to the side and gave Leroy a shout, asking for my usual. When he turned, he sported…surprisingly…a bushy brown mustache and mutton chops. "Some storm last night, wasn't it?"
"Storm?"
"Yeah...guess it got your awning." From behind me came the neigh of a horse. Leroy looked at me queerly before stepping to the door, inspecting outside and with no small amount of seriousness the fabric overhanging the door. He noticed my stare, returning an unfriendly scowl. Dougherty was a reasonable friend of mine and yesterday had been clean shaven…and the awning over his frontage red and white candy cane. Looking about other things were off too...the coffee pots were gray instead of black. Tablecloths upon his two back door tables white instead of red plaid.
"Are you going to order something or keep looking at me all day?"
"Uh, sorry, Leroy. Just the usual."
"And what is your 'usual?'" He asked, cleaning out a mug with a white dishrag.
"Black, Leroy." I said, attempting to determine if his newfound facial hair was some sort of practical joke. "And whatever else you have to throw in it."
"Like 'always?" His brow furrowed, looking me over. "Do I know you, friend?"
I didn't know what his problem was and didn't want to learn. Scrounging a scarce nickel from my jacket I slid it across the bar. Leroy half-turned and fetched a cup and saucer, filling it carelessly before clattering its contents upon the counter before me. Downing the half-spilt libation, I left the counter behind and stepped out onto the street.
In the striations of sunlight beneath the El I glanced back, hands in pockets, wondering just what the hell had happened. Approaching iron stairs, my feet found passage upward, climbing four flights until I arrived at Grand Street Express Station. The morning view from its wings was better and I could see both the El and Bowery receding to the north in the haze, smoke rising over the Lower Manhattan skyline from distant factories. Overhead I heard a droning, a powerful herald that eclipsed the street noise from below. Over the elevated tracks a shadow rippled cross the bright shadowed angles of the surrounding buildings. Looking from the station alongside a knot of businessmen, I shielded my eyes with upraised hand. An immense silver cigar coursed overhead, an airship more massive than any I'd seen before, cutting northward to the east of the Woolworth Building. Upon its tail I saw the portrait of a woman. Beside me a man was reading the paper, fretting over the storm clouds in Europe. Downline a whistle blew, and as my eyes followed the skyline seemed…odd.
Here and there buildings taller and unfamiliar. I saw a gray monolith under construction not far away that I seemed not to remember. From the train I saw more of the same, streets familiar yet different, details here and there out of place and names I had no recollection of. McSorley' parting gift, I supposed, dead brain cells and misguided notions.
At 42nd Street I departed the El and descended into the masses, making on foot for Grand Central Terminal adjacent to the Biltmore. Throngs of people navigated the streets amid cars, horses and wagons, bumping and jostling. Capped by a latticework funnel of curving black steel that necked inward at its waist and outward toward the top five hundred feet above a gray stone facade, Grand Central was familiar. High above a gantry arm atop it formed a solid black "T." Arrayed along its length in echelon hung a dozen zeppelins, all angled with the breeze beneath a vault of azure blue. In contrast to the almost air vessels I'd known, to the last each seemed incredibly stout…the build of ocean liners rather than frail denizens of the sky.
The effigy of Mercury watched over the 42nd Street entrance as I passed below, familiar, as I was no stranger to New York City's beating heart. As I joined the crowd's progress inward, I glanced to the back of the ticket Laslowe had supplied. 'The First Lady,' it read…embossed with the very same vessel I'd seen coursing earlier over Bowery. People flowed about me in a river, half cascading from the station's West Balcony toward the polished marble Main Concourse. The remainder ascended staircases up. Joining the latter, I searched one by one the string of booths, passing Cunard, Holland, Red Star, White Star, Lloyds, and National. Discovering the latter's attendant unengaged, I approached his cage.
"Excuse me, Sir. I'm looking for the...uh, White City Airship Line. I have a ticket for the First Lady departing this evening."
"So, you're one of them."
"One of uh, whom?" To my right along Grand Central's uppermost concourse people were queuing, Cunard Line brimming for an imminent departure. Behind me, a top-hatted gentleman grunted, adding pressure to my impromptu inquiry.
