The Blank Flag of Arthur Kerry

by Kristopher Reisz

attempt the drill one more—”

  “No. No way. This plan was mad from the beginning. Get somebody else to go down there. You go, if you don’t believe me.”

  “You’re the only one trained, Mr. Kerry.”

  “That’s your tough luck then, isn’t it?” Arthur wobbled to his feet. “I’m out. Send me back to prison, but I’m out.”

  “Arthur,” Boone said softly. “You took the oath of allegiance. There is no ‘out.’”

  “Mr. Boone, is the sailor threatening dereliction of duty?” Captain Holloway asked.

  Boone shook his head. “Just shook up is all, captain. Just nerves.”

  “It’s not nerves!” Arthur grabbed Boone’s shirt. “Davy Jones doesn’t want us down there, Boone. This war will cost you your soul.”

  “Mr. Boone, is the sailor threatening dereliction of duty?” the captain demanded again.

  “Captain, I—”

  “Mr. Boone! Is the sailor threatening dereliction of duty?”

  “Y-yes, captain.”

  “Secure him then.” Captain turned and walked into his cabin. Boone grabbed Arthur’s arm. Arthur tried to shove him back, but more crewmen grabbed his other arm. Somebody punched him in the back of the head, and Arthur was shoved down to his knees. He screamed his friend’s name, but Boone wouldn’t look at him. Captain Holloway reappeared, pulling a heavy revolver from its tooled leather sheath. Face full of bitter purpose, he recited a prayer for burial. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never—”

  Arthur cried, “Stop! I’ll do it! I’ll set your fucking bomb.”

  Captain Holloway studied him. Boone said, “Captain, please. I’m sure it was just nerves. And also, if we don’t use Mr. Kerry, we’d have to train somebody else. We don’t have the time, Captain.”

  Holloway nodded, then slid his sidearm in its holster. “Very well. He is to be kept belowdecks and under guard at all times. Mr. Kerry, you’re blessed to have such loyal friends.”

  Turning on his heel, the captain walked over to speak with Dr. Philips. The men holding Arthur lifted him up and lead him down the hatch.

  The next morning, one of the crew told Arthur they’d set sail for Mobile. He wasn’t kept in irons, at least, but the navy boys watched him on twelve hour shifts. Two of them were dicing, then suddenly jumped to their feet and saluted. The captain came down the steps carrying one of his books. Arthur lay in his bunk without moving.

  “Can you read, Mr. Kerry?”

  Arthur nodded. “A bit, sir.”

  Captain sat down on a crate. He opened the book to a place marked with a ribbon. “The Inferno, by Dante Alighieri. It tells of the author’s journey through Hell. And one of the first things he sees are the angels who remained neutral during the War of Heaven. Dante wrote, ‘With that ill band of angels mix’d, who nor rebellious prov’d, not yet were true to God, but for themselves were only,’” Captain Holloway glanced meaningfully at Arthur, “‘From his bounds Heaven drove them forth, not to impair his luster, not the depth of Hell receives them, lest th’ accursed tribe should glory thence with exhalation vain.’ And so, Mr. Kerry, the neutral angels are doomed to the vestibule of Hell, along with all the mortal souls that never took a stand. There, they will spend eternity chasing a blank flag beneath a starless sky. Wasps and hornets sting them as their conscience stung them in life. Mingled blood and tears drip to their feet where….”

  Arthur rolled over in his bunk, turning his back to the captain.

  Holloway sighed. “You hate me because I forced you to chose a side in this war. Or because I’m forcing you to go down into the domain of devils. But Mr. Kerry, in a righteous war, there is no safety in neutrality—for the flesh maybe, but not for the soul. I hope you pray on that. We will reach Mobile Bay in about sixteen hours.” With that, Captain Holloway left, leaving The Inferno on the table.

  Arthur never touched the book. Soon after, one of the brandy barrels was emptied. Sailors drank their fill from it and the rest was poured overboard, but Arthur didn’t touch the liquor either. Once the tun was emptied, the ship carpenter hid the sub-marine armor inside. Arthur finally realized the cunning in carrying that particular cargo into Mobile Bay.

  When it came time, it was Boone who collected Arthur. Climbing back on deck, the red glare of sunset hurt Arthur’s eyes. Squinting, he looked around. Mobile bay was a broad channel guarded from the open sea by sandy islands. Two Confederate forts squatted on the islands like toads, controlling traffic flow in and out. Arthur had never been to Mobile, but the sights and smells of a port city were similar the world over. Cargo loading and unloading, shanties being sung at the tops of people’s lungs, and of course the seagulls—hundreds of them swinging wide arcs through the sky, keeping watch over the sailors.

