“I didn’t … I didn’t live there. Not exactly. I just spent a lot of time there.”
“Why?”
“You sure are full of questions today.”
“Kirby says I’m always full of questions.”
“Kirby’s right.”
“Where are we going?”
“Over there. Train station.”
“Why? We don’t need a train.”
“No,” the captain agreed. “But we need a telegraph operator, and that’s where towns usually keep them.”
“Why?”
“Because the people who run the trains need to know who’s coming and going. And they need to know the weather and all,” he said vaguely. “And passengers do, too. They like to send notes to their friends and families, if they’re traveling a real long way. Remember how Nurse Lynch was sending dispatches from the road—when she was on her way from Virginia?”
“I remember.”
“Well, there you go.”
“Where are you sending a telegram?”
“To New Orleans—to the lady who wants us to take a job,” Cly said, preemptively answering the next thing poised to fly out of Houjin’s mouth. Speculating on the third thing the kid had on deck, he added, “I tried to drop a wire from Portland, but there was some kind of problem with the poles, they said. And I forgot in Boise, and the office had closed by the time we made it to Denver. Now we’re only a thousand miles out, and I’ve dillydallied about letting the lady know we’re coming. So I’m doing it now.”
“Oh.”
Andan Cly had bought himself a few yards of silence, enough to reach the wood plank walkway of the train station, and to hike the last few feet to the sign that announced WESTERN UNION. He ducked the sign but still managed to clip it with the edge of his head, sending it swinging on its chains. Upon entering the small office, he swiped his goggles off his face and let them hang around his neck.
“Hello,” greeted a tiny, chipper woman with enough highly coiffed black hair to weave a blanket. It was difficult to escape the impression that she’d chosen the style with the specific intent of appearing larger. “What can I do for you, sir?”
Houjin slipped into the office behind the captain, and the woman gave him a puzzled look, but didn’t address him.
“I need to send a telegram. To a … boarding house. In New Orleans.”
“Very good, sir. Our rates are as posted.” She pointed at a sign that noted the charge by the line.
He said, “That’s fine.” He withdrew a square of scratch paper from his back pocket and unfolded it to reveal a message, addressed to Josephine Early at the Garden Court Boarding House on the Rue Dumaine. It had been distilled down to its essence, with all the important parts preserved, but not a drop of sentiment to be detected.
WILL TAKE THE JOB. INCOMING APPROX. APRIL 16. STOPPING AT BB FIRST, THEN INTO TOWN TO TEXIAN DOCK/MACHINE WORKS. SEE YOU THEN. AC.
The operator examined the message and flipped through her listings of New Orleans connections, then hesitated. “Can I ask you something—is ‘BB’ short for Barataria Bay?”
Cly replied, “Sure, that’s where I’m going first. Got to pick up a few things.”
“Ooh,” she exclaimed. And in a low, conspiratorial tone, she added, “I suppose I ought to pass along a little warning to you, then, in the spirit of friendliness.” The operator leaned forward and crossed her arms, the veritable picture of a woman who was thrilled by the opportunity to gossip with a real live person, and not a faceless set of dots and dashes over the taps. “You know how Texas occupies the city, don’t you?”
Cly nodded. “Sure, I know.”
She lowered her voice even further, as if anyone but Houjin were within overhearing range. “All right, then. Something happened to a couple of officers down there—something that no one wants to talk about. They disappeared or died, that’s my guess. Anyhow,” she continued, “a new officer went in to replace the colonel a couple of days ago. And the first thing he does when he takes post … oh, Lordy. Just guess!”
“I’m a terrible guesser. Just tell me.”
“Well!” she went on, downright breathless. “First thing he does is, he comes down on the bay with a full brigade of soldiers, and they wipe Barataria clean off the earth!”
Stunned, the captain exclaimed, “You can’t be serious!”
She settled back and leaned in her chair. “I don’t know how bad the damage is, ’cause I ain’t seen it in person, you know. But it’s all anyone’s been talking about on the lines. And if you don’t mind my bringing it up, a lot of the men like yourself who are passing through … they’re the kind to stop by the bay, if they’re headed that far south.”