The teller looked at me with a monocled green eye, fingering his snowy remnant of hair. "One of Comstock's freaks. No better than the damned Mormons." With a dismissive toss of head, he pointed out a crowded booth on the other side of the Upper Concourse. "White City's over there. You should be glad you already have a ticket, son...they're always full this late. The lifts are on the North side. Enjoy the welcoming committee."
"Welcoming committee?" I said, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Ticket in hand, I ambled across the marble-tiled skywalk. Crossing the sea of passengers ebbing Grand Central's Lower Concourse, I looked at the throng of families and businessmen at the booth before me. Mormons. I'd never had a problem with Mormons or anyone else...as long as they left me the hell alone. Looking at my ticket, the line, and having nothing other than a thin rucksack, I heeded the curmudgeon's advice and made for the elevators instead.
At the end of the breezeway, I milled with a dozen others in the shadow of marble-anchored girders. Presently a lift arrived, one of many in the gilded circular bank. As we rose, hazy New York sprawled, river split, gray as far as the eye could see. Northward I found ruddy Harlem, and south near the Battery I could see the Statue of Liberty and a smatter of ships upon shimmering New York Harbor. Along its wharves hung a slate of massive aerial leviathans, taking on and disgorging all manner of cargo. Aloft I could see others, smoke belching from their flanks as they cut the afternoon blue. Low over the Narrows a gleaming grey battleship sliced, her bulk bristling with flags and armament. Bound for Lakehurst, no doubt. Even after the train ride, my head still ached. The elevator coasted to a halt at the berthing arm.
As I followed my fellow travelers outward, I came face to face with a deathly plunge to the concrete below. Luckily the tower and its arms' steel gantries were clad by some type of glass. Keeping my eyes ahead I fell into line with a group of businessmen and followed their party down the boarding arm, the wall of gray that was the First Lady at my left. In the distance about the stern of her thousand-foot extent, airscrews idled. As I waited my turn to step across the windy crack of nothingness, I examining her steel skinned outer hull...inspecting the exactitude of her welds. I made the mistake of looking down toward her bridge. Beyond her front gondola lay dizzying infinity.
At the boarding arm a black-haired conductor checked passes and seemed to notice my stagger. With a grin he punched my ticket, bidding me a pleasant journey and the Prophet's blessing. A steward waited just beyond the arm, waiting to show me to my quarters.
Having contributed nothing toward my passage, I hadn't expecting luxury, thus I was surprised at what my ticket garnered. Carpeted in red, the Lady's passageways were wider than other dirigibles I'd flown and my quarters even more so. It had more than enough room for a bed and table, as well as a bath and small lavatory. Had I not been quaking I might have been pleased.
I spent the next several minutes cemented within my chair at the inboard side of the stateroom, as far away from that infinitude as I could manage. Occasionally, I'd look up to see the skyline, the towers of the financial district and their flags of red, white and blue caught in the wind to the south. Remembering my ticket, I pulled out a sheaf of paper and started listing contacts in D.C. who might be of aid. With a clarion horn the First Lady finally cast off. As the airship rose, the props spun up behind and we were underway.
It was cooler aloft...particularly with the breeze wafting through my stateroom's open windows. Through vents in the ceiling more air began to flow. I closed my eyes and for the first time relaxed. Soon New Jersey began to pass outside, a pastiche of brick clad high rises and black plumed factories sketching the green Hudson backed by bulwark of white cumulus in the hazy green distance. We were making southwest toward the harbor.
With uncertain step I rose and approached the sill...slid the windows open to realize my cabin had a balcony...one I'd not be using. We were crossing east of the Battery, delivering a fine if nauseating view of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. Despite the drone of our motors and the din of those along the waterfront below it was still in my stateroom. Somewhere from above I heard a phonograph carrying the melody of 'Mister Moon Man'. As The Lady angled southward toward the Narrows and sea, my stomach turned and I stepped away from the panorama, which gave me welcome relief. Deciding to improve upon it, I downed some water, closed the blinds and lay down. My head still throbbed, but after a time amidst the lulling vibration from the airscrews, I almost forgot I was two thousand feet in the air.
