The men ran the rain, grenade in one hand, rifle in the other, taking scattered positions around the yard. A white-bearded sergeant had three Ketchums, juggling them like Indian clubs.
Grant said, “We’d toss a bunch over the lines, the Rebs’d catch them in blankets, hurl them right back. The boys’d scramble, they’d go off, taking a hand or a foot.”
“Weapons have no loyalty.”
Grant regarded Duncan. “That’s what you’re counting on with that Nautilus.”
Warden Kramer was last through the gates before they shut, tucking himself beside a wall scarred by bullet strikes from a firing squad, and decorated with a smiling pig declaring, Nobody Beats Libby Pork!
Kramer dipped his umbrella twice.
Troopers shouldered Carbines, sighting the windows for head and chest shots. Ammo was quick-passed, slammed home. Gunny smiled with broken teeth as he leveled the Ordnance Cannon on the massive double doors of the main building, then locked it off. A shell was breeched, powder tamped.
Grant said, “Hell, I didn’t have this much firepower my first three battles.”
A sniper ran in low, saluted Grant, then dropped to one knee beside him, pulling a Sharps single-shot from a leather scabbard. He steadied himself against a hay bale, while shielding the rifle’s hammer from the rain with his palm. He was a farm kid, all thick hair and freckles, who declared his name as Billy Junior, after his grandfather.
Billy’s kid-voice broke, squinting down the rifle barrel. “Mr. President, fifty feet’s the kill line. Anyone crosses it, they’ll not take another step. Courtesy of Warden Kramer.”
“I tell you when to fire, son. No one else,” Grant said.
“Chester!” was screamed from the barred windows, prison voices rising as the old man was dragged away by two troopers, the baby bonnet still in his fingers. A guard, ready and waiting for the body to be cleared, lit a torch from the common barrel, while another trooper, at his heels, hefted over-slopping buckets of coal oil.
Kramer caught an eye, twirled his umbrella as a Spring parasol. Trooper nodded at the signal, hurled the oil on the double doors leading to the cells, coating them. Torch Guard dove in, set the doors alight, then scrambled. The flames spat in the rain, then ate the oil in a burst of hot orange and wet, black smoke.
Grant put a match to his cigar with a flourish. “Nemo doesn’t need a noose; he’s going to choke off.”
Mule-chested Gunny wrapped the Howitzer’s trigger line around his knuckles, saw Kramer dip his umbrella, then yelled, “How you want to die tonight, you bastards? Roasted alive? Head shot, or bleed out like Chester? Your choice, and I’m fine with all of ’em!”
Shouts tore the windows, bottles tossed. The soldiers held their guns, ducking broken glass, looked to the Warden. The rain was sheeting, but the umbrella stayed put.
“Damn fools.” Grant stayed on the burning door. “What the hell happened to surrender?”
A heavy blow from the prisoners’ side split the burning double door from behind. Just inches. Then, another blow, exploding cinders from the wood, vaulting bits of fire into the air.
Guns stayed. Thumbs on hammers, rain bouncing off rifle barrels, highlighting them in the dark. More prisoner screams from the windows, and the Gunny tightened the Howitzer cord another eighth-inch.
The doors finally burst, burning pieces landing in the yard, sparks skyrocketing away. Captain Nemo stepped through thick, acrid smoke and the flames framing the doorway, smashing away burning wreckage with the chains shackling his wrists.
Nemo kept his hands open and weaponless before planting himself on the loading dock, directly in front of the cannon, looking down at the barrel’s three-inch maw. His face was painted with soot-dried blood, his clothes singed and fight-torn. But he threw back his head, filling his mouth with rain, drinking deep, and smiling defiantly.
He said, “I am Nemo. These are my men.”
The prisoners cheered, but Gunny’s shout carried over them: “You make one hell of a fine target!”
Sparks from the fire turned to soggy ash, a gray cloak draping Nemo as he said, “To subdue the enemy without fighting is the ultimate skill, but you failed at that. So have we.”
Grant said, “There’s a canny son of a bitch.”
His hand was on Billy’s shoulder, whose voice broke again. “Just give me the order, sir.”
