Delacroix had to be content with that much, for as if summoned by name, the storm chose that moment to howl with renewed vigor. The foremast rig tore with a sound like a soul in anguish and sailors rushed to strip it from the yards before the wind lashed it to shreds. He squinted into the wind and tried to estimate how much their progress had slackened with the loss of the sail. It was impossible to tell. The next heated shell came down only three-score yards off their bow, and Delacroix winced as he felt the incendiary explosion depressurize his already storm-battered ears. That shot had gone over them, landing in their leeward course. Despite Rakestraw’s optimistic estimates, the Opelousa was now in range of the Impermeable and its massive breach-loaders. One good shot and they were dead men.
He turned his head to shout this new intelligence to the captain when he noticed something else. Something even more worrisome. He squinted hard and clung to a railing against the storm-swell for a moment, then raised his voice once more. “Rakestraw! Port side!” he called, his voice sounding odd to his own deafened ears. He waved his arms and pointed, miming as best he could while the ship rose and fell on the gale-tossed sea.
Rakestraw apparently saw it too. “PORT BOW!” he roared, sending seamen scurrying to reef the mainstay and send the ship in a more southeasterly direction. They had seen, as Delacroix had, the distant bow lights of another ironclad overhauling their bearing from the southeast.
The Anaconda stranglehold was pulling tight about their necks.
The decks of the Opelousa descended into loosely-organized madness. If Delacroix had thought it chaotic before, this was a scene straight from Bedlam. Rakestraw shouted and waved like a drunken scarecrow in a gale. Sailors flung themselves from the yards like madmen, struggling to get every inch of canvas available onto the masts. Others threw non-essential cargo overboard to lighten the ship’s burden and improve their headway. And every few minutes another fiery shell lofted closer, shivering the Opelousa’s timbers and detonating so close to the ship as to dig new trenches in the storm-wracked waves for the sloop to navigate.
Delacroix clung to the rigging and fought his way toward the hold. Perhaps the ship would go down, and with it all the South’s hopes for a way to end the Union’s naval supremacy. But not without a fight. And not before he gave Traveaux what-for.
Descending the narrow stair and hearing the hatch slam behind him as another wave drove it closed, Delacroix lurched and staggered his way down the tight passage and into the stateroom taken over by his fellow Confederate agent. Dahlgren, his face now an even more ghastly shade of green than before, was taking a tot from a steel hip flask. The scent of whiskey warred with the pungent smoke rising from the thick cigar held loosely in Traveaux’s hand. Delacroix met his gaze, wondering at the impenetrable calm in those steely eyes. The man had ice in his veins.
“Good news, Delacroix?” Dahlgren’s eagerness was childishly blatant, a landsman desperately clinging to flotsam and never thinking of the possibility of sharks. For a naval engineer he had distinct lack of sea-legs. “Are we clear of the ironclads at last?”
He ignored Traveaux’s disdainful glance and replied evenly, “I’m afraid not, Dahlgren. The storm has taken our foremast rigging, and we’re losing headway. You can hear the shelling getting closer. We’re in range of the Impermeable now, and it might succeed in hitting us at any moment.” He enjoyed the dismay in the naval engineer’s stricken silence, at last having a moment of satisfaction in someone else to share his bleak outlook on their chances. But Traveaux shook his head.
“They won’t sink us. Not tonight.”
Delacroix snorted. “Planning to swim out there with a knife between your teeth to stop them, are you?” He had had enough of this dispassionate killer his government had tasked him to work with. It was long since time someone stood up to the man.
Traveaux simply shook his head. “I won’t have to.”
The Creole’s unflagging certainty was beginning to wear on Delacroix. “Is that so? Then you won’t mind me telling you the Impermeable has been joined by another ironclad coming up from the southeast. The coils are closing on us, Alsace. Can you feel them about your neck, squeezing the life from you?”
Dahlgren made a strangled noise as if he felt those coils quite literally already, but Traveaux simply shrugged beneath his gray dust cloak. The cigar in his hand trailed a languid stream of bluish smoke toward the ceiling, where it merged with the indistinct haze clouding the gimbaled oil lamp. “I won’t have to,” he repeated, as if to a particularly slow student.