I don't know how long I slept but when I woke the sun had shifted. I rose and headed to the bathroom, taking care of vital matters, washing face and hands in a spotless porcelain sink. Without the horizon to remind me I was queasy my stomach had returned to normal, and not having eaten since McSorley's, my stomach growled.
After a short consult with the mirror, I ventured into the passageway, encountering as I did so a family passing, all dressed in matching powder blue save the husband. The children were talking about food, so hands in pockets I decided to follow and see if that might settle me. The father, a tall, lean man with a full head of peppered gray, was going on with his wife about business opportunities his dealings with a man named Fink. Adjusting her broad white hat, she inquired why he felt the need to do so yet again. He remained silent.
They headed toward the centerline of the ship and I trailed them down several flights of stairs, hearing the thrum of the screws carrying through the structure as we walked. Moments later we came to a queue outside the First-Class Dining Salon. As the wait staff attended the line of passengers and their tickets, I noticed the walls full of photographs and posters, one of which captured my eye...a great statue of a winged angel, arms outstretched. Save for the words embossed upon it, it was a perfect match to the postcard Laslowe had given me. Below it was printed:
The Tower Protects the Lamb
from the False Shepherd
As I puzzled over the statement it dawned upon me that I'd never seen such a monument in D.C. nor even heard of it. Surely such a thing was one of the miracles of the modern world. As I looked at more of the paraphernalia, most seemed to concern the faith and conversion, along with some mumbo jumbo about the Founding Fathers. There were at least seven different tracts on Baptism.
"Boarding pass, Sir?"
I put the leaflets back on the rack and handed over my ticket.
Dressed in a white coat, black trousers and a same color bow tie the man smiled at me, skin pale as a lily. "If you'd like to know more about the Prophet's vision, you're more than welcome to visit the Memorial Chapel at the rear of the Lady." The way he looked at me, I couldn't tell whether he was being earnest or simply trying to dismiss the unkempt, ill-dressed bumpkin.
"Memorial Chapel?" Having zero use for religion or fancy clothing, I approximated a smile. "Well, thank you kindly." Balding with a ring of hair around a glossy pate, he returned the gesture but neither moved nor took my ticket.
"I'm sorry, Sir, but if your intent is to dine that requires formal dress."
My stomach moved. "This was a short notice trip and I didn't pack well. Any chance I might be able to, uh..." I looked around. "Rent one for the evening?"
"I'll see what I can do." He said with an insincere smile.
Within a few minutes the man handed me off to a steward who showed me to a coatroom...apparently such services were needed upon occasion. Finding a black tuxedo roughly my size, I changed, adjusting afterward my loaner bowtie in the mirror. Finding no properly fitting shoes, I figured my boots would have to do. As I prepared to depart the attendant frowned, presenting me with a top hat and pair of white gloves. "I do believe, Sir, that you'll require these."
"Thanks." I grimaced. For his effort I handed him a silver coin.
The Lady's dining room was decked with white clothed tables and crystal chandeliers along with a gaudy array of statuary that seemed an odd recounting of the Old Testament. With other diners dressed to the Nines, I couldn't help but feel lesser. I kept my shoulders straight and marched in, rationalizing that I'd never meet any of these people again. Handing the Maitre'D my ticket, he returned it with a nodding smile and had a kid show me to my table.
My seating was at a round with seven others, four of whom were the trim little family I'd slipped in behind. Another gentlemen and his wife joined us shortly after, the man dressed in black coat, top hat and white gloves while she wore a pretty green dress that clung tightly to her curves. Caddy-corner to mine, the final seat remained empty.
The family's little blonde seemed to watch me perniciously from across the table, teasing at her curls over powder blue shoulders until the mother stopped her. As the man and his wife argued over another matter financial, their boy experimented with the white napkins laid out so neatly, then moved on to the tablecloth. Beneath her voice the new woman chastised her husband, a thin man with thick ginger sideburns that melded seamlessly into an even thicker mustache. Wine had been set out. I poured myself a glass and took a drink.
Looking at my ticket, I discerned an arrival time of approximately seven in the morning. About the time the wait staff began laying out our entrée of lamb shanks, a gentleman in a tuxedo and top hat joined our table, taking the empty seat. Like all men gathered he wore white gloves.
