Ganymede Read online

  Down to the river.

  Josephine always made a point to wear quiet shoes. Even if she sported the most fashionable boots in the whole city, she’d glue wool felt to the bottoms and replace it as needed. It was a small precaution, but never had it served her quite so well as when she stepped along the damp-swollen stairs and along planked walkways that flanked the river’s banks between the piers.

  Her dress rustled as a matter of course, but it was the sort of sound that was easily lost in the Quarter, beside the water most especially. The noise of her skirts blended seamlessly into the soft rushing of the Old Man as he worked his way to the Gulf. Her passage was masked by the calls and wings of night birds, and the dipping paddles of rum-runners coming in for the night, unwilling to crank the diesel engines on their small, flat crafts. It was lost in the sound of low, loose waves lapping up against pilings and the broad sides of the larger boats that were moored along the way.

  She followed the Texians’ footsteps and the grumbling trail of their conversation—too distant to be heard with any clarity—down along the rickety wharves and alongside warehouses that no one examined too closely—not even the Republicans, unless they had strict orders to do so. And even then, only in the daytime.

  This was a dangerous place, dangerous to any given group of men—armed and strong and unencumbered by corsetry or ankle-length skirts. No one knew this better than Josephine, and no one liked it less.

  As the city glow was eaten by distance, and the banks, and the taller buildings that cast devious shadows thicker than ink, the only light to be seen bounced off the river in splintered fragments and skinny ribbons. It sparkled along the currents, cast by the lights on mercantile ships and riverboats chugging through the night, or sometimes by a quickly shuttered lantern or a smattering of torches left lit but fading at the edges of civilization.

  This gray space between the city and the river … it was dying, and it was not a place to be visited frivolously. But not for fear of the rum-runners, smugglers, and other assorted criminal fiends. Even the worst of that motley lot shuddered and moved carefully along this borderland.

  No, the banks were avoided for fear of something else.

  Josephine wasn’t sure how long she’d been on the Texians’ trail, or how far she’d walked in silence. She must be coming up on Rue Canal soon; it must be there up ahead, over the nebulous edge where the city was so impossibly far away and out of reach. Even the music from the saloons, lounges, and gentlemen’s clubs was muffled here, or snuffed out altogether. Stray notes drifted in pairs and clusters, their tunes lost to the thick, wet air and the increasing distance.

  Gradually, by carefully conducted shuffles and short, brave sprints, Josephine came near enough to catch their words. She could not see their faces, and for that matter, she could not tell them apart. She watched them in glimpses, around the side of a stack of crates stuffed with straw and heaven knew what else.

  She shivered despite the warmth, pressing her back against the crates as firmly as she dared, as if she could will herself closer than the crates would allow. The stays of her corsetry jabbed into her hips, and her bosoms were thrust uncomfortably high as she compressed herself as tightly as her clothing would allow.

  At first the conversation was idle office gossip, complaints about a stenographer, and then it moved on to concerns about money, troops, and supplies. Finally they both paused, like men who had been avoiding a topic and were now forced to confront it.

  “I don’t like it out here, especially since I don’t know what we’re doing—so why don’t you help me out and tell me what’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry to lead you so far out into the boonies, sir, but I have my reasons. I can’t trust the barracks, or the office on the Square. We’re being watched, sir,” the speaker announced. Josephine’s heart nearly stopped.

  It calmed again when she heard, “Of course you’re being watched—we’re all of us being watched, all the goddamn time. It comes with the territory.” This man—Colonel Allastair Betters, Josephine gathered—made an impatient noise and crossed his arms. “Listen, son. I realize the locals are none too forthcoming, but you’ve got to scare up some results. General Dwyer knows it’s out there. Shit, we all know it’s out there, in the water someplace. I don’t understand why you’re having so much trouble getting your hands on it!”