Delacroix gritted his teeth. The man was deluded. “Why don’t you gentlemen come on deck with me and see for yourselves what w—” He cut off abruptly. Indistinct shouting was coming from the deck. He turned and pounded back up the passage as quickly as he could navigate it and still remain upright, aware that at least one of the other men followed close behind. Throwing open the hatch, Delacroix pulled himself up and onto the deck where sailors were still shouting, shouting and pointing. He almost slipped, saving himself by seizing a thick hawser line in order to remain upright, and held on for dear life while the ship descended into another trough. At the top of the next crest he caught a sight that would haunt his sleep in nights to come, he felt sure.
The Impermeable burned.
It was impossible. The Opelousa had no guns capable of even denting the ironclad, let alone penetrating its thick armoring with an incendiary shell. Yet the guttering pillar of flame erupting from the stern of the ironclad did not lie. Something had set it ablaze, and if it were not the Opelousa, what could it have been?
Scanning the horizon while Dahlgren gaped in shock next to him, Delacroix caught sight of the other ironclad to their southeast. To his eyes it appeared to have changed course, now making for the pillar of flame that was the Impermeable. He felt a cold thrill pass through his viscera. Was it possible they were going to escape the blockade after all?
“I don’t understand.” Dahlgren, at least, had no compunctions about stating his own ignorance for anyone to hear. “We have no guns, and that other ship isn’t close enough to be able to hit them, even if they somehow mistook us and fired on their own vessel.”
“Ezekiel Fulton.”
Dahlgren and Delacroix turned to see Traveaux standing behind them, one arm twined neatly through a guy line for stability. He looked not at them, but at the burning ironclad drifting at the mercy of the storm. The twisting flame of the pyre caught at his eyes, and Delacroix shuddered to see the reflection of Hades in those cold gray depths.
“Ezekiel who?” Captain Rakestraw had joined them from the other side of the quarterdeck, his grizzled hair wild with wind and wave. His eyes, however, were bright and wary and directed at Traveaux. The latter gestured toward the burning ship.
“Ezekiel Fulton. He was a simple fireman aboard the Impermeable, and his duties including stoking the firebox to power the ironclad’s steam engine. He was also in the employ of the Confederacy.” Delacroix felt his gorge rising but Traveaux went on inexorably. “Last week he received secret orders to the effect that if his ship were to attempt to intercept or shell any Southern vessels seeking to pass the Northern blockade, he was to disable the ship by stoking the firebox with the coal torpedo I provided to him three months ago.”
Rakestraw looked uncomprehending. Dahlgren blanched and went pale. Delacroix felt something sick and evil twist in his guts. “You knew what that would do, didn’t you? It wouldn’t just disable the ship—it would detonate the Impermeable from the inside, starting with the firebox! You sent that man unknowing to his death, just on the chance it might help us pass the blockade?”
“Yes. I did.” Traveaux met Delacroix’s accusing stare with a flat, expressionless look of his own. “This is a war, and in wars, men die—often to far less purpose than Ezekiel Fulton.” Delacroix felt a sudden chill at the subtle knife of implication in those words. “We have a mission to complete. Perhaps you have forgotten that, but I have not.”
He could think of no
thing to say to that. It was war, and despite his love for the South he had begun to wonder whether the cost of war would destroy his nation’s soul even if they defeated the Union. The ship plunged on, wallowing through trough and crest, and to Delacroix the shrieking of the wind sounded like the death-cry of a man betrayed by those he had loyally served. He wondered if his own end would be like that of poor Ezekiel Fulton: loyal, steadfast, and utterly alone.
Part Two: L’Île Oubliée
From the Logbook of the Opelousa
Written by the hand of Thomas J. Underwood, First Mate
Remarks of Saturday 14th June anno 1870
The first part of this 24 Hours did blow a Gale Breese of stronge Wind and heavy Rains w. Lightning and much Thundre. Hull taking Water at Port bow from Impermeable shelling of 13th June encountre, there is not less than 2 feet of Water in the Hold. Manual Pumping contin’d throughout the Night. Weather at midday continues Most Foul. Mr. Dahlgren claimes our steam screw could be fitted for aid in Pumping. He is a Damned nuisance. Jacks assign’d to repair foremast rigging belowdecks, Carpenters to reinforce the bow leek. Full Dark at 4 P.M. Gale continuing. Winds 40 kn. SW. No sign of Impermeable or other Union ironclads.
