Nemo Rising

by C. Courtney Joyner

  Grant said, “It was a goddamned embarrassment.”

  “Every Navy was his target. How many frigates did we lose, how many men?”

  Grant regarded Duncan, mouth drawn tight. Frozen.

  Duncan continued. “Who would know more about these current happenings, Mr. President? And perhaps, how to stop them.”

  “You’re goading me, you son of a bitch.”

  Duncan agreed with a nod, but still said, “He is who you need.”

  Grant grabbed the bourbon, poured himself two fingers, downed it, and said, “Damn your eyes.”

  3

  MADMAN OF THE SEAS

  The paper tube contained two needle-thin metal rods. Stamped TOP SECRET: THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA V. PRISONER #3579, President Grant had given it to Duncan an hour earlier, saying, “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  A blue-steel lockbox, with the same serial number, was waiting for Duncan when he returned to his small White House corner office.

  He approached the box as a bomb that needed defusing, taking the needles, finding portals on the polished steel sides, then inserting them simultaneously. The sides dropped away in a mechanical flowering.

  Inside were the sea-damaged journal of Professor Pierre Arronax, wrapped in preservation paper; a large, gilt-edged envelope; and a .52 caliber cartridge.

  Duncan pulled a shelf from his draftsman’s table, placed a chimney lamp on a hollowed space designed to hold it. From a false-bottom drawer came a Magic Lantern lens and bracket, completing the projector.

  He held up the bullet cartridge and looked through a pinpoint lens in the center of the brass casing before fitting it onto the projector with a special clamp. Duncan dropped a calcium iodide pellet into the lamp’s chimney. It flared as he adjusted the lens, sharp-focusing the micro-slides hidden inside the converted ammunition. The first image was the front page of The Pioneer and Democrat, March 12, 1865, now spread across his office wall:

  HONORED SHIP DECOMISSIONED

  The U.S.N. battle sloop Constellation has been decommissioned, according to the Department of the Navy, after serving her country well during the Conflict Between the States. The one thousand, four hundred, and fifty ton ship will remain at port in Norfolk, Virginia, where it will serve as a floating headquarters for Naval personnel.

  Twisting the lead slug advanced the slides in their minichamber. The next, a communiqué, written in crowded rows of stick figures. Duncan put his glasses aside to read the “Dancing Men,” never opening the copy of The Union Standards of Codes and Ciphers at his elbow.

  There can be no doubt that the rogue terrorist Nemo/Dakkar is responsible. With this sinking, and the destruction of the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln, a true revelation of his abilities to destroy our most fearsome warships would surely cause an unmanageable panic, and embolden our enemies.

  With our Union troops still engaging Confederate forces, it is imperative that all attention and efforts focus on our victory, and that this rogue terrorist, his submarine-craft, and his actions, be wiped from public consciousness as soon as possible.

  To that end, an exact duplicate of the U.S.S. Constitution has been constructed in precise detail, to be moored at Norfolk, in place of the original, thus dispelling any further speculations about the destruction of the Constitution, Nemo/Dakkar, his submarine, or its abilities.

  Signed, George H. Sharpe,

  Intelligence Secretary.

  * * *

  Duncan steeped Twinings at his corner stove, the model of a dirigible hanging above it, thinking about the man who cost the Navy so much. Drawings of sea monsters attacking, editorials by war correspondent Gideon Spilett, and E. Lime’s grained photographs of carnage were the next projections.

  Duncan’s face was a clinical mask, studying the last micro-slide, courtesy of The San Francisco Evening Tribune. Front-page shouts of INSANE CAPTAIN CAPTURED! BIZARRE, SUBMERSIBLE SHIP DESTROYED! with a wild caricature of Nemo, defiant on the Nautilus, surrounded by ghosts of dead sailors, each in the rotting uniform of their own country.

  Beneath, the single word: “Madman.”

  Nemo’s body bent, then burned from inside, the limelight flaming, melting the micro-slides. Duncan doused it with tea, then opened a small window, pushing vines aside to let in fresh air and the first streaks of morning.

  He gathered the scatter of Nemo’s history from his desk. The gold envelope was marked by a dollop of red sealing wax, a signet “N” pressed into its center, circled by the words “Mobilis in Mobile.”