  “Sir, do you have any idea how much water they’ve got around here? That’s why I’m bringing you down here, because look—look at this old wharf. You can see, can’t you? Somebody’s been here recently, and moving something real big. And I think I know what it was.”

  “I can’t see any indication of anything except mud, dust, and a few fornicating turtles.”

  Seconds later, a brilliant flare lit up the wharf—so bright that it felt like an explosion, but it was only the striking of a lamp. Josephine turned away, deeper into the shadow, and hoped that she vanished. She also thanked her lucky stars she was wearing a dark blue dress, which, except for its cream trim, may as well have been black, so long as she stayed out of the light.

  “Jesus Christ, my eyes!”

  “Sorry, sir. But it’s important that you see this. They’re doing something, on these pilings—on this dock. Look at the boards, sir. They’re scraped up all to hell, and freshly so. You can see, it looks like a huge team of men has been stomping all over the place.”

  Josephine dared another peek around the corner and saw the two men huddled over a long drag-mark that did in fact look very recent. A few of the weaker slats had splintered and now jutted up, making for a truly treacherous landscape, and others were merely scuffed clean of the mildew, rot, and the discoloration of a century.

  “All right, all right,” said Colonel Betters. “I do see about a thousand footprints. It looks like a bunch of men have been running around, back and forth. What makes you think it’s tied to one of the Hunleys?”

  “Sir, I think we’ve had it all wrong. I think they’ve already got it on the move—that they’ve unscuttled it, fixed it, and they’re sending it down the river.”

  This was news to Josephine, insomuch as it wasn’t true—but she didn’t mind the investigator being so very wrong. The farther off-track he could be drawn, the better.

  The colonel said, “Hm. I don’t know about that. This is a mess, but is it a mess that says a military watercraft has been man-hauled around? We know the scuttled Hunley holds nine men. Would something that big and heavy fit up here? Wouldn’t this whole wharf just come folding right down? Hell, Cardiff, this thing’s so fragile, I’m half-afraid to stand here and bounce on my toes after a steak supper.”

  “Sir, you’re right. And no, I don’t think this set of matchsticks would hold a Hunley … not all in one piece. I think they’ve disassembled it. They’re moving it in parts. They’re sneaking it off, bit by bit, onto barges. Dozens of flat-bottoms go by every day. We could never search every craft that comes through the delta. It just isn’t possible; we don’t have the people. And these bayou boys, they’ve got friends in Barataria. They could buy help, if they needed it.”

  From her spot behind the crates, Josephine considered their incorrect theory.

  It wasn’t a half-bad idea, and just this once she was glad that her brother’s crew had been so slow moving the craft. If it’d gone any quicker, they might’ve disassembled it—and then what? Then the Texians would be on to them. Still, it was cold comfort.

  The Union had said outright that they wouldn’t spare extra money on a recovery mission until it could be demonstrated that the Ganymede actually worked. And worked without killing anyone inside it.

  To date, such a demonstration had not been achievable, not on any serious scale. The controls were a mystery to every sailor the guerrillas had brought aboard, and the bayou engineers had only just discovered how to rig up makeshift ventilation pumps. No one had died on board since the ventilation had been installed, so progress was being made. It just wasn’t progress enough.

  Not yet.
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br />   Deep down, Josephine knew it was possible to move the Ganymede, and move it safely. She believed it with all her heart—she’d seen the elegant schematics left over from the Confederate Hunley’s last, best efforts before he’d drowned in an earlier prototype. She’d held the secret rolled-up blueprints in her hands and read all about the machine’s destructive capacity, as laid out by its now-dead creator.

  And she was confident to the point of obsession that if the Ganymede could be given to the Federal government, and reproduced, and brought into the war … then even Texas would back away, and at last the Rebs could be choked into surrender.

  Much earlier in the war, the Anaconda Plan—an attempt to blockade the supplies to the whole southeast—had failed. But then, it’d been tried only with ordinary warships. Imagine how much more effective it could have been—and might be again!—if the blockade were undertaken with craft that swam below the water’s surface. Just consider the possibilities of such extraordinary machines, hidden and powerful, able to destroy ships from the Gulf or the Atlantic without having ever been seen.

