Nemo Rising

by C. Courtney Joyner

  Gunny threw a quick salute toward the window, slipped the Remington into a scabbard before hefting onto the horse, Nemo, tied and still, behind the saddle. Kramer let Gunny clear the gates before picking up the fire axe beside his old desk.

  He held it over his head with both hands, and counted. Waiting. Arms shaking when the distant cannon fired again, Kramer brought the blade down, the Howitzer covering the sound of tearing through floorboards, into a narrow hold beneath.

  The axe was dropped next to his umbrella as Kramer kicked through the broken boards before reaching into the opening, up to his shoulders. Straining, he took hold of a cobweb-veiled baby’s coffin.

  Metal clanged from inside as he wrenched the coffin around old nails and the floor’s splintered edges, pulling it free. He dropped against a never-painted wall of his office, wiping the sweat from his eyes on his sleeve, the small, heavy box beside him.

  The task done, the Warden allowed himself a satisfied smile, patting the coffin’s lid.

  10

  COMBATANTS

  The burlap raw-scraped Nemo’s face as he shook his head, forcing himself back to consciousness, with the eyeless hood tight around his throat, half-choking.

  He tried stretching feeling back into his limbs before standing. His ankle shackles had ten inches of chain between them, threaded through an iron ring in the floor, and it snapped taut with Nemo’s moving, locking him down.

  The car jerked to one side, wheels crying steel-on-steel, as the train rounded a curve. It was a violent motion, and Nemo judged he could use it, bringing his cuffed hands up, feeling the slack in the chains, determining freedom of movement.

  Gunny’s voice was next to his ear, coming through the hood. “So, back from your dreams? Your skull crack open in there?”

  “How close are we to my ship?”

  Gunny said, “Close, and you’ll be delivered ’cause them’s my orders, but they don’t say nothing about your wellness when you get there. You think I’m just a jackass in blue. Know how many professional fights I’ve won? How many men I turned to mush?”

  He swatted Nemo’s chest with the rifle barrel. “If you cause me fear of my life, I got every right to defend against a violent prisoner.”

  “One that’s been shot and chained,” Nemo said, feeling the train’s speed, and the gun pressed against him. Making calculations.

  Gunny’s snicker was even closer. “The best kind.”

  Nemo dropped his head, chin-to-chest low, planning his moves before jerking up, head-butting Gunny under the jaw, punching his teeth through his bottom gums. Blood fountained from Gunny’s mouth, and across the burlap hood, as Nemo grabbed hold of the rifle barrel, pulling it from his hands.

  The boxcar tilted wildly to one side, taking a sharp mountain curve. Gunny stumbled, falling into a wall, spitting teeth and foam, words tangled together. “Your laughter’s my v-victory!”

  He drew the bayonet from his belt, charged, lost footing, then charged again, washed in his own blood. Nemo adjusted his hands, holding the Remington from the middle, giving weight to both sides like a fighting staff, then swung wide at the sound of Gunny’s moves, forcing him back. His blind moves were sure. Precise.

  Nemo’s masked face followed Gunny’s movements, sensing them, as Gunny kept to the walls of the car, climbing over hay and lumber stacks to the loading doors.

  Nemo moved from only his waist, on guard, his feet planted, filtering out the sounds of the train’s brakes and couplings to hear Gunny’s moves and be ready to defend or deflect.

  It was a discipline he’d learned: mind-mapping what he couldn’t see, as he’d done before, navigating through deep-ocean canyons miles below the water’s surface. Nothing but pitch black, with only instinct to guide him.

  Nemo listened, then made a choice, lowering a shoulder and tightening his hold on the rifle, cued by the drag of boots on the wooden floor. Near, and just to his left.

  He gave it three heartbeats, letting Gunny come as close as the point of the old bayonet, then smashed into his chest, the rifle’s butt splitting bone. Pounding Gunny off his feet.

  The boxcar swayed, hefting Nemo to one side, the rifle on his shoulder. He upended the gun, pointing straight down at the shackle chain between his ankles. Thumb on trigger, he searched blindly with the barrel, catching the front sight on the chain links. He fired, blowing them apart.