  The wax had been expertly cut. Duncan opened the envelope, taking out the parchment with Nemo’s declaration of destruction in his own, precise hand: “To stop the war makers before they act; to destroy them, and their ability to make war, is the only hope for peace in this world.”

  4

  THE DEVIL’S WAREHOUSE

  The prison guard’s temple was smashed with a wooden plank, sending him sprawling, the voices of the men around him beating him down even more. “Show us Nemo, or your tongue’s gonna be hangin’ like a slaughtered hog!”

  He rolled, dazed, reaching for a leather sap he’d tied to a belt loop, the sap he’d used on them a hundred times before. Prisoners grabbed his arms, dragged him the length of the near-black corridor. He cried out, his shoulder separating.

  They hauled to a stop, the Guard lying on his face, hair blood-sticky, mouth mashed against the frozen, stone floor. A patch of ice broke against his cheek, the slivers cutting his jaw.

  Lyle, a prisoner with one arm not blown off by Union artillery, took charge by jamming a knee into the Guard’s back, cracking bones. “You said we was too stupid to take this place, but we took it! Tell us where Nemo’s at, or we’ll do you like you done the old man.”

  Another prisoner threw in, “Only worse.”

  “But I didn’t do nothing to—”

  Lyle said, “Don’t matter—you’re wearin’ the uniform!”

  The Guard tried, “But … I … can’t move nothing.”

  Lyle upped his knee, pressing his weight into the Guard’s neck. The Guard managed to straighten his arms, reaching, fingers fumbling, for the sap. The others shredded his uniform jacket from the seams, ripping the weapon away, and pulling a large ring with only one key from a tucked pocket.

  Two hard gut-punches from Lyle’s only hand and the Guard was on the floor again, doubled into himself, yowling. “I know you’re gonna kill me. But I got me some children. Little ones.”

  “We all do.” Lyle was leaning in hot-breath close, his face a dark mass, blocking everything. “The only chance you got is, mebbe, he saves your life. He’s the big secret of this place, and you don’t give him up, your mama won’t know who she’s burying!”

  The Guard said, “The last, the very last locker.”

  It was like the black recess of a caved-in mine, the prisoners feeling along the wall, until grabbing hold of an inches-thick padlock. Lyle sprung it with the key, freeing an iron chain threaded between rusting handles that were bolted to a cut section in the stone wall.

  Lyle said, “They got him in a doggone crypt!”

  “Grab hold!” was shouted, and two prisoners wrapped hands around the handles. Six feet high, it was a slab of solid granite, movable on a steel dolly, that rolled on a length of track in the floor. They strained the dolly backward, stone grinding stone, until the granite cleared the opening to a narrow but tall cell.

  Rats stampeded from the dark, screaming.

  Prisoners craned their necks, trying to make out the silhouette of the man in the back of the almost-tomb: on the edge of a cot, chin in his hands, wrists shackled. He cocked his head, and they could see his eyes. Two candle flames against a dark complexion.

  He said, “If I’m to lead this, you’ll follow my orders to the letter.”

  Lyle said, “It weren’t so easy gettin’ you out, sir.”

  “But now I am.”

  He regarded the men, the tatters of their military tunics over striped prison grays, then stood and
said, “My orders only. There’ll be no mutineers.”

  Lyle nodded. “We’re with you, Captain.”

  “Then get that man up, before he dies.”

  * * *

  The President’s Coach skidded across the Virginia blacktop, the four-horse team fighting to stay true. Midnight rain slicked the Richmond road, water sheeting inches deep. Hooves pounded. Slipped. Found their way again. Kept running.

  Grant steadied himself as the coach lurched, lit a cigar on a sconce mounted above the upholstered leather, then faced Duncan, who was sitting opposite. Duncan’s hands went to the pair of Navy Six’s mounted on the door, ready to draw in case of an assassination attempt.

  Awkward fiddling, and then, “I’d never read Nemo’s full statements before.”

  “So, you’re impressed? ‘When the tyrant has disposed of foreign enemies by conquest or treaty, and there is nothing more to fear from them, then he is always stirring up some war or other…’ Plato. Stop wars by killing off the warriors. Nemo’s debate has a thousand years on it, and that was his damn defense.”