  It could end the war. Maybe the simple threat of it could do so. How much more could the Rebels really stand, anyway? Any idiot could see they were living on the cusp of what was sustainable; any fool could pick up a newspaper and understand in seconds that this couldn’t go on much longer.

  Of course, everyone had been saying so for years.

  “Tell me, then. What does this mean? How do we respond, in case you’re right?”

  “First, I think we should clear out the bayous. Make a huge push—just wipe those bastards out of the wetlands for good. We’ll round up a few, twist some thumbs, and find out what they’ve done with the ship. Maybe if we’re lucky, they haven’t finished moving it off yet.”

  After a pause, the colonel asked, “The damn thing failed, and failed again. Do you think the Union really wants it?”

  “Mr. Hunley was a genius, sir, and so were the fellows who took up his work after he died. If the blues think they can start up that machine, they’ll pay for it, and pay top dollar. If they aren’t funding the operation already.”

  “We may as well assume they are. Those swamp rats, they don’t have the money or resources to make such a stink on their own. Out there in the sopping wet middle of noplace, there’s not even anything worth stealing. Someone’s keeping them in guns and ammo.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Wait. Hush.”

  “Sir, what—?”

  “Hush, I said.” He dropped his voice so low that Josephine could scarcely make out the words. “Do you hear that?”

  The lieutenant whispered back. “Hear what, sir?… Oh. I think…”

  “What is it?”

  “Sir, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  Josephine Early wasn’t sure. She heard it, too, very faintly—it was coming from the far side of the men, from below the wharf, nearer the water. Crouching down, she reached for the Schofield under her skirt and retrieved it from the heavy-duty garter where it had been fastened. She removed her gloves and stuffed them into her pocket, then grasped the gun carefully, readying it, adjusting her grip.

  “It sounds like … like someone having a hard time breathing.”

  “Yes, sir, something like that. Where’s it coming from?”

  “There … no. Over there. Or maybe over there.” He indicated several directions, none of them certain.

  The woman behind the crates closed her eyes, in case it’d help her listen harder. She concentrated and breathed as shallowly as she could—until the pounding of her heart was nearly as loud as the distant wheezing. Her hips and lower belly ached against her foundation undergarments from maintaining such a cramped posture, and her head was beginning to throb.

  “Cardiff, I don’t like this.”

  “Me either, sir. Maybe we should be on our way.”

  The colonel wasn’t quick to move, but he was quick to reach into the gun holster he wore hanging off his shoulders. Josephine couldn’t see what he carried, probably a Colt service revolver—something loud and high caliber, being a Texian and a man of authority. Very likely, it was the kind of gun that could take somebody’s head off in a pinch.

  Against all reason, she was glad to see he had it. He was going to need it, but not to defend himself against any hidden Union spies like herself, crouching behind crates. She was sickeningly confident of that much. She knew it from the rushing sound of broken breaths being dragged in and out through rotted throats. She knew because the sound was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, drawing closer, coming toward the lantern light on the dead-end wharf.

  The lieutenant drew a handgun as well, more nervously than the colonel. He instinctively retreated until his back was nearly pressed against the commanding officer’s—and he held the lantern high, throwing the light as far as he could, hoping to get a glimpse of whatever was approaching from the darkness.

  Josephine didn’t want to see it, but she needed to.

  This had all been a terrible idea—on everyone’s part, and at least the colonel ought to have known better. Maybe he had known better, but he was cocky with his guns and his rank; maybe the lieutenant had been the ignorant one, seeing the place during the day when the sun had chased off the worst of the shadows.

  If only they’d left the light off. If only they’d kept their voices down.

