Deaderick said, “Probably not. They didn’t find the ship and they’ve sent their extra men home, so my guess is that they’ve mostly lost interest in what goes on over there.”
“I don’t like to work on guesses.” Cly frowned. “But it looks like we’re stuck between a number of uncertainties. The forts will be dangerous to sneak past. The canal at Port Sulphur might be safer, but it might be crawling with Texians.”
Deaderick folded his arms, wincing as his shoulder shifted. “Might be, but I doubt it. Last word in from the city has it that there’s just a residual force on staff at the bay, cleaning up and sorting out what’s worth keeping and what’s not.”
“You think they’ll set up a post there? A fort or something, where the pirates used to camp?” Troost asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe they’ll scavenge for anything they can make use of, and let the place fall to ruin.”
Cly shook his head. “It won’t fall to ruin. The pirates will take it back. That’s their hometown, their home nation. The only place they have with any history to it. They’ll be back for it.”
“You say that like you’ve given it some thought yourself,” said Norman Somers, who was back to assist with the big trucks and the winch that would send the Ganymede swinging over into the river. “I’d be pleased to help you, if it means one less square of Louisiana that Texas gets to keep.”
“Can’t say it didn’t occur to me. Can’t say I wouldn’t like to see it happen.”
Kirby Troost stuck a match in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “There’s no time like the present, if you want it back. Or that’s the word in the sky.”
“How would you know?” asked Rucker.
“I got ears all over the place, that’s how. Pirates are going to grab for it, pretty soon.”
“Who?” Cly asked, interested against his better judgment. “Somebody arranging an operation?”
“Supposedly Henry Shanks is leading point, or that’s how it’s falling into place. He’s got One-Eye Chuck Waverly coming in from the Atlantic coast, and Jimmy Garcia swinging up from the Yucatán. Rumor has it even Sweet Bang Lee is interested in raising some hell. He’s on his way from California with Brigadier Betty and their son.”
The captain breathed, “Jesus Christ Almighty. That’s one hell of a crowd. Ol’ Hank Shanks is in the lead, is he?”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“I can’t imagine anyone else so big that others would follow him. Nobody but Lafitte, and he’s dead—and so are half his grandchildren, or rotting in jail.”
Deaderick uncrossed his arms and scratched at a sore spot where a bullet wound was healing, and itching. “I’d like to see the pirates reestablish themselves, myself. They took better care of me than they had to, when I was tore up during the raid. But fellows, I believe the conversation has gotten off course again.”
Cly said, “You’re right, you’re right.” Then he rattled off the coordinates they’d agreed to—the ones about twenty miles into the Gulf, where Admiral Herman Partridge was waiting on the warship Valiant … until morning, and no longer.
“How long do you think this will take?” Houjin asked. “It’s a long way, isn’t it? How far are we going?”
“All told? Sixty, maybe seventy miles. And you’ll be right behind us with more fuel, won’t you?” he asked Deaderick and Rucker.
“Right on top of you,” Rucker confirmed. “Literally, sometimes. We’re sneaking the diesel in sealed tubs covered in shrimping nets. And we’ve got a hose all strapped up and ready to deploy.”
“But we can’t do it while you’re underwater. You’ll have to break surface for us to refuel you. That’ll be the most dangerous part,” Deaderick said with deepening seriousness. “One of the things we’re hoping to change on future models of this thing—is we’d like to see it take on more fuel without breaching.”
“I sure as hell hope they do keep us around, so we can make some suggestions on those future models,” piped up Wallace Mumler, who’d been leaning against a wall and smoking quietly as the conversation carried on.
Chester Fishwick, who’d come in late but now stood beside Wallace, agreed. “I’d like the chance to work on the ships they’ll build after this one. I’m all full up on ideas—ways they could make it better. Ways it could run cleaner, and longer.”
Cly lifted his head to direct his next question at the pair of them. “Speaking of running longer, how far can we expect to get on one full tank?”
No one answered right away, but Chester took a stab at a reply. “Twenty-five or thirty miles, or that’s our best guess. It’s hard to say, once you’re out in the current. It’ll help you, but we don’t know how much. Maybe the river will take you an extra mile; maybe she’ll take you an extra ten. Keep your eye on the fuel gauge, that’s my advice. And give us a signal before you’re ready for more—when you’re down to a couple miles’ worth of juice, we’ll find a spot for you to pull aside real quiet and give you another dose.”
“Got it.”
