and the doctor spent evenings on the quarterdeck discussing literature and scientific theories. But the rest of the crew spent their downtime belowdecks to avoid Dr. Philips. Arthur thought the man’s always-wandering eyes and disease-wracked face made folk uncomfortable.
Boone shrugged. “They know you have vital work. They want to stay out of your way.”
“You’re a bad liar, always were. What do they say about all this?”
Boone sighed. “Some of them think it’s… unwise, a man going down to the sea floor.”
“Knocking on Davy Jones’ locker? Stirring him up?”
“Just talk. Sailors chewing the fat.”
Arthur stared out at the water, glittering in every direction, spreading over the curve of the world. He hadn’t stepped foot inside a church in years. Like everything else in his life, a sailor only kept parts of religion that were portable and useful. Arthur carried a few Bible verses in his heart—ones to be recited to staunch wounds or make stolen items reappear. Besides the crucifix on his back, he had a pair of crosses tattooed on the soles of his feet. If he was ever swept overboard, they would keep sharks from biting. But despite the meager odds and bobs of religion a sailor carried with him, he knew devils of the sea to make the most pious landlubber’s hair turn white. Off of São Luís, Arthur had watched mermaids turn into vile, screaming hags when they sailed too close.
Once, before he could even grow whiskers, Arthur had seen Flying Dutchman. The low moon had shone right through her hull. The ghostly captain had stood on the quarterdeck, holding up fistfuls of shimmering coin, entreating sailors to jump ship and join his crew.
And years later, forced to skirt the Sargasso Sea to avoid a storm, Arthur had watched pricks of lantern light appear on one of the rotting hulks tangled in the Sargasso’s thick mats of seaweed. He’d made the mistake of looking at them through a spyglass. The revenants holding the lanterns were nothing but tattered skin and bits of rag. Some still wore their peaked conquistador helmets. Later, another sailor told him the story of Trinidad. She was returning to Spain from the New World when she’d gotten caught in the Sargasso. Their sister ship heard the crew’s calls for help, but afraid they’d get tangled up too if they tried to rescue her, the sister ship had sailed on.
Trinidad had been betrayed three centuries ago, but her crew’s pleas for rescue still trailed Arthur’s ship for miles. And he had heard a hundred tales more just as strange. The ocean was ruled by Davy Jone and his vast fleet of devils. No man or angel truly knew what happened below the waves. They just skimmed along the surface and tried to stay unnoticed.
But if Arthur invaded their depths in Dr. Philip’s sub-marine armor, the devils would certainly notice, and he doubted they’d be pleased. “Davy might curse this whole ship,” Arthur said, remembering Flying Dutchman and shuddering. “We might all be walking dead men, right now.”
“If we engage Tennessee head on, we’ll be dead men for sure.”
“Fine, fine, you talked me into it. We’ll turn privateer and steer this tub to the South Seas.” Arthur grinned, but his friend didn’t.
“We’re fighting a righteous war,” Boone said. “As long as we stand on the side of angels, Davy Jones nor any other devils have power over us.”
Arthur shrugged, considering. His friend had been a true sailor. Beneath that blue frock coat, he still was. His skin told of the places he’d been—China, the Sandwich Islands—as well as Boone’s multiple tangles with the cat o’ nine tails. The black pearl dangling from his ear showed he’d survived a shipwreck—the night Arthur had heaved the sputtering pollywog out of the drink. But something had changed about Boone since then. Something burned behind his eyes now. Arthur asked, “You really believe this is a righteous war, don’t you?”
Boone nodded. “The rebels have this country flat on her back. What more righteous cause could there be than the protection of your God-given nation from ravishment and degradation?”
Arthur laughed out loud. “How should I know? I’m from Ireland. She hasn’t been off her back in two hundred years, either taking England’s pickle or squeezing one of us out between her legs.”
Two days later, they sailed into a nameless cove in Cuba. Close to the blockade line, it was a choice spot for ships to make repairs or gather information before making a run for the Confederacy’s Pacific ports. This was when the veteran blockade runners on Kestrel earned their pardons. A French clipper, Lorraine, was also anchored in the cove. Rowing ashore to take on fresh water, a group of Kestrel’s sailors hailed Lorraine. Once aboard, they swapped talk about destinations and cargo—idle sailor gossip. But now, news of Kestrel’s fine French brandy would reach Mobile Bay ahead of them. Not only would Kestrel be allowed into the harbor; Mobile would fling her gates open, embrace her like Cleopatra embraced the serpent.