  Every muscle in Josephine’s body was tighter than a violin string. She watched around the corner, crouched on one knee, gun held up at the ready, almost next to her face as if she were praying. She considered running, back out the way they’d come—but no, they’d see her, or hear her. They’d open fire, not knowing she wasn’t the most dangerous thing on the wharf, and not knowing she only meant to escape.

  Besides.

  She jerked her head away from the corner and listened.

  Coming down the walkway, up from the river in staggering, shambling steps that didn’t keep time like an ordinary walker.…

  Josephine retreated away from the crate’s edge, shrinking herself to the fullest extent possible, down at the bottom edge where the angle was sharpest and the shadow was deepest.

  It wouldn’t help. They didn’t have to see her to know she was there.

  The ragged, sickly gasps grew nearer. Josephine tried to sort them out—to determine how many were coming. She detected three on the far side of the Texians, who were sweating with fear; she was sure of two more, from farther back on the wharf; and one more … no, two more coming up the back way, cutting off the only obvious means of retreat.

  “Sir, we should go!”

  “Put out that light, you idiot.”

  “We won’t be able to see!”

  “What’d you walk me into, Cardiff?” The colonel’s voice was rising, not from panic, Josephine didn’t think. She’d give him credit there—he was holding steady, feet planted and firearm level. Texians were repugnant, problematic, occupying, Confederate-allied bastards down to the very last man … but she couldn’t accuse them of being cowards.

  “Sir, we should be quiet—”

  “Turn it out!” he ordered. “I’ve heard about what goes on here, I’ve heard what people say.”

  “People say a lot of things, sir.”

  Lieutenant Cardiff struggled to hold his gun and turn down the lamp without dropping it, a prospect that flooded the watching woman with horror. What a thought, burning alive or being eaten alive—a choice no one should have to make.

  His voice quivering, the lieutenant said, “So many people have made reports. Word from Austin says they’re sending a specialist—some Ranger with an interest in strange … things.”

  Josephine began to calculate how far she was from the wharf, and if she could run past the men without them shooting her, and if she could swim in what she was wearing—if she made it over the side of the walkway and into the Mississippi where there were snakes, to be sure; and alligators, maybe; and bad men up to bad things, but none of it was as awful as what was coming
.

  “Sir, there are stories,” the lieutenant gulped. “But they’re only stories—goddamn locals, they think we ought to be afraid.”

  “Goddamn locals aren’t always out to snow you, son. I don’t know about you, but I’m plenty afraid right now.”

  Out of the darkness, up the walk that led to the wharf, something rose out from the murky night. It moved more slowly than a person should, and its posture suggested that something was broken, deep inside. When it stepped, it stepped unevenly, and with effort. Harder and faster the loud, harsh breathing came; for when it spied the Texians—or possibly Josephine, who was nearer to the thing and in its direct line of sight—its efforts rose. It let out a loud, hard cry, a noise that shredded the wharf and summoned more of its kind.

  Faster it approached, one foot in front of the other, gracelessly, but with a purpose. Now it saw fresh meat and loped ever faster toward it—toward Josephine, who held out her gun but held her fire.

  If she squeezed the trigger, the Texians would know she’d been there hiding, listening. If the hideous man-shaped thing reached her, it wouldn’t make a difference anyway—she’d be dead or worse by dawn. She held off as long as she could, waiting until the last moment … until the feeble moonlight sparked off the thing’s wet mouth and she could’ve almost counted its teeth.

  One shot, two shots—both of them blasted like cannon fire in such a close space.

  But not from Josephine’s gun.

  The Texians had seen the incoming monster just in time, and it was their fire that took the thing down, and took it to pieces. Its head split in two, and the top half landed at Josephine’s feet. Its quivering torso went left, right, and toppled backwards to lie still upon the wharf’s edge.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth and fought for composure.

  Another one was coming. She wouldn’t be so fortunate twice in a row. She lifted the gun again and waited. The sloughing scrape of dead feet, the horrible rhythm of dead lungs.