"Many apologies..." He began in a well-heeled British accent. "I do hate joining the dinner late, but I was detained." Glancing toward the black waiter laying out the plates, he grinned. "Ah, lamb...my favorite." Seating himself, he pulled his chair behind him. "I assume I'm late for introductions. Andrew Edmonton, Lloyds of London."
Edmonton was looking towards the married man and his wife, blue eyes framed by a handsome face, clean complexion and sandy blond hair. Tipping his hat, the already seated gentleman inspected the new arrival. "Saltonstall's the name." He said, squeezing the lady's hand next to him. "Henry Saltonstall. May I introduce my wife, Lavinia."
"Jason VanHoever." The gentleman next to him continued. "Might I introduce my wife, Whitney, my daughter Chastity and son Edgar." Say hello, children."
"Good evening, Mr. Edmonton. Good evening, Mr. Saltonstall." The girl responded primly, shoulders against the backrest of her seat.
Roused from his play with the tablecloth the boy looked up. With a discreet rap of knuckles the mother brought the boy into similar line. "Good evening, uh, Mr. Edmonton. Mr. Saltandsmall."
All eyes turned uncomfortably to me. "Booker DeWitt." I said after a moment. "Pleasure to meet you."
"So, what brings you all to the White City?" Saltonstall asked, dragging his eyes from the boy who'd butchered his appellation to his father. Simultaneously he tapped the table, drawing the attention of a Negro waiter. Now that I looked, I realized the entire wait staff was Negro. I began to eat.
As the immaculately dressed servant reached between them to pour more wine, VanHoever responded. "As a matter of fact, I am happy to say that that the four of us will be joining your polity, Mr. Saltonstall. I have managed to come by a job at the Liftworks, and of course Whitney and I have been an admirer of Father Comstock's gift for prophecy for many years. I cannot tell you how excited we are to finally join him upon high!"
"Are you Congregational, then?" Saltonstall inquired with a genuine smile, both he and his wife obviously pleased. "Where do you hail from?"
"Milford...Illinois." VanHoever answered, though I detected a trace of reluctance in his voice. "We're hoping for a more...peaceable life in the city, amongst our own."
"Indeed." Saltonstall responded. "Well, it can be difficult dwelling amongst the Gentiles, but you have obviously realized the benefits of the Prophet's vision. I do hope that once you've met the requirements for citizenship, you'll consider voting for me. I'm running for Councilman for Columbia's Sixth Ward." Saltonstall's attention passed to the British chap.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Saltonstall. Lloyd's has me here for consultation with Mr. Fink. We are in the process of adjusting some policies and need some specific details on the newest manufacture. I have to say, our Board of Directors has been very impressed with what we' have seen in the Liftworks' literature. Columbia is a wonder, but the fact we can all have our own little piece of it has made the world anew."
"Now if only Roosevelt would let us alone." Saltonstall chuckled, teasing at the graying strays of his ample auburn sideburn. "That dog seems intent on maintaining a stranglehold upon our livelihood, limiting us to the territorial waters. I mean, surely, he must recognize our independence. One would think..."
"That it would be foolish to put one's bread and butter on a leash?" Edmonton smirked. The Englishman took a drink. "Not that I am unsympathetic to Columbia's cause, but one must acknowledge the whole Peking affair. It would have been far more prudent to declare independence before the Americans had equipped their Great White Fleet, don't you think?"
Saltonstall smiled coolly. "Point taken."
What they were talking about I'd no idea, but I had begun to doubt we were bound for Washington…particularly since the sun sets in the west and it was behind us. As I prosecuted my dinner, Saltonstall's wife took up the conversation with VanHoeven concerning a religious matter, something about the Prophet being foretold in Scripture or the Prophet telling scripture. Ambivalent toward the subject, Edmonton assumed a distant look, gazing out the windows below at the north shore of Long Island swimming by.
"How about you, Mr. DeWitt?" Saltonstall eventually asked. I'd just been served my dessert, in the denouement of the meal having turned from the table to a dark, moonlit seascape to the east.
