CHÂTEAU D’IF, FRANCE

1802

Three years in darkness. Since Napoleon’s coup in 1799, Roderick Deveroux

had been imprisoned at Château d’If for refusing to reveal the

secrets of his magical and mysterious designs for seagoing warfare.

Without a trial— without so much as a word from his captors or his

jailers— he was cast into the old castle’s dungeons with the other supposed

enemies of France. The fates of his young wife and father were as

bleak to him as his own future.

Three years ago the new emperor himself had begged Deveroux for

the designs, drawings, and mathematical calculations for his newest ships.

The emperor had asked for them, then pleaded, and then fi nally threatened,

but still Deveroux had refused to give the brutish little man what

he desired: the design for an oil- fi red ship that could drive the implacable

British navy— the most powerful force in the world— from the surface

of the seas.

As Deveroux lay against the cold wall of his cell, he could hear the sea

far below crashing against the rocks of the small island. Roderick Deveroux

knew his prison walls were coming very close to driving him insane.

PROLOGUE

The small door at the base of his cell opened, and his daily ration of

meat and bread was pushed through atop a rusty plate. The meat was

good, rich, and ripe, as Napoleon would not be pleased if his great prize

died of malnutrition before he received the gift that would secure his

place as master of the world.

The meal delivery was the same routine as always— he waited for the

prison guard to close the trap before he allowed himself to move. This

time however, the door remained open. Deveroux allowed his eyes to

move toward the door and the still shadow beyond.

“Doctor, there is news from the outside. Perhaps after you hear it you

will fi nally deliver to the emperor that which he desires.”

Deveroux didn’t move from the damp, moss- covered corner of the

cell. He watched and waited.

“Your father has been executed for his monarchist leanings. It was

done publicly in Paris.”

Deveroux lowered his head and tried to bring to mind the face of his

father, but found his memory failed him. His throat refused to work as he

tried to swallow. His eyes fi lled with tears and he raised a hand to his

bearded face and covered his mouth, biting his lip to keep the guards from

hearing his anguish. The thought came suddenly to his mind and the

question was out before he could stop it.

“My . . . my wife . . . is she—” He croaked the fi rst words he had spoken

in more than six months.

“Your wife? You fool, she committed suicide last year because she

could not face the humiliation of your treason.”

Deveroux wanted to scream but would not give them the satisfaction

of seeing him break. Instead, he again bit his lower lip until blood oozed

from his mouth, and then he buried his face in his hands. He remembered—

they told me she was dead with my unborn child in her womb.

His decision was now an easy one. He would rather die than continue

on in life without his family. As his tears dried, his eyes seemed to burn.

He grunted to let the guard know he was there and listening. Then he

rolled to one side, and slowly and cautiously slid the plate of beef toward

him. He swatted the meat and bread from the plate and then harshly felt

the edge of the thick tin in the darkness. He was afraid he wouldn’t fi nd

what he was seeking, and then his trembling fi ngers found it— the outer

lip of the plate had been worn to a sharp edge.

“The new emperor seeks my knowledge . . . still?” he asked.

“Seeks? He demands it, fool,” the voice said from the far side of the

cell door.

With shaking hands he slid his fi nger across the sharp edge of the

plate once more, bringing the sensation he was looking for— the cutting

of fl esh.

Deveroux drew closer to the iron door, then he raised the plate and

sliced the one area that would supply enough blood to be convincing to

the captain of the guard— his head. He sliced deep and long through the

ragged growth of hair, wincing as the plate’s edge dug a deep furrow

through his scalp. Soon he felt the satisfying fl ow of blood coursing down

his forehead, and still he dug the sharpened edge deeper. There had to be

enough blood to convince the keepers that Napoleon’s prized prisoner

was attempting to do the unthinkable.

As he lifted the plate from his head, Deveroux saw that blood was not

only fl owing but had begun to spurt, as he had dragged the tin plate

through a small vein. He held on to the plate, moving the sharpened edge

opposite his grip, and then lay down next to the food portal. He allowed his

blood to splatter the iron of the door, and then he sighed and made gasping

sounds. He reached up with his free hand and slapped at the growing

puddle of blood, making sure it splashed into the corridor beyond.

“What—?”

“It is blood, Captain, the fool has slit his own throat.”

The captain of the guard did exactly what Deveroux had hoped: He

panicked at the thought of losing him to suicide. He could never explain

that to the emperor. He heard the other man as he pulled keys in an attempt

to get the door open. So, this was it, the moment of his death.