  “His words became actions,” Duncan said.

  “Sinking our ships prolonged the war, didn’t stop a goddamned thing. It never does. Kills our men, and he’s sitting in a jail cell, not rotting in an unmarked grave. That’s the only time I disagreed with Lincoln. He wanted that damn submarine-ship preserved…”

  “And now, we need it.”

  “He wouldn’t sign the execution order, thinking your Nemo’d reveal all he knew, his designs. That’s what you think, too, making me the barbarian, right?”

  “President Johnson took your side.”

  “They swore Johnson in with Lincoln lying dead upstairs. The only way he could’ve become president, by a bullet. Every order he gave was wrong, except that one. Nemo should’ve hung. And worse.”

  Duncan said, “The executive decision—never carried out.”

  “Because the fool got himself impeached, turning Nemo into some kind of martyr. And that makes a damn legend.” Grant concentrated on his cigar. “Even to you. You honor him for what he built, instead of condemning him for what he did with it.”

  “I do know what he is, Sam, and why you’ve scheduled him to hang.”

  “Good-damn-riddance.” Grant’s voice trailed off.

  Oliver, a thick-necked driver, side-cracked the whip, the team cutting through the storm faster. He felt the rear wheels careen as he swung the leaders wide, taking a far corner, and then pulled back. Careless handling. A lightning strike showed the barbed wire and sandbag barricade that blocked Canal Street, half a mile in front of them.

  Duncan gripped his armrests. “One man, in one submersible, and governments quake. The power he had is terrifying, but now, he’s a prisoner, and the Nautilus…”

  “The spoils of war.” Grant leaned forward, challenging. “I allowed you those files, and they didn’t change your mind about this bastard?”

  Duncan chose carefully: “It doesn’t change what we need. This is the right thing to do, Sam.”

  “I haven’t done it yet.”

  Grant focused on something beyond the rain, that Duncan couldn’t see, his thoughts giving way to echoes: the distant Virginia thunder cracked like an artillery strike, mixing with the screams of the dying. Lightning was now the flame of cannons, the smell of the rain now sulfur and black powder.

  The jagged silhouettes of warehouses that lined the blocks leading to Libby Prison passed by one after another, with Grant seeing them as a city he’d burned. “It’s resurrecting the dead.”

  “Sir?”

  “Rebuilding after a war. Johnson tried destroying every reconstruction measure, and damn him raw for trying. We’ve suffered deep wounds, and lost two years in the healing. I’m not going to be the President who let this country die.”

  “We’ll need the world with us.”

  “Instead, they’ve got us in their gunsights.” Grant looked to Duncan. “You know, enemies come from all quarters, John. How many advisors do you think I really trust? It’s a damn small list, and you’re on it.”

  Duncan said, “I’ll always be frank with you, Sam.”

  “Your Captain’s justified every insane action he’s ever taken. That’s the ego of a tyrant, and you swear we need him. Visionary?” Grant threw his cigar butt into the blowing rain. “Goddamn cutthroat.”

  Oliver pulled the team back, racing toward the barricades, reins biting gloved hands. The animals twisted, panicking their run, as the back wheels of the coach locked, fishtailing to one side, then stopping.

  Grant didn’t wait, throwing open the Studebaker’s door, charging into the storm. “My blind granny can handle a four-up better than this!”

  Duncan slipped the coach steps, upped his collar, and fell in next to Grant. They quick-walked to the wall of sandbags and barbed wire–strung crossbars that barricaded the corner where Canal and Twenty-First Streets met.

  Two soldiers hefted another bag onto the pile. It tumbled forward, and Grant grabbed a burlap side. The one with the corporal’s stripes said, without looking, “Obliged! These damn idjits got me runnin’ ass-to-tarnation!” then stuffed his cheek with a chaw of tobacco.

  “At ease.”

  The Corporal’s eyes busted white, before a fumbled salute, and snapping to attention. Grant nodded to the barriers and troops scattered along Canal. “What’s this for, soldier? And, don’t choke on that mess.”

  The Corporal, who was too old for his rank, spit a brown stream. “Blazes, no one told nothing about you comin’ into this, Mr. President.”

