Nemo Rising Page 4

  Grant said, “And that boy’s going to live with it.”

  Duncan shook the Old Doc’s hand, easing him to the door. “Gentlemen, the President has private business to attend to. Kramer, I take it the doctor will be escorted to his cell, treated with respect? And that all agreements reached tonight will also be respected?”

  Warden Kramer said nothing, just nodded to Gunny, who was stationed in the corridor with the guards. Before stepping out, he looked back at Nemo, the red spreading across his bandages.

  The wound brought a smile. “I hope you note that this man received medical attention, as required.”

  Kramer was gone, and Grant said, “You’re not surprised I’m here. That’s some arrogance.”

  “Actually I am, but a bullet’s stopping me from bowing. I’ve attracted presidential attention before, but not while staring down a cannon. What of the engineer? Mr. Duncan, you wouldn’t be wasting your talents thinking of a better gallows, would you?”

  Duncan said, “This meeting can end as quickly as it started, with your death that much closer.”

  “My apologies; the pain, you know.” Nemo casually adjusted the knot on his bandage, shackles rattling. “You’re offering an alternative?”

  Nemo studied Grant, when Duncan said, “In your expert opinion, what would happen if someone blocked free trade between all seafaring nations?”

  “Undoubtedly, a war. Encompassing the world.”

  “Then you also agree, it’d be devastating.”

  “Yes, and good riddance.” The shoulder tore at Nemo as he said, “A backward child knows the policies of governments follow the road of destruction. But you’re familiar with my philosophy.”

  Grant examined the last stub of his cigar, tossed it into the piss bucket. “I can quote The Art of War, too, but I’m not here for a damned debate.”

  Nemo looked as if he were about to stand, even if he couldn’t. “What are you saying to me, gentlemen?”

  Duncan said, “Ships from every country are vanishing in our waters without a trace. The lanes are being strangled, and foreign nations are losing men.”

  Nemo picked up on Duncan’s words. “Of course, the men are disposable, but the money lost is not. That’s the usual thinking, isn’t it? And they blame you for the losses, think the United States is responsible.” Nemo regarded Grant for a moment, before, “Are you?”

  Grant said, “That’s a bloody stupid question.”

  “This is a country of warriors, General.”

  “We just buried over half a million. You think I want to dig more graves with another war?”

  Nemo said, “The memory of conflict fades with the appearance of a new storm on the horizon, isn’t that so?”

  Grant stood, saying to Duncan, “I’ve given this son of a bitch all the courtesy I can stomach.”

  “I’m just a humble prisoner waiting for the hangman. What exactly do you expect of me?”

  Duncan said, “Your expertise.”

  Grant rubbed feeling back into his aching leg, squeezing from his hip to his knee, words through his teeth: “Take your so-called submarine and find out who the hell’s sinking these ships, and stop them. Dead.”

  Duncan said, “Complete your mission, and President Grant will sign a full pardon.”

  Nemo couldn’t hide his surprise, even behind the bloody soot covering his face, as Duncan continued: “You’ll be on the open seas, not rotting in a cell. Captain of the Nautilus again, and an official keeper of the peace.”

  Nemo’s voice was in the back of his throat. “Using my own ideals against me?”

  Grant said, “Ideals, hell. You’re a bastard who perverted philosophy as an excuse to murder. No mistake, this is an uneasy truce. Very uneasy.”

  Nemo said, “See, that’s your warrior’s sensibility, General.”

  Grant came back: “You don’t get to rest on an altar. You’ve got too much blood on your hands.”

  “If you’re so sure of your doctrine, why, sirs, bother with me at all?”

  “Because of your damn boat and your command of it. You’ve got thirty seconds to accept, or…” Grant snapped open the watch he was gifted on his graduation from West Point. “… forty-six hours and twelve minutes to hang.”

  Nemo said, “Not much of a choice, is it?”

  Grant put the timepiece into a pocket beside the Colt six-shot. “Until this very minute, you had no choice.”

  The gun didn’t escape Nemo’s gaze. He said, “Buried in this tomb, I’ve dreamt of being back on the Nautilus, and more than once.”

  Duncan adjusted his glasses. “Is that an acceptance?”