He never had any plans to escape, but neither did he have the courage

for ending his own life, so he would force them to do it for him. A selfsatisfi

ed smile etched his wretched features.

“Hurry, you bumbling fool, he’ll bleed to death!”

Finally, Deveroux heard the key slide home into the rusty lock. Then

he heard the scraping sound as it turned, and then the hasp of the lock

was thrown back, and then came the sound of a man straining to get the

door open. He felt and smelled the fi rst fresh air in over two years as it hit

his face and he breathed it in, preparing himself, gathering what strength

he could for the next few seconds— the last seconds of his life. He let his

eyes fl utter open and his eyes instantly felt the jab of pain from the candlelit

corridor beyond.

He felt hands roll him roughly onto his back, and before the guard

could react he swung the tin plate as hard as his atrophied muscles would

allow. The sharpened edge came into contact with the man’s neck.

The captain gasped as he watched the guard take a blow to his throat

just as he turned the prisoner over. He straightened and started to shout

for others, but Deveroux lashed out with his bare feet and caught the

young captain in his left knee, bringing him down to the rough stone

fl oor. Before the captain could fully react to the assault, the prisoner

Deveroux had leaped blindly to his back and brought the tin plate solidly

down onto the back of the man’s head, imbedding the sharpened edge

deeply into his skull.

Deveroux was crying as he rolled off the captain and lay still, listening

for the footsteps that would signal his death. As he tried to bring his

breathing under control, he opened his eyes to the glare of the candles.

The pain in his eyes slowly subsided as he tried to focus on the darkened

far wall. He swallowed and tried to stop his tears but found his control

was lost. His hand tried to reach out and feel the chill stone beneath him

for reassurance that the world was real; instead his hand hit the keys that

had fallen from the guard, who was just at that moment taking his last,

rattling breath.

He clutched the large set of keys with both hands and brought them to

his chest. As his eyes looked about he saw the other cells neighboring his

own. He wondered if each was fi lled with the cruelness and brutality he

had endured the past three years. Was there a man behind each door who

had been subjected to the same horrifi c treatment that he had endured?

His mind refused to answer as he rolled onto his knees. The pool of blood

from the captain had spread thickly on the blocks of stone that made up

the fl oor of the corridor. He stumbled as he tried to rise, using the wall for

leverage. He became light- headed, and then he felt his stomach lurch and

he spewed bile as a geyser would let loose water. Still, he stumbled and

fell, stood and slid down the wall until he found steps leading upward.

Deveroux made his way slowly up the stone steps, constantly aware

that his dealings with the guards would soon be discovered from another,

unknown direction he wasn’t aware of. He kept climbing, still

holding the keys to his chest as if they were his wife’s crucifi x.

He stopped when he heard sound. A door, iron by the sound, had

opened. As he tried to see in the darkness forward of his position, he

made out a dim hallway that curved off to the right on the next level. He

heard the sound of men from what he believed were two levels above

him. Not fearing death, Deveroux moved to the next level. Then he

smelled it. The only thing that had kept him alive the past two years had

been that smell. It was the sea. He could now hear the crashing of the

breakers far better than he had ever heard them before. He moved forward

once the landing of the next level was reached. Then he heard

shouts as he had been spied from above.

“Stop!”

Deveroux heard the command and the running of more than one

guard as he stumbled toward the sound and smell. He fell, cried, and

found his legs would not work. Finally he spied the door through his fl owing

tears. This one was wooden, not iron. With the footfalls sounding

louder, now on his level of the fortress, he stood and pulled down on the

latch. As he did, the door swung open and he was blinded by bright sunlight

from the setting orb that seemed to blaze just beyond the open

window.

Several women gasped and one screamed as he fell blindly through

the doorway and into the kitchen. The smells of cooking meat, fi sh, and

garlic now rode roughshod over the smell of the sea. He erratically made

his way toward the fresh air streaming through the open window. More

screams, and then the sound of the door opening and men running inside.

With a burst of strength he didn’t know he could muster, Deveroux

ran for the open window. Through his hurting and failing eyes he saw

the sea far below. The men would not stop him from sending himself

down into that sea and its waiting embrace of death. As a hand grabbed a

piece of his rotted shirt, Deveroux leaped.

The guard ran to the wide window as a woman screamed. He saw the

thin man plunge a hundred and fi fty feet to the rocks and the crashing

sea far below.