  Nemo spun off from the bench, cuffed hands keeping the rifle over his head. Gunny made a move, stabbing wildly with the bayonet, holding it, from the elbow-bend in the blade, as a stiletto. The steel point caught Nemo’s arm. Quick jet of red, and a cry through the hood, but not of pain.

  A battle yell.

  Nemo’s legs were a blur, pounding gut-blows into Gunny, doubling him forward; whip-fast moves of an ancient fighting style. Nemo rocked back on his heels, taking a stance in the center of the car, then cleared the perimeter around him with a swing of the rifle.

  Gunny lunged, blade slashing.

  A scissor-move to the jaw hard-spun him into the boxcar wall. Blind-hooded, Nemo didn’t stop, kicking Gunny to the corner. Left foot, then right, then left again.

  Gunny screamed bloody spit, ripping with the bayonet. Stabbing. Nemo dodged instinctively, the blade sparking off the rifle barrel, then knocked away.

  Gunny swung hard, raging without a weapon, his giant-knuckled fist pounding Nemo’s face through the hood.

  Nemo took the blow, angling his body into a perfect roundhouse, his legs snapping out like arrows fired from a crossbow. The kick’s force hurled Gunny off his feet, propelling him across the car, twisting in the air, before crashing against a rail tie and rusty iron. Bones shearing.

  Gunny stayed to the floor, agonized. The shapeless, burlap face loomed over him, close and sticky with blood. He tried his words with a split tongue. “You going to k-kill me now?”

  “The blade.”

  “B-but you can’t see…”

  Through the bag, Nemo’s voice: “Not in a way you can comprehend.”

  Gunny pulled the bayonet from a hay bale where it had stuck, then gripped the socket-end, angling the narrow blade toward Nemo’s stomach, less than an inch away.

  “Do you want worse? Take that chance,” Nemo said. “I’m now showing the mercy you don’t deserve.”

  Gunny pressed the bayonet into one of Nemo’s cuffed hands, the steam-hiss of locomotive brakes filling the boxcar. The train jerked back, stopped, as Nemo jabbed into the rope, shredding the knot with the bayonet’s point. Freeing himself from the noose, before ripping the burlap sack from his head.

  He pulled it up and off, bloody sweat coming with it. Caked with grime, his face was swelling, but Nemo drew a deep breath, feeling his small victory over the pain.

  Nemo’s eyes adjusted from total darkness to the spears of light sneaking through the boxcar’s side slats, and showing up the fight wreckage: crates, barrels, and Gunny, all kicked apart, or caved in.

  “The key,” Nemo said.

  The bolt on the car’s side door was thrown, and the inside soaked white as it was pulled open. Duncan stood on the rail platform, bleached by the sun behind him, a Derringer aimed into the car, saying, “I expected something like this, but wasn’t sure who’d be standing.”

  Nemo held his cuffs in front of him. “All of this was in defense.”

  “I believe it.” Duncan looked to Gunny, gun on him. “Sergeant, are you aware right now? Aware of your situation?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Release the prisoner. Your duty’s finished.”

  Gunny’s head shook. “Traitorous w-worms,” he said as he worked broken fingers into his pocket, his tongue lolling from the corner of his mouth.

  “Work faster,” Duncan said. “And only produce the key, or a bullet is bound for your eye.”

  Gunny said, “That’s a lady’s gun, f-fit for a soiled dove, n-not a man!”

  “I’d wager Mr. Duncan’s a dead shot,” Nemo said. “No matter what the caliber, or intention.”

/>   Gunny inserted the key into the tumbler, opening the jaws of the Adams cuffs. They dropped to the floor, and then Duncan said, “The shackles. It appears you’ve already had what-for to the head, so you’re probably a tad confused.”

  He took a folded letter from his jacket. “The commuting of Captain Nemo’s sentence, signed by the President of the United States, and rights of his release under federal probation.”

  “I ain’t never confused, that’s my trouble.” Gunny opened up the shackles, a jag of pain cutting him, as he said to Nemo, “Look out them doors, traitor! You counted on us to be b-burned down and buried, but we ain’t! You hate this country, but we’re better than you!”

  Nemo swung the Remington, smashing it in half against the post beside Gunny’s skull. “You burned yourselves down.”