"Me? Uh, well...I'm here to pick up a...family friend."
"You have family in Columbia, then?" Saltonstall asked, sipping Merlot.
"Well, yes...and no." I answered, now quite uncertain where we were bound for. As I thought about the boarding pass the base of my glass struck the tablecloth. "I'm doing a favor for a friend who does. Walter...Pigeon."
"Pigeon, eh? I know a couple of Pigeons. Do you mind me asking where he lives? Perhaps he's in my District?" As he spoke his eyes lingered upon my right hand. "Dear fellow, it seems your wine has spotted your glove. I looked down from my emptied glass to see red stain spreading.
"So, it has." I peeled the glove back, to which Edmonton at my side seemed to take notice. Caring neither for dessert nor further interrogation I rose. "Perhaps I should take a little more care. If you'll excuse me, I think I need to wash this out." Looking to those about the table, I offered a slight bow. "If you all shall, excuse me, it as been a pleasure meeting you. Until tomorrow."
My departure led me to the First Lady's Promenade, a walkway whose polished railing I approached with hesitation. A foot beyond, panes of glass separated me from a lethal fall. Below the sea was black save for the shimmering crest of the occasional breaker in the rising moonlight. The scrawl of Long Island lay to the south, dotted by pinpoints of coastal villages in the oncoming night. Above a line of blue arced across the sky.
We weren't bound for D.C.
The ticket, now that I clearly read it, said "Columbia." And only "Columbia." Despite being inside the glass, the wind whipped and threatened to take the slip of paper clean from my hands. I sequestered it back in my pocket, ridding myself afterward of the wine-stained gloves. I leaned upon the railings, knowing that were Annabelle here she would have loved this. She was not. Realizing where my thoughts were headed, I sheathed the dagger before its sting grew fatal.
Off to the south and near the coast a blaze of blue light streaked skyward above the lights of a modest city, upward into a sea of stars. Startled, I tried to focus on its source until I found a cliff borne tower along Long Island's rocky coast...a lighthouse. Atop its heights a ball of light glowed iridescent blue. It was brilliant and like no other lighthouse I had ever seen. As I watched another sheath of lightning, for I could only call it that, shot heavenward…passing hour height before spreading outward in a gossamer pink wave high overhead. I stood dumbfounded.
"I believe that's Shoreham. Must be Tesla up to his tricks again." A deep voice said.
I glanced over shoulder to discover an elderly man smiling my way, elegant wife come alongside him at the rail. Through the doors to the dining room, a handful of the upper crust had emerged to take in the evening gale. "The lights?"
"Indeed."
"Shoreham?" I replied, trying not to fixate upon the prominence of his bulbous nose. "Who, uh, who is Tesla?"
"A madman." The man sighed, grim in his delivery. Between his fingers he tinkered unconsciously with a white sideburn. "Thankfully, our madman. A fine evening, isn't it?" He said with a mustache concealed smile, throwing white scarf about neck. "The last time we crossed we ran into ferocious storms. That was a tribulation, I should tell you, what with lightning knocking all about and St. Elmo's fire on every guy line. The crewmen nearly had to sedate Fanny." He knocked on the steel frame member next to him with his cane. "They assured me that the vessel was unsinkable, you might say."
My gaze returned to the south, still transfixed by the lights. "You…know something about them? Some form of beacon?"
Piercing hazel found the strange lighthouse. He was taller than me by a shade and heavier. "You could say that. A pet project of mine, knowing these matters."
Elbows on the railing, I had my hands clasped. "So, you're crossing...not going to, uh, Columbia?"
"Bound for the Continent, actually."
"Why not just go direct?"
"A detour of convenience. I have some business to conduct, much as I detest it."
"Detest? An awfully strong word."
"My husband isn't much on, well, the Prophet's teachings." His wife whispered, glancing admiringly towards the man upon her arm. By now other patrons had joined us, many looking out way and remarking quietly to one another. "I don't believe we caught your name, good Sir?"
"DeWitt. Booker DeWitt." I said, extending my hand to his.
"That's Flemish, isn't it? Or is it Dutch? Well, no matter. Allow me to introduce myself." He said, offering his own. "I am James Morgan."