Napoleon’s prisoner was content to let the blue ocean take his body. The

smashing caress of the water stunned him when he hit from such a dizzying

height. He opened his eyes against the sting of salt and saw that

breakers were pushing him toward the jagged rocks that made up the

bulk of the island that Château d’If sat upon. To drown, or to be smashed

upon the rocks? The equation didn’t concern him; what did was the

horrible thought of being pulled from his death by guards who were

surely on their way down to recover his body.

With this thought in mind, Deveroux knew what he had to do. He

opened his mouth to take in as much of the salt- laden sea as he could, so

as to cheat Napoleon of his destiny. As his suicidal moment came, he felt

a sharp nudge on the left side of his body and felt the skin of an animal, a

shark possibly, push against him. Then another, and then still another.

As he opened his eyes he saw he was in the middle of a family of dolphins

that were playing with him, pushing him fi rst one way and then the other.

Suddenly he found himself being pushed toward the one place he didn’t

want to be, the surface. He kicked and kicked, trying to get the playful

animals to let him die in peace, but they still nudged him toward daylight

with their hard noses.

“Damn you,” he whispered as water fl ooded his mouth. His imagination

and hallucinations then brought his end into perspective— he felt

small, soft, almost gelatinlike hands grab at his tattered clothing, keeping

him afl oat as the dolphins chattered around him.

Deveroux gasped for air as a breaker smashed over his head. He was

then pushed back to the surface by the strange, dreamlike hands of angels,

with fi ne hair and silken soft bodies. Were these mermaids of the

old tales he had listened to as a boy?

When he managed to open his eyes he saw that he had been pushed

almost a mile from the point where he had struck the sea around Château

d’If. As he weakly treaded water he saw men at the base of the fortress

searching the area where he had struck the sea. He laughed for the

fi rst time in two years, a hoarse, very desperate- sounding thing. The

dolphins joined in with their strange chatter and swam about him as if

they were a part of the warped and twisted joke. Of the soft- handed,

strangely glowing mermaids, or angels, he saw none.

The tide was taking him farther from land; he could no longer see

the coastline. Even the dreaded and cursed fortress was now but a small

speck on the horizon.

Floating contentedly, awaiting his new fate, he felt a sharp pain as

something hit him from the side once more. As he rolled his thin body

over, expecting his playful saviors, he came face-to-face with a large tree

trunk, detritus of the ocean. Several of the dolphins had pushed the tree

toward him. He decided he would wait for the friendly creatures to leave

and then he would allow the sea to do its best. For reasons he did not

fathom, the smartest animals in the ocean wanted him to live.

As he fl oated for hours on end, Deveroux thought about why God was

sparing him. He had sent his marvelous creatures, and what Deveroux

thought of as angels, to delay the death of this poor man of science for a

purpose. The thoughts and memories of his family swirled in his mind as

darkness came. He was being swept farther out to sea as the moon rose

and set, and then dawn was upon him once more.

The sound of breakers and the coldness of the waters awoke the delirious

Deveroux from a nightmare- fi lled sleep. He had been dreaming

not of the murders of his wife or father, but of the evil men who had

taken them from him. The dream seethed with hate and a desire for

vengeance upon these men and their master. The force of the nightmares

had kept his heart beating throughout that cold night and into the hazy

morning following. Two days and two nights he fl oated on the gentle

currents of escape.

Now, the sound of normalcy returned to replace the cries of his unjust

treatment. The cawing of seabirds strangely mimicked the cries of his

dream wife and father as they swooped low to investigate the fl oating tree

trunk. The chatter of his constant companions, the dolphins, made him

turn toward their sound. There, a hundred meters away, was a small island.

Scanty trees broke up the outline of its rock- strewn shore and made

him think for a terrifying moment that he was fl oating right back into the

arms of Château d’If.

A large breaker caught his fl oating tree and pushed him toward what

he now knew would be his fi nal moment; the jagged rocks lining the

shore came at him at a breakneck pace. However, something strange was

afoot; the dolphins were taking the wave with him, jumping and chattering

as they rode the wave in. As the waters crested he lost his grip on the

tree and found himself being sucked through the rocks and into a cave

opening revealed at the low tide of the morning hours. He hadn’t seen it

from his position behind the breakwater, but as soon as he was swept

inside, it was cold and dank, almost as lightless as his onetime prison cell.

The dolphins pushed him to a small sandy beach, chattered, then swam

away, as if content they had accomplished what they set out to do. Deveroux

rolled over, feeling the blessed earth beneath his tattered clothing. He

collapsed and allowed a dreamless sleep to overtake him.