Remarks of Sunday 15th June anno 1870
High Winds and heavy seas &c. Conditions worsening. Lost topsail and two Jacks from main Yard Arm attempting repairs. Seaman Mallory and Seaman Plum presum. overboard and lost at sea, God ha’ mercy &c. Cpt. Rakestraw ordered canvas stripped to the main and all Hands belowdecks when not otherwise Engag’d. Proceeding under Steam power alone at pres. Weather at midday no improv’ment. Less than 2 miles visibility. Wind shifted three pts to Starboard, cont. at 50 kn. SW or Thereab’ts. That Damned Engineer Dahlgren working on steam pump to Relieve crew as now no less than 4 feet of Water in the Hold. Cpt. orders chart search for an anchorage where Opelousa could heave to for repairs but imp. to estimate our bearings at present. Full dark at 3 P.M. Winds unabated. No sign of Union ironclads.
Remarks of Monday 16th June anno 1870
Dahlgren Engine mirac’lous success. Now less than 2 feet of Water in the Hold despite cont. Heavy seas. All Hands v. tired and there is much Grumbling. Cpt. Rakestraw ordered double rations at Midday. All sails remain stripped, Opelousa making not more than 5 kn. plus leeway with some power diverted to Steam Pump. Dahlgren cont. to tinker. Foremast rigging declared Sound for use whenever the Gale ceases to blowe. More Thundre but cannot see Lightning, visibility cont. at not more than 2 miles approx. with Wind at 40 kn. WSW. Jacks uneasy, morale is low that we shall ever see Lande again. Paid no heed to scuttlebutt that Mallory & Plum were pushed. Windward leeway at 4 pts. to Starboard, Cpt. deems this a sign the Storm will soon slack. Pray God he is right but fear not. Full dark at 4 P.M.
Remarks of Tuesday 17th June anno 1870
A calm at last. Gale blown away north at Dawn, wind continues W at 15 kn. steady. Heav’ns remain overcast and Unsettl’d. Carpenters deem Breach in hull unfixable without more Lumbre. Coal supplies low thks. to Dahlgren Engine but Water in Hold remains at no more than 1 ft. withal. There is much Confusion & Disagreem’nt as to present Position due to heavy leeway during the Storm and overcast Skyes preventing Coelestial navigat’n. Charts suggest no Position matching current envir’ns. Cpt. Rakestraw estimated a Dead Reckoning and ordered mainsail raised. Proceed’d at 7 kn. under sail alone until Wind slack’ned and shippe entered a heavy Fog for some Houres. Bearings impossible as Compasse moves with a slow but vis’ble spin. All is fog & confus’n. Full dark sometime after 6 P.M?
Remarks of Wednesday 18th June anno 1870
Heavy Fog cont. and Compasse gyres wildly. The Hands are uneasy, and there is much Mutt’ring. Cpt. orderes coal dyverted to the steam engine and the shippe made headway at ca. 12 kn. for several hours when the Fogge suddenly lifted. Land. Land sighted, Heaven be praised! Sent away the Pilot Boat with the Master and a number of Jacks under armes while the shippe lay to under Topsail only. Master reports an island of not more than three miles in length, dominat’d by a mountainous Peak with much Life abounding and freshe Water in evidence. Crew much cheer’d. Cpt. Rakestraw ordered the Pilot Boat to perf’rm soundings and guide Opelousa in to safe Harbor. Appr. from W side of island and made Anchor in a small cove at 4 P.M. Four seamen sent in Longboat to Waterfall on the cliff on S side of bay to refresh supply of drinking Water. Carpenters to put ashore on the Morrow t’obtain wood for repairs to Hull. All hands sent to quarters for the Night. Charts still useless and compasse remains confound’d. Where in God’s name are we? Wind cont. light at 2 kn. WNW. Full dark at 8 P.M.
*****
Delacroix stood in the forecastle and rubbed his arms absently. It was a fine evening, certainly when compared to the previous four. He gazed over the dense green vegetation of the island and puffed contentedly on a small briar pipe, watching the clouds of smoke drift over the small bay and lose themselves in the darkness among the trees. It was a small comfort, but coming by tobacco had been difficult in trade-starved New Orleans. As it was, the ritual of tamping down the cured tobacco leaves and lighting up his old, familiar pipe was calming to him. It brought to mind warm, velvety nights as a younger man on the plantation, back before all this. Before the war tore his life to shreds of gold and madness.
