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“The train’ll be boarding down at the end, at gate thirteen. ” He pointed.
“Down where all those folks are stomping around, making a crowd?”
“That’s it. Now have a good day, Mrs. Lynch—and a safe trip as well. ”
“Thank you, Mr. Foote. ”
She stared out the window, down at the thirteenth platform. There wasn’t much to see there except for a dense and curious crowd, for the columns between her and the engine blocked the bulk of the view. Even through the obstacles, she could see that the engine was large and dark, as engines went, and an old warning thrummed in her head. Suddenly she knew . . . illogically, and against all sane rejection of undue coincidence . . . that once she got up closer, she’d recognize the machine, by reputation if not by sight.
She drifted dreamlike toward the crowd and then back to the edge of the platform, where the people moved more quickly and with less density. Following the thinner stream, she shifted her satchel to hug it more closely against her belly.
Blue uniformed men with guns pocked the scene, mostly staying close to the engine, to the spot that felt safest to them in this uncertain state of divided loyalties.
The engine’s stack rose into view first, between the platform beams that held the shelter aloft. It could’ve been any freight engine’s stack, dark and matte as wool made for mourning. The lamp—which also came into view as she drew nearer—could have been any lamp, rounded and elongated slightly, with a stiff wire mesh to protect the glass.
But then the pilot piece, the cowcatcher, eased into view as two men stepped apart. No longer could it be any engine, from any rail yard or nation. Devilishly long and sharp, the fluted crimson cage drew down to a knife’s bleeding, triangular edge, made to stab along a track and perform other vicious duties—that much was apparent from the rows of narrow cannon mounted up and down the slope against the engine’s face. In front of the pilot grille, even the rail guards that covered and protected the front wheels were spiked with low scoops and sharp points, just in case something small and deadly should be flung upon the tracks that the pilot might otherwise miss. All the way up the cha
ssis more guns were nestled, as well as elaborate loading systems to feed ammunition to the devices in a Gatling style. And as she approached yet closer, squeezing her way through the crowd to get a look for herself, Mercy noted that the boiler was double-, or maybe even triple-?plated, riddled with rows of bolts and rivets.
A water crane swung down low to hang over the engine. Soldiers ordered and shoved the onlookers back, demanding room for the crew and station workers to do their jobs; and soon the valves had been turned and the flow was under way. As the engine took on water for the trip ahead, spilling down the pipes into the still-?warm tanks, the metal creaked and settled with a moan.
The gargantuan machine was nearly twice as large as the ordinary engine huddling two tracks over—not twice as wide, but longer, and somewhat taller, and appeared thicker and meaner in every way.
A man beside Mercy—some random gawker in the pressing crowd—turned to her as if he knew her and said, “My God, it’s enormous! It’ll barely fit under the station awnings!”
And behind her came a different voice, slightly familiar and heavily accented. “But it did fit,” said the speaker with great conciseness. The nurse turned around and saw the most recent Texian to come aboard the Providence—the Ranger Horatio Korman. He added, “You can bet they were careful about that,” and he tipped his Stetson to Mercy. “Mrs. Lynch. ” He nodded.
“Hello,” she said, and moved aside, allowing him to scoot one booted foot closer to the tracks, almost to stand at her side. Together they stared ahead, unable to take their gazes away from it.
Along the engine’s side, Mercy could see a few of the letters in its name, though she could barely parse the sharp silver lettering with cruel edges and prickling corners that closely matched the gleaming silver trim on the machine’s towering capstack.
The ranger said it first. “Dreadnought. God Almighty, I hoped I’d never see it for myself. But here I am,” he said with a sniff. He looked down at Mercy, and at her hand, which held the envelope with all her important papers and tickets. Then his gaze returned to the train. “And I’m going to ride whatever she’s pulling. You, too, ma’am?”
“Me, too. ” She nodded.
“You nervous?” he asked.
She lied. “No. ”
“Me neither,” he said, but she figured he was probably telling the truth. He didn’t look nervous. He looked like a man who had someplace to be, and didn’t much care how he got there. His two large leather cases still dangled, one at the end of each hand; and his guns must’ve chafed against his forearms when he walked, but he wore them anyway, as casually as a lady would wear a brooch.
Mercy asked, “How far will you ride?”
He glanced at her quickly, as if the question startled him. “Beg your pardon?”
“How far?” she tried again. “It goes all the way out to Tacoma, if you ride it long enough. But it stops a bunch of times between here and there. ”
He said, “Ah,” and his eyes snapped back to the metal train. “Utah. But I might end up leaving sooner. Remains to be seen,” he said vaguely. Suddenly he turned to her, and he set one of his cases by his feet so he could take her arm as he bent down to her height. “Mrs. Lynch,” he said, and his breath was warm on her skin.
“Mr. Korman!”
“Please,” he said softly. “I can bet old Greeley told you my job, and my distinction. ” He looked left and right, and brought his face so close to her ear that she could feel the tickle of his mustache against her cheekbone. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that information to yourself. This being a Union train, I’ll have trouble enough on board as a Texian. They don’t need to know the rest. ”
She drew back, understanding. “Of course,” she said, nodding but not retreating any farther. “I won’t say a word. ”
The press and flow of the crowd shifted closer to the cars upon hearing some instructions. Horatio Korman stuffed his second bag up under his arm and took Mercy’s hand. “Will you accompany me, Mrs. Lynch? The two of us being two of a kind, and all . . . or, at least, two folks of similar sentiments. ”
“I suppose I could,” she said, but he was already leading her against a current of people waving their bags and reading their tickets instead of watching their steps.