They had a second reason to stop as well. After the sun sank into the water, Arthur climbed into the sub-marine armor, lowered the hatch and twisted the handles to tighten it against the rubber seals. The navy boys hoisted him up with the block and tackle, then swung him over the side of the ship. Feeding out the chain, they sang, “Haul away, Joe” to keep their motions in rhythm.
First I met a Yankee girl, and she was fat and lazy…. Way haul away, we'll haul away, Joe…. Then I met an Irish girl, she damn near drove me crazy…..
Arthur listened to their shanty through the speaking trumpet, watching black wavelets slurp the armor’s feet, legs, belly. When the water lapped at the portholes, Arthur instinctively held his breath. Then his heels touched the soft, unseen ocean floor. He risked a gulp of the air hissing through the speaking trumpet.
“Mr. Kerry, have you reached the bottom?”
“Y-Yea, sir,” Arthur said, daring a second breath. The reality started to sink in: he was breathing under the sea. “It’s blacker’n a grave, though. Water’s like ink.”
“Can you light the lantern?”
Pulling his arms free of the metal sleeves, Arthur struck a match and lit the lantern. A pillar of light pushed through the darkness revealing leafless shrubs with slate-blue branches. Tiny, bright fish wove between them like threads of silk. Living sponges grew from dead stones.
“Mr. Kerry, does the lantern work?”
He was breathing under the sea. Arthur started laughing and couldn’t stop. He was standing under the sea and breathing.
“Mr. Kerry? Is everything all right?”
“Yea. It’s…. It’s like the Faerie Lands down here.”
“Keep your mind on your task, Mr. Kerry.”
A block of wood was tied to the armor’s elbow, a substitute for the bomb Arthur would use to scuttle Tennessee. For tonight’s drill, Arthur was to walk fifty yards—the navy boys would measure how much chain played out—use the rubber bladders to rise up, free the makeshift bomb, sink back down, and then walk back to Kestrel.
Walking was slow but steady. Arthur quickly found a swaying, whole-body gait that worked. He stared around at the dream-domain no man had ever seen before. A silver tapestry of fish rippled around him. “First I met a Yankee girl, and she was fat and lazy. . . . Way haul away, we'll haul. . .”
The lantern beam caught a puff of brown smoke—or maybe dust rising through the water. A rock jumped up from the seafloor and turned into an octopus, rough stone becoming corpse-white flesh, tentacles unspooling. All at once, Arthur remembered whose domain this was. He screamed as the creature wrapped itself around the armor’s chest.
“What’s wrong? Mr. Kerry?”
“Haul me up! Haul me up!”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Kerry. We—”
“Haul me up, for the love of God, please!”
The creature wrestled with the lantern beam, as if it found the light abhorrent. Its tentacles cast awful shadows. A second octopus circled Arthur, regarding at him with too-human eyes—distinct whites, irises, and pupils. Dr. Philips continued to talk in disinterested tones. The octopus clinging to the armor crawled up to peer into the central porthole.
“Mr. Kerry, if you’ll just proceed with the…”
Arthur was beyond listening. He bashed at the octopus, then yanking his arms out of the armor’s sleeves, he turned the valves that filled the rubber bladders. As the armor rose through the dark water, Arthur sobbed a prayer.
He buoyed to the surface, the octopi vanishing back below. Sharp voices rang through the speaking trumpet. “He’s broken the surface!” Dr. Philips yelled. “Haul him aboard before the Lorraine sees him. —Mr. Kerry, extinguish the lantern!”
The crew drew in the chain, pulling him aboard with boat hooks. Arthur was pried out of the armor like an oyster. Most of the crew stood watching him. Boone leaned down and whispered Arthur’s name. Arthur just mewled, “Oh, God. Oh, God. They almost got me.”
“Who?” Boone asked.
“Who do you think? Sea devils. Davy Jones’ sea devils.”
Dr. Philips stepped forward. “Davy—? You ridiculous, superstitious cur. You’ve ruined the entire drill.”
Arthur’s trembling form was suddenly livid with anger. His face felt stove-hot. “I know what I saw, doctor. Davy Jones turned a rock into an octopus. It rushed right at me.”
The rest of the crew stood silent, watching him. Arthur yelled, “It did!”
Dr. Philips shook his head. “Mr. Kerry, the depths play tricks on the senses. The octopus was surely hiding behind a rock, nothing more. Now, we might be able to
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