  He dropped barrel and stock into Gunny’s lap before stepping over the metal ring that held his chains, moved to the car’s open door, and into the bright Norfolk day.

  Prying off the shackle restraints and kicking them aside, Nemo said, “All of this destruction, because brothers fought brothers. You should ponder that.”

  Gunny daubed his tongue with a wet rag. “What in hell’s ‘ponder’?”

  Duncan kept the Derringer leveled as Nemo swung onto the handholds, landing on the freight platform alongside the rail spur. They got out of the way of a Sheffield handcar, carrying men and lumber to what was left of the Norfolk passenger station.

  Duncan dropped the pistol into a coat pocket. “Actually, it isn’t mine.”

  “That speaks well of you.”

  “I appreciated the bluff about my marksmanship.”

  Nemo said, “Necessary, given the situation.” They followed a path around the station, past wagons-for-hire and teamsters loading them, to the street, where bombed-out storefronts lined the block with new ones.

  Ashes and fresh paint, side by side.

  “The resilience amazes me, as much as the butchery,” Nemo said. “Despite relishing this fresh air, it feels as if I’ve traded one set of chains for another.”

  “You’re always welcome to return to Libby, wait out tomorrow, enjoy a last meal.”

  “That’s General Grant’s caveat.”

  “Your ultimate freedom depends on how well you take command—”

  Nemo finished: “According to your demands.”

  “You accepted certain conditions.”

  “I’m afraid my conscience bullies me into doing only what’s right.”

  “An enviable conceit.” Duncan let the words settle. “The President believes I pushed him into a terrible mistake; a good thing he didn’t see any of this. So, your hand-to-hand training is in Kalari-paya-ttu? Did I pronounce that correctly?”

  “It’s not training, but an art. Governments are so thorough, even when they’re blind.”

  Duncan said, “Given all that’s at stake, I wouldn’t underestimate your new comrades, Captain.”

  Nemo touched his bruises. “We’ll see what the future holds, Mr. Duncan. For both of us.”

  * * *

  The saber came down fast, heating the air, colliding with the edge of the King General battle sword, splintering steel. Franz Sigel shifted the Prussian-made weapon from right to left, slicing with its curved blade, keeping the gold-washed hand guard up and moving on the Lieutenant who was fighting back with the King General.

  Another blow, splitting the King in two, knocking the Lieutenant off his feet. He raised his hands. “You’ve killed me fair, sir!”

  Sigel helped him to his feet. “You did fine, boy, but your training’s as antiquated as your weapon.”

  Sigel held out the curved saber, examining its polished surface for scars. There were none.

  He said, “This steel is three times harder than what we could produce before. The edge, like a diamond.”

  There was a figure, distorted in the blade’s surface. He said, “Sei sempre pronti per la guerra, Generale.”

  The voice was all authority, coming from the shadowed side of the gymnasium, next to the small boxing ring where Bishop Falcone sat in a chair in the front row. Two priests flanked him, but did not sit.

  Sigel snapped a bow to the man he’d seen as a reflection. “No, io sono pronto per la pace, quando si tratta.”

  One of the Priests said, “Grazzi, General. Odd to hear our language with a German accent.”

  The Bishop said, “Tutti dovrebbero sapere Italiano.”

  “I agree, Excellency. In the new world, everyone should be able to speak to everyone.” General Sigel buttoned up his Union Army tunic. “My apologies, gentlemen, I had no intention of meeting you here.”

  The Priest said, “His Excellency finds truth comes with a lack of formality.”

  Sigel smoothed his hair and moustache with his hands. Bishop Falcone, overcoat tight to his clerical collar, regarded him with measured words: “Your country is preparing war with France.”

  “Germany is.” Sigel moved to the Bishop, standing before him, hands folded. “Yes, sir. Weeks away.”

  “This will leave the Papal State vulnerable to King Emmanuel. Europe prepares to burst into flames, and a common, diabolic enemy has appeared. Who, or what, do you think that is, General?”

  “Your meaning, in the oceans of the United States?”

  “Killing our people. And your people.”

  The Bishop’s gaze never left Sigel: “Ma la colpa su una fantasia. Monsters.”