Grant said, “No,” as Nemo continued: “One of ours is dead, and we’re prepared to take many of yours. The fuse is lit, but there doesn’t have to be an explosion. If you’ll hear me out.”
Gunny shouted back to Nemo, “Them fancy words mean nothing but defiance of orders! You’ve all been told what to do, and fairly warned!”
Nemo said, “There’s been nothing fair about the treatment of these men!”
Gunny raised his hand, barely, to let Nemo see the trigger line. Just enough. “If I scratch my nose or my ass, you’re all dead! That’s not a very righteous end for the famous Captain Nemo.”
“I’m just a prisoner,” Nemo said.
He made no visible moves, hands down and rain falling, but took in the men before him: a picket of Carbines aimed at his chest, others sighted on the cell windows, and all with the same eyes, wear on their faces, as the prisoners behind him.
Nemo said, “Bring him out.”
The Guard from the cells was dragged through the smoldering doorway, a prisoner on each arm, and let go. He stumbled, catching himself before hitting the ground, keeping the troops back with a wave of his hand. Lyle was one of the prisoners, standing ready.
Rifles and bayonets jigged forward. Froze.
Grant was fixed. Duncan said to him, “That’s the only man who can captain the Nautilus, sir.”
“I’m aware.”
Nemo called out to the yard, “The government can’t be bothered with us any other time, but now I have your”—he nodded toward Grant—“full attention. This began with the murder of an old man, but we didn’t revenge ourselves, although we could have—”
A clap of thunder cut his words, and the Guard scrambled for the pickets, rolling off the loading dock, landing hard. Gunny screamed, “Go to hell!” pulling the trigger line. It snapped in half, and coiled back, not firing the Ordnance Gun.
Nemo raised his arms, the chain between his wrists dangling over his head. “The threat of cannon, ultimately worthless—”
A slug ripped flesh, sending him spinning.
“Nobody make a damn move! Ease those weapons, that’s an order!”
Rifle barrels went skyward with Grant’s voice, guards and troopers stepping aside as he shouldered to the front of the picket. He stayed by the Ordnance Cannon as Nemo strained to stand, blood soaking him.
Nemo said, “The uniforms that separated each of you are just rags—”
A chant of “Justice” rose from the block windows.
“But you insist on still seeing these men as enemies, your prisoners of war—”
Lyle conducted the voices with his missing hand. “Justice! Justice!”
Grant said, “These men aren’t just captured draftees, and you damn well know it.”
Nemo got to one knee, saw the gold-scrolled Smith & Wesson that Grant was holding flush with his coat, barrel down. “Then treat them according to the articles of peacetime incarceration, not like animals! Food they can eat, ready medicine. They’ll still be serving their time.”
He struggled to stand, and said, “Find that much humanity, and it’s a peaceful end. Answer with another bullet, you’ll be repaid. A thousand times.”
“Justice! Justice!”
“Every one of those hands? A weapon in it.” Nemo pointed to the prisoners. “We got the key to the weapons stores. Our own grenades and bombs, to counter yours—black powder and dynamite now hidden on every floor.”
Then to Grant, he said, “Ten prisoners for each soldier, and all aching for a chance at another war!”
“You’re hiding behind these men, giving them your words.”
�
�Speaking for them, General. But killing me won’t stop the battle. Treat these men properly, for once? That’s all in the world they want.”
Gunny said, “We’ll clear this damn place out, then stack your corpses!”
Nemo looked to Grant. “You’ve fought the ragtags, General. You know well how bloody this can get.”
“Letting a dead man make demands.” Grant fixed on Kramer huddled against the wall, and said, “Warden?”
Kramer said nothing, kept the umbrella steady. Grant looked to the anxious faces around him, washed in rain and sweat.
“The peace starts with you. These prisoners have to shuck their weapons first,” Grant said.
Nemo half-smiled. “So they can be slaughtered?”
“So we know they can be trusted. And time’s running.”
Nemo raised his arms, the chains dangling. “Men, away from the windows!” Then, to Grant, “That’s the best I can do.”
The prisoners stepped back from the bars, hands with bottles and homemade bombs pulling in, but still chanting, “Justice, justice!”