  “When did this take up?”

  “Prisoners broke out the main cell block just after supper. Told us to secure the streets, in case they busted through the main gate. They’re supposed to be sending reinforcements from Fort Independence. Sir.”

  Grant checked the Army Colt in the shoulder holster under his coat. “Need something from the coach, John?”

  “I’ll just stick close to you, sir,” Duncan said.

  Troopers moving onto Canal pointed and rib-jammed each other as Grant and Duncan continued through the gray curtain of water, walking the last block to Libby Prison. Grant’s stride became a limp, a years-old injury dragging his leg. He peered out from under his hat as a jag of lightning lit the cobblestone street and the prison’s main entrance. Rain guttered across his chest.

  Grant spoke to no one: “The Devil’s Warehouse.”

  Set away from the brickyards and businesses on Canal, Libby Prison could still be mistaken for what it once was: a food warehouse. The three-floored structure, hidden behind barbed wire–topped walls, conquered the block as a prison, but with freight wagon loaders, sales counters, and rusty signs welcoming farmers, reminders of its old purpose.

  Grant said, “After the surrender, I came down to claim the body of a young Lieutenant. He’d showed great promise, but got captured, sent here.” He wiped the water from his face. “Killed himself, swallowed his tongue. He knew we’d won, but couldn’t wait out those last weeks ’til Appomattox.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  “We damned the gray for this place, now we’re using it the exact same way.”

  “Sometimes the only difference is the color of the uniform.”

  As the storm rumbled off the Virginia Mountains, Grant regarded Duncan. “John, never repeat that in my presence again.”

  Grant’s limp was worse as they moved for the front gates. Bedsheets, with JUSTICE FOR THE INNOCENT!, WELCOME TO HELL!, and WILLING TO DIE! scrawled in red, hung from the fourth-floor sills above the entrance, the corners tied to iron bars, the rain bleeding their message down the walls as if Libby had been gut-shot.

  Grant said, “It doesn’t look good for your Nemo, does it?”

  By the Libby gates, Warden Kramer held the whalebone umbrella tilted against the blowing rain, eyeing Grant and Duncan coming down Canal, trailed by a small patrol. He ran a comb over his few hairs before striding down Libby’s old cattle planks, umbrella up, hand
outstretched.

  Duncan took the greeting, but the jailer’s attention was on Grant: “Mr. President, this is more than an honor that you’re visiting,” Kramer angled his umbrella over Grant and part of Duncan’s shoulder, splitting the rain.

  “But may I suggest coming back in the morning—or even next week—and things could be more, uh … prepared to receive you?”

  Duncan said, “Our business can’t wait.”

  Kramer forced his fingers through the tangle of his wet beard. “We’re in the middle of a situation, sir.”

  Grant said, “It’s hanging out your windows.”

  “Containment is the priority, but I’m the one to guarantee your safety, Mr. President.”

  “I guarantee myself. Duncan, you’re a witness. This sorry turnkey’s off the hook.”

  “Stand clear!”

  The shout came from a rough-made Gunnery Sergeant on a tall stallion, pulling an Ordnance Gun on brass wheels. Thick hands and a face like pounded beef, soldiers flanked Gunny, running together for the main gate, sabers in hand, surrounding the cannon.

  Lightning cut, showing troops moving from the deep shadows beyond Canal Street, rain-soaked, checking rifles, before taking position along outside walls.

  Grant stepped around Kramer. “I’m with the men.”

  5

  DAKKAR

  The dead man was in the center of the old loading dock, a bullet hole in his throat and a flowered baby’s bonnet clutched in an arthritic left hand. Rain had washed away the blood pools, and his skin was starting to blue.

  Above and behind, prisoners screamed for justice from the windows facing the yard. Faces beaten raw. Fists jutting through bars, hurling rocks and pieces of rusty chain.

  Beside Grant, Duncan said, “Well, turnkey claimed a ‘situation.’”

  “He did, indeed.”

  They moved to the side of the gates as more troops made their way in, the last whipping a mule pulling a caisson loaded down with crates of Ketchum Grenades. A Private doled out one-pounders, setting charges and plungers, with Grant watching.