  Sigel said, “But all the deaths, they’re not a fantasy.”

  A finger snap, and the Lieutenant was at his side with a leather satchel. “From Otto von Bismarck to President Grant, informing him of Germany’s official position about the sinkings. He holds the United States and its Navy fully responsible. Fully.”

  The Priest said, “You fought beside Grant, commanding more than—trentamila.”

  “Yes, thirty thousand men of the German regiments, from New York to Indiana.”

  The bishop said, “You did it with honor, and ‘scopo’? Purpose?”

  “I fought for the reunification of this country; I can’t arbitrarily decide to destroy it.”

  “Would Mr. von Bismarck?”

  Sigel gave some pause, before, “Your Excellency, what is the position of your government?”

  Bishop Falcone said, “Even on the edge of civil war they’re willing to confront the United States. As a Papal State, or unified, Italy will not be a victim of these assaults. Our congregations here are outraged. Their families, slaughtered by the very country they’ve adopted. A betrayal.”

  Sigel said, “We don’t know what’s happening in the U.S. waters, Father. We don’t know who.”

  “Or what? Monsters, or men?”

  “We can’t add to hysteria,” Bishop Falcone said, “but, this is to be a place of promise, and God’s blessings. If it becomes something hellish, demonic, then the Mother Church is the defense for all.”

  Sigel said, “I’m sure the answer isn’t demonic.”

  “Blood is spilled, either way,” the Priest said. “There is a Heavenly plan at work, testing men and their faith, and the world must be ready to react.”

  The Lieutenant followed the Bishop’s eyes as he raised a jeweled finger, pointed to the elaborate sword in the gymnasium corner, and said, “Anche il male creato dall’uomo può essere demoniaco.”

  Man-made evil can be demonic also.

  11

  RUST AND BLOOD

  The sound of Nemo’s footsteps changed.

  The cobblestone streets had ended, and the wood planking of the Norfolk Harbor wharf had replaced them. A flock of gulls broke from a far piling, and he watched them dip before they angled for a strip of ocean he could barely glimpse between a sail maker’s shop and a tavern.

  The rows of buildings along the waterfront denied Nemo his view, but he tasted the salty-damp air, then soaked his lungs with a deep breath. His strides lengthened, quick-marching through an alley, with Duncan catching up, until they both reached the docks.

 
He stopped, taking in the shallow-bottom freighters and fishing boats, tied in their slips. Sailors worked the small craft on the first dock, and on the second the sails were coming down on a two-mast schooner. Orders were shouted, with all hands crewing together.

  Duncan said, “You can deny it, but this is where you belong.”

  Nemo’s eyes were set on the ocean.

  He said, “No, Mr. Duncan. Out there. Beneath the surface.”

  A shriek of laughter, and they turned to some children playing along the water’s edge, chasing around the remains of the old docks, now burned to the sand, crossbeams and pilings collapsed against each other as charred steel skeletons.

  Nemo nodded toward them. “Do you feel any responsibility for the ships and men destroyed; perhaps their fathers?”

  “What are you asking?”

  “The battle of Norfolk. Fought a quarter of a mile out, your submersible against the U.S.S. Virginia, the cannons obliterating this part of the harbor. How many men were lost? You remember this, don’t you?”

  The laughing voices behind him, Duncan chose his words: “I designed a vessel meant to bring a terrible war to a quick end.”

  “And it failed in its noble purpose, failed miserably.” Nemo turned from the running children. “Now, you understand a fraction more about the missions of the Nautilus, and my goals.”

  “Actually, I’m one of the few who always understood.”

  Nemo said, “Then we should get to your current situation.”

  “That’s already turning into a worldwide crisis,” Duncan said. “Beyond that horizon, not one vessel has gotten more than a hundred miles into our lanes before vanishing. And no two had the same port of call or cargo. You’ve been briefed.”

  Nemo said, “By your dossier, memorized and burned.”

  “Then you know the crews claim all sorts of ‘sea monsters,’ adding fuels to the fires of speculation, to put it mildly.”

  “Newspaper fictions,” Nemo said. “But from what I’ve witnessed in my explorations, those deep-sea creatures seen, those testimonies, might not be outrageous.”