Grant said, “Warden! You’ve the final word!”
Nemo, hand clamped on his shoulder wound, body swaying as he refused unconsciousness, looked at his own blood streaming. “One random shot and we’re lost.”
“Justice” chorused through the prison halls, and Grant’s voice cut above the sound: “Warden!”
Kramer lowered his umbrella, then closed it, and shook it twice. That’s when fingers came off triggers, rifles back to shoulders, grenades set aside. The last bit of rain was a scatter, the thunder someplace else.
Nemo collapsed.
Billy followed the Captain to the ground with his rifle barrel, hands shaking. He looked up to Duncan. “I had the head-shot, had it sighted cold, but my finger froze on the trigger. I couldn’t shoot.”
Duncan said, “It was the right choice, son.”
“All these guns, and his only fear was for those men, not himself,” Billy said, propping the rifle across his knee. “I’ve never seen that before.”
Grant lit his cigar.
6
RED TIDE
Augusto was the youngest helmsman the freighter Regina ever had, and he couldn’t be sure how long he’d been floating, letting the ocean carry him, since he watched her sink. Coughing out the sea, then gulping for air. Praying, holding onto the cameo of Stella Maris around his neck, forcing his arms and legs to move.
This stretch, from the Bay of Fundy toward the port of New York, was known for its deep trench, and near-ice temperature. But it didn’t churn. Tonight it boiled: the ocean foaming, then, the attack.
Before the start of watch, Augusto imagined the other ships lost, filling himself with bravery, sailing the same course. It was also his twentieth birthday, and he’d rum-celebrated for hours, but the bravado lasted less than a minute. Picked up and tossed off the deck, his spine twisted as he smashed against the water.
Rolling in the ocean, the ship disintegrating around him, Augusto tried but couldn’t see the thing that attacked them. Not entirely. Through debris and flames, he thought maybe a boat with a special weapon. Then, maybe, something alive. Prehistoric. Cutting the water fast, with huge claws. Razor-edged dactyls that butchered the crew, shredded the hull and cabins.
Screams, and chaos.
He fought himself for calm, and to stay afloat, stay moving. And think. There was a memory, in pieces, of holding onto a mast as a life preserver, cradling a dying shipmate with his free arm, as long as he could feel life in him.
The boy died, and he let him slip away, just before a swell tore the mast apart, pushing him under. He panicked his way to the surface, finding air, keeping just an inch above the water, thick with bloody engine oil.
With everyone dead, and surrounded by miles of dark nothing, Augusto needed to hear his own voice: “Sì, questo è quello che devo dovuto fare … si…”
He moved his arms forcefully, pushing with heavy strokes, eyes salt-burning, but strength coming from some hidden place. Maybe he could swim until he was picked up, or make it to a small island.
He swam harder, his mind full of what to say when he got ashore. First, he’d make a report to the Italian Maritime Board, then his father, at the Consulate General. Body movement was automatic now, his mind letting him be someplace else. Imagining a hero’s welcome. A merciful dream.
He thought he heard a ship’s engine: “Io sono qui!”
Blood erupted, flooding his throat, as his legs were cut completely through. No feeling. Everything below his waist, instantly gone. He saw his legs, still thrashing, held in the grip of a massive claw, then pulled under the water. A tasseled shoe bobbed up in front of him.
Below, a wide, saucer shape came up quickly from the ocean dark, open mandibles in view, just as the ice-cold of blood loss closed around Augusto like a shroud.
He saw the thing, and managed a breath.
7
IRON AND STONE
Gunny pulled the descending rope hand-over-hand, grunting with each pull, lowering the corn elevator to the cellar. Grant stood by the low wooden gate to the car, with Warden Kramer and Duncan flanking, and an armed guard crammed into a corner behind.
The lift creaked downward, allowing Grant a look at each of Libby’s floors as they passed. Built for storing corn and grain, they now stored men chained in old harvest cribs. Rioters were marched in at bayonet point, laughing at their yard victory, slapping each other’s whip-scarred backs, before being locked down again.
Lyle, catching a glimpse of the moving elevator as he was being reshackled, threw Grant a salute with his battle-missing right hand.