He puffed in silence, letting the smoke curl from his mouth slowly. Four days. Four days trapped in the coffin-like hold of the Opelousa with a silent killer and an engineering genius who couldn’t stop talking. Everyone had their own ways of dealing with stress, he supposed. And in all fairness, Dahlgren’s knowledge of steam engines resulted in the pump that had probably saved all their lives. The engineer did not even seem to have much ego about it, just a driving need to solve problems with the best technology available...and then, to talk about it to anyone and everyone around him. Endlessly.
Even that was better than Traveaux’s silence. Delacroix had his own theories about the two seamen lost overboard on the second day of the storm. He had heard rumors of Mallory and Plum struggling to move a certain heavy steamer chest while fetching a supply of cordage to repair the damaged topsail rigging. If Traveaux had heard those rumors too, it would explain their sudden disappearance. He told himself it was idle speculation, but in his gut he knew it was almost certainly true.
Delacroix wondered again where they were. He’d heard Rakestraw and his first mate, a quiet, steady man called Underwood, arguing over positions and leeway and celestial navigation—all mysteries of the sea that an uninitiated landsman like him could not hope to make sense of. He supposed it made little difference now. They had found land, the carpenters could repair the cracks in the hull the ship had sustained during its bombardment by the Impermeable, and once Rakestraw determined their position the ship would set sail once more. Would they reach their destination without further mishap? He thought it unlikely. The Atlantic was wide, with dangers aplenty.
Dahlgren’s voice floated toward him like a sea breeze, and Delacroix sighed inwardly. The naval engineer was holding forth to a new audience, Captain Rakestraw, and as the pair approached he let his wish for a few moments of privacy drift away like the blue smoke from his old briar pipe.
“Yes, yes, I understand, of course,” Dahlgren was saying. “But it seems so primitive, so practically medieval! Surely there must be a better way of determining our position than such crude instruments?”
Rakestraw chewed his moustaches and tried not to growl in reply. “These ‘crude instruments’ have served mariners well for centuries, sir. You would do well not to mock them.”
“Oh, you misunderstand me! I simply wish to bring the apparatus of nautical navigation into this century! This business of the spinning compass is perfect nonse—” Dahlgren was speaking with great vigor as the pair drew near the forecastle. He caught sight of Delacroix and abruptly changed what he was planning to say. “Ah, Delacroix, my friend! I have just been speaking to the captain here about the wonders of modern technology.”
“So I have been hearing
,” Delacroix drawled with soft irony. “Are you any closer to knowing our position, captain?”
Rakestraw looked grateful for the deft redirection of the conversation. “Ah well, sir, we’ve a fair idea now that we’ve had a chance to look at the stars. It’s strange, though. Deuced strange. Our bearings look sound, and the celestial navigation Underwood and I have done this evening match up rather well, all things considered. We lie much farther south and east than either of us would have credited, down into the easternmost regions of the Caribbean—just off the Atlantic itself, if you can believe it. That storm blew us far off course, indeed!” He blew out his whiskers with a gusty sigh. “The damned odd thing, though, is this island itself. It’s on none of my charts, and I’ll have you know we carry naught but the most recent and complete of nautical surveys.”
Dahlgren drew a breath, so Delacroix spoke quickly to maintain the flow of the conversation. “Just how unusual is that, captain? Are there many such uncharted lands remaining in this part of the world?”
Rakestraw looked discomfited. “Well, I can’t say with confidence, sir, but of a certainty I should not think there are many that haven’t been at least reported, even if they’re not yet on a nautical chart. We men of the sea live and die by our charts, so we’ve every reason to keep them accurate and complete.”
Delacroix nodded. “Yes, I can imagine. I’ve been looking at the island here while the light held. I’ve read of volcanoes erupting out of the sea to make new islands, but this one is certainly not a recent eruption—those trees are at least three decades’ worth of growth in this climate, for instance.” He gestured with the stem of his pipe. “It’s a strange thing, as you say. But I suppose we should be grateful to have found it at all after the leak in the hull and being lost in that ghastly fog. Who knows what would have happened had we not stumbled on a deserted island?”
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