“I don’t mind,” he all but mumbled, but not because her observation bothered him. He pressed for more. “But surely the bay’s not … I mean, it wasn’t destroyed? It’s been … what it is … for seventy years or more. It’s practically an institution! And Texas hadn’t bothered it yet, occupation or none.” The great pirate Jean Lafitte had established the bay as his own personal kingdom, back in 1810 or thereabouts. It’d come and gone, changed hands, changed allegiances, and changed flags with the rest of Louisiana … but it’d always been held by pirates. Lafitte’s sons, after he’d died. And after them, his grandchildren.
She sighed heavily and shook her head with great drama. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir. All I know is that the new man made it his mission to stomp the place flat, and he got his plan under way just the other night. I don’t know if there’s anything left standing but the fort, and I’m none too sure about that.”
“Captain?” Houjin started to ask something, but Cly waved him into silence.
“Now, how much of what you’re telling me is gossip, and how much do you know for sure?” he asked the small woman with the big hair.
“I told you, I haven’t seen it myself. But I’ve heard the story from more than one tapper along the lines, so there’s some truth to it. You’d best be careful, if you’re thinking of docking down that way. Or skip it altogether, that’s my advice.”
“Thank you,” he said to her, and he reached for his money. “I might skip it, like you said. There’s nothing over there that’s so important I can’t pick it up someplace else.”
He paid for his telegram and ushered Houjin out of the office, back into the street, before the boy could unleash his insatiable questioning upon the woman. It worked, but that meant Cly had to answer all the questions himself.
“Do you think she’s right? Do you think the docks are all gone? I wanted to see the pirate bay.”
“I don’t know if she’s right. I don’t know if the docks are all gone. And I wanted to see it, too, for the rum and absinthe moves cheaper over there—without the city, the state, and the Confederacy all taking their taxes on it. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Are we going to stop there anyway?”
“Let me think about it.”
Back at the docks, the excavation and return to order were under way, and Fang was helping someone beneath an overhang. His head and hands were buried under a tank, and two other men were bracing it up on a set of jacks. One of them turned to Cly and said, “Lines are all clogged up, but we’re clearing them out now. We’ll have these ready to start fueling again in a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Fred,” Cly told him.
“You know these guys?” Houjin pounced into the conversation.
“Sure. That’s Fred Evans, and underneath with Fang—that’s Dale Winter, isn’t it?”
From under the tank, someone called, “Cly, that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“What are these tanks for? Is this where you make the hydrogen? How do you do it? How did the lines get clogged? Do sandstorms always do this? Do—”
“And who’s this?” Fred Evans looked quizzically at the boy.
Cly sighed. “This is Houjin. Call him Huey if that’s easier. He’s learning to fly with us, and this is his first big trip away from home.”
“You’re a more patient man than I am.”
“Not sure if that’s true or not,” the captain said. “Is there anything I can do to help? We need to hit the sky.”
“Not much. I think they’ve got the bottom tubes just about cleaned, ain’t that right, fellas?”
Dale Winter said, “Uh-huh,” and Fang flashed a thumbs-up sign from under the crate.
“Then I suppose I’ll get out of your way. And I’ll take him with me,” Cly said with a nod at Houjin.
“But I want to stay and watch—I’ve never seen the hydrogen generated before, and I might need to know someday. I especially might need to know if we’re going to start a generator of our own, back home,” he pointed out.
The captain didn’t want to admit that the kid was right, but before he had to, Fred said, “Don’t worry about it, Cly. He can stay, and he can ask questions. You thinking about setting up a dock for yourself?”
“Back in Seattle, one of these days. Maybe soon.”
“Seattle? That backwater? I didn’t know anybody lived there anymore.”
“You’d be surprised. And I’ve been talking to the … uh … well, he’s kind of like the mayor,” Cly exaggerated. “We’re thinking a hydrogen dock would be a good thing for the town.”
“Would you be running it?”
“I think so, yes.”
Fred nodded thoughtfully. “Not a bad way for a man to retire. The work’s not so hard, and I guess out there up north, you don’t have these god-awful dust storms to worry about.”
“No, no dust storms.”