  Navy ships were anchored side-by-side with the few commercial ships able to slip through the blockade, including the French clipper they’d hailed in Cuba. Arthur spotted skulking Tennessee right away, the sunlight smoldering along her iron hull.

  The crew started off-loading the brandy. They brought the barrel hiding the armor on deck and re-attached the haul chain and speaking tube. Dr. Philips said, “The bomb is tied to the arm. Just attach it to Tennessee’s keel and come back. The fuse is attached to a clock and won’t ignite for several hours, so move slow and steady. Don’t rush.” Arthur nodded, squeezing down into the armor.

  “You’ll probably get a medal for this,” Boone chuckled. “Think on that, you a war hero.”

  Arthur glanced up at his friend. “And if Davy Jones snatches me first? Be sure I’ll tell him where to find you.” He slammed the hatch shut. Hunched in the sweltering dark, Arthur could only think about how much the armor’s copper innards smelled like blood.

  The crew lifted the barrel hiding the armor into the skiff with the others, then simply tipped it over the side. After it sank to the bottom, Dr. Philip’s voice came through the speaking trumpet. “All right, Mr. Kerry. Nobody saw anything suspicious.”

  Arthur levered himself out of the barrel and worked laboriously to his feet. By the time he stood up and lit the lantern, sweat dripped from his nose and down his chest.

  “Can you see the Tennessee?”

  Arthur turned around to get his bearings. Chest-high stalks of seaweed waved in unison like a wheat field. The bay was generally shallow, but in the center, the water grew darker and the bay floor sloped down into unknown depths. Using that central channel to orient himself, Arthur spotted Tennessee about sixty yards south by southeast. “I can see it. Making my way there now.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Kerry.”

  Swinging from the armor’s elbow, the bomb was covered in yellow tallow to make it waterproof. The bomb’s cord was also knotted around a corkscrew-like device Arthur would use to secure it to Tennessee’s hull.

  Crossing the strange, infernal landscape below the bay, something flung itself at the armor’s porthole. It was another octopus, tentacles flowing across the glass like the sea itself. Arthur tried striking it with the armor’s clumsy arms, but more octopi appeared from the field of seaweed. One of them wrapped its body around the wax-shelled bomb and strained to pull it free.

  “They’re all over me! I can’t—”

  The explosion came as a snarl, deep and ear-stabbing loud. It flung the cast iron armor backward through the seaweed. Arthur bounced on his head, then his shoulder, and finally landed on his stomach. A painful ringing filled his skull. Blood poured into his eye and mouth. Two of the portholes were cracked, but their glass held fast. One of the rubber elbow joints had torn, though. Water trickled in, filling the armor’s metal boots.

  He pushed himself up, croaking, “Hello? The bomb went off. I’m taking on water. Hoist me up! Philips, hello?” But as the ringing in his ears faded, Arthur heard shouts and the crack of gunfire. He saw a body tumble off Tennessee in the distance and felt the shudder of cannon b
lasts. The bomb had alerted the Confederates, and Kestrel was taking fire. They must be fighting back with the few rifles and sidearms they had, but they didn’t have a prayer unless they escaped the harbor. Arthur kept screaming into the trumpet, “Philips! Boone!” Nobody answered.

  A crewman fell off Kestrel drifting down like a leaf. Before he reached the ground, an octopus emerged out of the seaweed, pulsing toward him. It wrapped tentacles around rag doll limbs and pressed its beak to the man’s chest. It pulled something free, right through the man’s bloody shirt, something silvery and squirming. Eden-taught instinct told Arthur it was the sailor’s soul. It looked for all the world like a herring.

  The octopus bolted down into the channel, carrying its prize to Davy Jones. Arthur had seen enough. He opened the valves to inflate the bladders, but nothing happened. He pulled the levers back and forth, back and forth, then pounded on them until his palms were bloody. The explosion must have torn the bladders or the pipes feeding them air. Either way, he couldn’t rise to the surface unless they hoisted him up.

  “Hello? Somebody get me out of here! For the love of God, somebody—”

  Another explosion knocked Arthur to his knees. Above him, Kestrel rolled starboard, slammed back down on its port side. She began to sink. Water foamed around the gaping hole in her hull. Arthur saw the legs of crewmen kicking above him and more tumbling