  “Let’s say, I’d prefer to die at sea.”

  Grant regarded Nemo. “Get this mission accomplished, and your preference might take care of itself.”

  * * *

  Kramer kept his umbrella purposely down, following steps behind Grant, Duncan, and the troopers who were walking them across the yard. The sky was clear, but fire ash floated from the old doors as the Howitzer was wheeled out the main gates, soldiers riding on either side of it. They all saluted Grant.

  Duncan said, over his shoulder, “You’ll be notified when and where Nemo is to be transported. Prepare him.”

  Kramer said, “I’m not pleased to kowtow to a prisoner.”

  Duncan said, “Your opinion was not sought.”

  “I’ll follow orders precisely, sir.”

  “You’ll do more than that.” Grant clamped a hand over the wolf’s head umbrella handle. “I’m sending an inspector, and if everything about this place isn’t what it should be? You’ll get a taste of the chains.”

  Kramer nodded respectfully as the President and Duncan walked to the Studebaker, troopers around them peeling off. Oliver held the door open, head down. Grant threw a look at the new wheel and climbed in, anger bending his back and shoulders.

  In the coach, Grant said to Duncan, “I despise this was necessary.”

  “But will you engage Nemo and the Nautilus?”

  * * *

  Prisoner-made banners snapped in the breeze above Kramer like laundry on the line as the coach turned off Canal, soldiers saluting its passing. Gunny was beside Warden Kramer, waving the umbrella, saying, “Drunken, arrogant reprobate. And a goddamned coddler.”

  Gunny rubbed his hands over his swollen, broken knuckles. “What about that Nemo? I’d love to go a round or two with that strutter before his leaving.”

  Kramer tapped Gunny’s chest. “He’s still a prisoner until we hand him over, and so must obey all rules set down by his captors.”

  “That’ll do,” Gunny said.

  * * *

  Nemo’s wound was soaking blood again as he tore open his bunk’s hay-bag mattress. Ripping with both hands, piles of moldy grass stuffing were scooped and tossed. Then, digging into a corner, he snagged a golden sea horse between his fingers.

  Two and a half inches in length, with an N snaking around its twice-curved tail. Nemo wrapped the creature in a stained bandage scrap, slipped it in his boot.

  8

  PROFONDO ROSSO

  The torn skin and muscle was washed with warm water, the exposed pieces of bone dried before Perini tore off his rubber apron, reached for his rosary. He gently kissed the wooden cross before hanging it around his neck.

  The funeral parlor was at the end of a short block on Mulberry Street, between the barbershop and men’s haberdashery, its window display a deluxe child’s coffin, the glass spotted with fingerprints of kids who dared to tag it.

  Bishop Falcone stepped from a covered buggy, followed by two younger Priests. Even at two o’clock in the morning, Mulberry was shoulder-to-shoulder crowded, all trying for a glimpse of His Excellency under the gas streetlights.

  The parlor door opened before the Bishop could reach it. Perini, bald and fat, bowed, then led the Bishop silently past the viewing room, to corpse preparation.

  The Bishop moved among the porcelain tables, where the remains of a dozen sailors were on fresh towe
ls, name tags attached to the larger body parts. He read the names, then paused where two heads lay on their sides, both young men, eyes taken by crabs, mouths still screaming-open.

  “Perché mostrare questo?”

  “Per la giustizia, l’eccellenza,” Perini said.

  One of the Priests had turned away, crossing himself. “Why do you ask His Excellency for ‘justice’? For what? An accident? To bring him here is a terrible joke, an insult.”

  “Father, I beg all pardons, but your eyes needed to see this.”

  Perini moved to a table, where a pulled-apart sailor was lying. “My nephew Augusto, his mother’s name tattooed on his arm. Palermo-born, never a bit of trouble in his life, until he reached the waters of the United States. The Navy didn’t even bring the boys here, but a fisherman who found what was left. And not American, but Sicilian.”

  The Bishop said, “I nostri fratelli, il nostro sangue.”

  “Sì, our brothers, our blood. The Regina isn’t the first Italian boat to be lost. Six ‘accidents’ in that many weeks. Hundreds dead, and the United States hides their face—come un vigliacco—claim no responsibility, even when it happens at their doorstep. That’s the insult.”