Once more they went over the plan, working in the new particulars—a decided-upon detour at Port Sulphur, establishing estimated stopping points where refueling might be easiest, and alternative possibilities in case of Texians or Rebs. And when it all was pinned down at last, the smallest detail confirmed, all the men took deep breaths and stood up straight. They cracked their backs and their necks, stiff from having leaned over too long, staring at the assortment of maps.
They stretched their legs and gazed anxiously at the canvas-covered lump of the Ganymede.
Then Norman Somers and Rucker Little climbed into the big driving machines and started the engines. Deaderick Early and Wallace Mumler opened the double doors at the back side of the warehouse, while the remaining members of the party, except for Cly and his crew, went to stations outside to look out for the trouble that everyone secretly expected.
But none came.
Intermittent whistles like birdcalls—prearranged for meaning—chirped through the now-full night, declaring that all was clear and the time was now.
Hurry. Move it. Out of the warehouse.
Down to the water, where the big winch waited, having been moved from the bayou to the edge of the river.… There, it had been concealed with saw grass and reeds, and a tuft of false tree canopy that disguised it at a distance.
Such a disguise was the best they could do. If anyone got close, the illusion would not hold. It could never hide something so large, and so strange. The whole assortment of nervous men prayed that anyone who took more than a second look would assume it was be overgrown dock equipment, left over from the days when people more regularly fished, and fixed boats, and moved cargo from the small bend called New Sarpy.
First gear was always the hardest when towing something so huge and heavy. The trucks strained against their load, and strained to pull together in perfect time like a pair of mechanical oxen. They moved, crawling inches at a time, but gaining traction and turf; and the conjoined platforms that moved the craft hauled it forward.
Now the watchers kept their eyes peeled even harder. They scanned using spyglasses that could tell them only so much in the darkness—but alerted them to lanterns, lights, and pedestrians out on the main road. They peered and squinted in every direction, calling soft hoots and the croaks of frogs that all was clear.
Do it now. Get it out of sight. Get it to the winch.
Only a few yards separated the warehouse exit from the camouflaged winch, so it took only minutes to move Ganymede from one stopping point to the next. It took only a few terrified clicks of Wallace Mumler’s watch for the craft to be affixed to the hooks at the top of the winch, and a few more for the dark-clothed men to move like shadows performing a dance, hitching the craft and swinging it over the water on a long, straining arm that could scarcely hold its weight.
Its bottom hit the water with a splash that sloshed a wave onto shore, soaking the legs of the men who stood nearby. They’d picked this place partly because there, the river was deeper than it looked, and would be an easy spot to launch from.
While the winch adjusted its position, the men who weren’t directly operating it went scampering along the banks, removing vegetation to reveal small engine-powered boats. They were the boats of poor people, half-cobbled things held together with pitch and elbow grease, and a dab of spit. They were boats no one would look at twice, for the river was crowded with them—mostly run by older men who took to the water in search of night-blind food, or lazy companionship, toting their nets, poles, and shellfish traps.
The men in the dinghies got bored enough that they served as a network of sorts, passing gossip and news back and forth across the water almost as swiftly as the taps could carry it. They were spies of another sort, watching the world for signs of change or progress. For a few pence in the palm, they’d help the rum-runners or the blight smugglers, the cargo handlers and the crawdad scrapers.
But not the Texians.
Not one of the boatmen would’ve lifted a finger to share gossip with the occupiers, and the handful of men who knew what was passing downriver kept the knowledge to themselves—or spread it to others like themselves, so that the Ganymede and its attendants wouldn’t be bothered.
Which was for the best, because there was no muffling the chains as they clanked and grinded, lowering Ganymede into the water. Everyone listened, terrified and tense, ears alert for warnings called from the watchmen beyond the warehouse. But nothing came, except the hoots and grunts that said all was well, and to continue.
So they did.
And when the ship was more in the water than out of it, the chains were released and it dunked itself, throwing up another sloppy wave. It bobbed, its entry hatch remaining above the waterline, but ducking and leaning, then stabilizing.
Norman Somers and Andan Cly used a pair of hooked poles to latch the craft to a set of pier posts, which had been driven deeply into the mud. These two men, the largest and strongest present, wrestled with the weight of the craft and nearly—for one horrifying cycle of waves slapping and watchers calling “still safe” in their bird cries—let it slip away from them. But they caught it, and hooked it into place as if they were tying an enormous horse to a pair of hitching posts.