In the car, Kramer kept straight ahead. “See? These men are our sworn enemies, Mr. President, not disruptive children to be coddled, or bargained with.”
Duncan cut in: “You forget yourself, turnkey. From what I’ve seen, it’s a bloody miracle you’re not having a riot every day.”
“Libby is the way we inherited it from the Confederates, with a thousand new prisoners put in my charge.”
“A lame-duck excuse.” The temperature dropped with the descent, misting Grant’s words. “This place is exactly as you want it, sneaking your orders with that damn umbrella, instead of speaking up like a commander. Something’s rotten here, and I don’t mean your floors or the food.”
Gunny let the car slip the last six inches, banging to the bottom of the elevator shaft. “Apologies, sirs. Mr. President, welcome to the center of the earth.”
Kramer opened the gate, and the air soaked everyone with icy damp and the stench of old, salted meat.
Curing barrels lined the granite-blocked hallway, while chains for carcasses dangled from the ceiling, all ending in large hooks for cows and hogs. Railroad lamps were hung on every third hook, casting the narrow passage in dim yellow.
Grant was sure the lamps were for his benefit, pushing them aside as he made his way through the cold, his leg, pain-dragging, his voice, bouncing off the granite: “Nemo?”
“The last cell,” Kramer said.
Duncan coughed salt. “The last freezer, you mean. Have you done anything to make this place fit for men, instead of sides of beef?”
“That’s where they attacked the guard.” Kramer jabbed the spots of red on the floor with his umbrella tip. “Or maybe it’s Nemo’s.”
Gunny laughed to himself through his nose. “We can but hope.”
Nemo’s still-shackled hands were raised, as an old doc, with gray beard and prisoner stripes, ministered the gunshot with shaking fingers. A lard candle was the only light as he pulled the last bit of catgut through the edge of the wound, then tied it off.
Grant stepped around the granite slab on the trolley, through the narrow cut, and into the once-cooler that was Nemo’s cell.
Old Doc daubed the sutures, then tore clean bandages from a pile of shirts by Nemo’s bunk. A Confederate Field Medical Kit, half the instruments gone, was open by his feet. He stood when he saw Grant, dropping a scalpel int
o a pan of pink water.
“Don’t stop your work, Doctor.”
Nemo rocked his head. “Yes—I have to be saved for the hangman.”
“How did he fare?”
“Lucky, Mr. President. The ball was stopped by some pretty hard muscle. This is a tough man. Hope I did all right, haven’t had a thing to do with doctoring since my capture. Guards dragged me down.”
The Doc was wiping off the flop sweat with the back of his hand, and Grant noted the long-settled bruises from chains lacing his wrists and neck. He said, “I was part of the detachment you fought at Chickasaw Bluffs, sir.”
Grant said, “You surely had us on the run that day.”
Nemo stayed on his back. “Ah, former enemies shaking hands. If I’d had anesthetic, I’d say I was hallucinating.”
Duncan said, “You’re not.”
“My pain already informed me,” Nemo strained. “Welcome to my home, Mr. President. I’d stand to formally greet you, but, you understand.”
“When’s the execution?” asked Duncan.
Kramer jumped in: “Oh, Wednesday, at the high stroke of midnight.”
Nemo said, “Your attendance will make it quite an occasion, General—Mr. President. I know the Warden’s pleased as can be.”
Grant didn’t respond, letting Duncan say, “Condemned men don’t usually spend their last hours negotiating for prisoners who’re going to outlive them.”
“It wasn’t for your benefit. Did the good warden tell you what started the fracas? One of the oldest prisoners had a new great-granddaughter, and the baby wanted to meet her great granddad. But, this man, he denied it.”
“A terrorist, who threw a bomb at Secretary of State Seward,” Kramer said. “No visitors, ever. That was part of the handed-down sentence.”
Nemo’s voice gained: “The other side of eighty, and in despair, he climbs to the top of the old silo, waving that child’s bonnet.”
Kramer said, “I followed the judge’s orders.”
“Instead of talking him down, you had him shot in the throat,” Nemo looked again to Grant, “by the same youngster who was guarding you, Mr. President.”
Nemo Rising Page 3