  “Non si tratta di una questione per la chiesa.”

  Perini gestured to the scattered human wreckage. “Begging your pardon, Excellency, these boys would have made their lives here, but they were slaughtered. We’re the strangers in this country, so no one listens. When you speak, you carry the power of Roma.”

  The Priest said, “Do you truly know what you’re asking? The burden His Excellency must carry?”

  Perini lowered his head out of respect, handed the Priest a thick envelope. “I do know. There’s a letter, one of these dead boys, his father is an official—funzionario del governo—but thousands of miles away. You’re here, Excellency. You can be the voice of the dead.”

  The Bishop repeated, “La voce dei morti,” looked to the Priest, and then, “We’ll try to be heard.”

  * * *

  Gunny pressed his back flat against the cold stone, hunched down, but keeping the rifle across his knees trained on Nemo, who fought to tighten his shoulder bandage with chained hands. The candle next to him was burned to a wick in a puddle, surrounded by scorched newspaper clippings and letters, some still curling in the small fire.

  Gunny said, “All that’s happened, makes you feel pretty damn special.”

  “I’m still alive.”

  Nemo tilted his head, as if playing a violin, making room for both hands and their shackles, trying to get his fingers around the linen, to pull it. “I don’t suppose you’d care to assist.”

  Gunny held out the rifle. “Got this brand-new Remington roll-back. That kind of help?”

  Nemo managed to tie the bandage. “What you have are very specific orders, regarding me.”

  “You never talk like nobody else around here. Where do you hail from anyways?”

  “The world. Are you familiar?”

  Gunny moved, a bayonet hanging from his belt scraping the wall. “All your fancy smart-ass, and you just don’t get it. This is my house.” He tossed a moldy burlap flour sack at Nemo’s feet. “And that’s your’n.”

  9

  DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

  “My leg’s deader than Julius Caesar. Run over here!”

  Efrem dropped his telegrams, charged back down the second-floor corridor to the old pantry steps leading to the White House cellars and War Room. Grant was near the top, leaning against the wide door frame, his right leg stiff in front of him, as if bound by an invisible cast.

  Efrem offered an arm and shoulder, and Grant hauled himself up, throwing his weight against the boy and soaking him with his raincoat.

  “The damp, no sleep, and no supper. Bad combination.” Grant almost added “bad bourbon” to the list, but thought better of it. What was churning wasn’t old whiskey, but gutted anger he couldn’t tamp down. And now, his leg wasn’t cooperating, as he pulled it along, muscle-stiff, with his right hand.

  Efrem said, “My Nana, she falls asleep in her supper.”

  He wanted to gulp back his words as soon he said them, but Grant laughed quietly. “I’m not there yet,” he said as they managed the top step, then the hallway. Grant forced his locked knee, bones loudly clicking.

  Grant said, “Sounds like a Peacemaker cocking.”

  “Begging my asking, sir, is this from the conflicts?”

  “Horse-throwed. Years ago.”

  “Not by Cincinnati!”

  “Never. My first year at the Point, the seniors put me on the worst hammer-head they had, teach me a lesson.” Grant nodded toward a half-curtained window, and the breaking sunlight. “What are you still doing here?”

  “My shift ends at half-past dawn, sir. And then, that’s all.”

  “Clarify your meaning.”

  Efrem stubbed at the edge of the red carpet. “I was let go on account of getting that message to you late.”

  “You did fine. I’ll let them know.”

  “I’m thanking, sir, but I don’t think them operators take to a colored in the telegraph room. And I never was too good on that job, because there’s nothing to it.”

  “What jobs are you good at? Look at me.”

  Efrem finally brought himself to President Grant’s eyes, saying, “My Pap’s the best of the blacksmiths in Washington. And, sir, I know horses. Even hammer-heads.”

  They reached The Shop, Grant now standing straight, taking the stack of red-enveloped telegrams from the secretary’s table by the door. He sorted them, rain still dripping from his cuffs and coattails. “You’ve got a lot of messages to deliver before reporting to the stables.”

  Efrem was surprised: “Sir?”

  “Don’t make me give an order twice.”

  Grant gave Efrem an affirming nod before shedding his raincoat, water spattering, and making his way to Lincoln’s old desk in The Shop’s alcove. His leg was now bending a tad, just allowing him to lean across the desk’s leather top and dash an order on Presidential letterhead. The only sound was pen scratching paper.

  “Mrs. Grant will be up soon.”

  “Should I see about breakfast, sir?”

  Grant signed, nearly tearing through the page, underlining his name with a final stroke. “That’s not your job. Get this to Mr. Duncan. You’ve got one minute.”

  Efrem was out the door as Grant brought himself to the butler’s tray, and the bourbon. He poured, beating down pained fatigue, and then fixed on the Mathew Brady photograph of the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln that hung in The Shop’s far corner.

  Morning shadows waved across the formal portrait of the crew, at Attention on a Tennessee River dock, ready to board their ship. It was a large print, under glass, and all the faces, young and old, were finely detailed.

  Faces of the drowned, shadows blinking their eyes.

  Grant, his leg still leaning him sideways, raised his glass. “Gentlemen, I made my deal with the Devil, and I can only apologize,” he said before hurling the glass against the marble fireplace, jags and bourbon spraying the floor.

  * * *

  The sack over Nemo’s head was double-knotted around his throat, every breath bringing the burlap into his mouth. He coughed traces of rotten flour, while Gunny pushed him from behind, the Remington barrel jamming his ribs as they walked the prison corridor. He kept his hands folded, instead of clawing blindly ahead of himself, taking each step with purpose.

  Gunny said, “Walk to the right, or crack your skull.”

  The burlap moved with Nemo’s words. “It’s another eleven feet before we turn, since we’re now in the first-floor corridor, leading outside. This isn’t a maze to me.”

  Gunny shoved with the rifle. “Do what I say.”

  Smoke and coal oil residue pasted the sack as a thick fog, letting Nemo know he was at the burned-down doors to the old loading dock. He stepped through, kicking charred pieces out of the way, as he felt for the dock’s edge, then stopped.
<
br />   “You thought this is where I’d break my neck?”

  Nemo blind-walked the edge of the dock to the steps at the far side, then took them to the ground, saying, “I won’t be accommodating that idea.”

  Nemo cocked his head, listening to Guards slop buckets of soapy water across the yard, washing off ashes and blood. Nearby came the scraping sound of chunks of brick and broken bottles, tossed by the prisoners, being swept away.

  Gunny’s fingers dug in tight on the back of Nemo’s neck. “That’s a new start, like nothing never happened. Like you didn’t do nothing for them prisoners.”

  “It irks, but you’re to take me out the gates, to my ship. Not to the gallows.”

  A cannon fired outside the gates. The echo slammed back into the prison yard, sound pile-driving wall to wall, rattling windows and dusting plaster. The sound punched Nemo, too, but he remained perfectly still, hooded, with hands folded. No reaction.

  Gunny let his pride out: “My gun. No misfires this time. Blow this whole place to smithereens. You and all the scum you stood up for.”

  Nemo couldn’t tell if Gunny was about to shoot, but said, “Is all this supposed to make me bow my head? If there were no thunder, men would have little fear of lightning. Do you even understand what that—”

  Gunny’s mouth curled as he smashed Nemo’s shoulder wound with the butt of the Remington, to hear him cry out. There was nothing. Gunny’s eyes caught fire. He hard-swung the rifle barrel into Nemo’s stomach.

  Nemo took it, not bending, then managed through the hood: “Out the gates. Those are your orders.”

  Gunny roared, snap-pounding the base of Nemo’s skull with a massive, balled fist. Knockout blow. He was pouring sweat, and yelling, “This prisoner was causing a threat, sir! I did what I had to.”

  Warden Kramer saw all from his office on the second floor: Gunny and two Guards lashing Nemo head-down on the back of a horse.

  Gunny put a hand flat on Nemo’s back, called out, “He’s still takin’ some air.”

  Kramer squinted through his cracked window, pushing his spectacles back, focusing on that movement, so if anyone with a badge asked, he could swear Nemo was alive when he left the prison. He tapped the yellow glass with his umbrella.