When Deveroux awoke, he tried to sit up. The sun outside the cave

opening was setting, but in its waning death it allowed light to be cast

into the interior. The former prisoner of Napoleon stood on shaky feet

but collapsed. Then, more slowly, he rose, braced himself, and looked

around.

He tilted his head as he saw something recognizable to his saltencrusted

eyes. Lining the interior walls were torches. He stumbled,

righted himself, and approached. They were old— very old. He removed

one from the hole that had been carved into the wall and hefted it. He

sniffed the burned, dead end and smelled the aroma of grease— old and

dry, but grease nonetheless. As he turned to look back at the cave’s opening,

his bare foot struck something sharp. He reached down and felt

the dry sand, running his fi ngers though it. He hit upon an object and

brought it up into the diffused sunlight. It was fl int, used at one time to

ignite these very torches lining the wall. With fl int in hand, he brushed

up the cloth- and grease- covered tip of the torch, then he knelt and

started striking the fl int against the stone wall.

It took him more than thirty minutes and fi ve bloody fi ngers, but in

the end the torch fi nally smoldered, then caught and fl ared to life. As he

averted his eyes from the brightness of the fl ame, he saw the skeletal leg in

the sand. He stepped back, brought the fl ame closer, and followed the leg

upward. There, lying against the wall, were the remains of a man. He was

tied by rope and spike to the very wall where Deveroux had found the

torch. The clothing on the skeleton was old and falling apart. The corpse

had several gold teeth, and even more were missing. However, there was

one feature that made Deveroux look around ner vous ly. This was the

fact that this man had been slashed through the head by a sword, shattering

the front of the skull. As Deveroux held the torch closer, he could see

that the sword had smashed everything from the skullcap through the nasal

cavity.

He shook his head and stepped back ner vous ly. The remains had to

be more than a hundred years old, in his estimation. The bloused pants,

tattered vest, and red shirt made the skeleton look as if he had been a

Gypsy, like the fl otsam he had seen in the streets of Paris in the past.

The bony fi ngers had rings upon each, even the thumb.

Deveroux brought the torch around and looked farther into the cave.

The body was sitting upon a small shelf that seemed to wrap around the

large interior. The small cove that rose and fell with the tide was up at

that time, so he moved cautiously along the wall, staying high above the

water.

He had traveled for what he estimated was a half mile into the bowels

of the cave when he came to a huge gate. As he brought the torch to bear

on the makeshift wall, he screeched a hoarse bark and stepped back as he

saw two more bodies. These were not like the fi rst, which had been tied

to the wall and executed. These two skeletons were lying beneath the

sharpened points of the bottom of the wall, which was imbedded in the

men’s torsos, crushing their ribs and spines.

As Deveroux examined the trap, he could see that the wooden device

at one time had been placed into a separation in the cave’s natural ceiling.

These men had somehow triggered the pitfall, and been impaled by the

sharpened base of the wall as it crashed down upon them. Deveroux grimaced

at the horrible specter before him. The men were dressed as the

fi rst man had been. Jewelry of every kind adorned the skeletons. The one

major difference— these men had been armed. One still grasped the sword

he had more than likely used against the defenseless man Deveroux had

discovered tied to the cave wall.

Deveroux examined the wooden trap and surmised it would harm no

other. He gently pushed on the gate. It creaked and bent, but held fi rm.

With eyes wild, he knew he had to fi nd out what was so important about

the rear of the cave that men would be driven to create such horrible

deaths for their fellows.

He looked around him, and using the torch for light he leaned down

and pulled upon the sword entwined in the skeleton’s bony grasp, then

cringed when three of the dead man’s fi ngers came off with his effort. He

looked at the skeleton and watched its long dead and empty eye sockets for

a brief moment. Then he raised the sword, and while still looking at the

dead man, slashed at the wood with a weakened blow. The sword severed

the rotten rope where it crossed another of the old wooden beams. The

wood creaked, and then Deveroux fell to the sand as his muscles began to

cramp with just one swing of the heavy sword. Deveroux cried out in pain

as he went to his knees, trying to get the cramp to cease its hold, and then

he suddenly stopped and looked around as if he were being watched. With

his right arm throbbing, he swung the torch in his left hand to and fro,

searching for the set of eyes that he knew to be there. He saw nothing but

the darkness. He was the only witness to his transgression.

He switched the torch to his right hand, and with tears of pain he

swung the sword once more, severing another rope, and then he yelled

out in fear when the crossbeam fell from the gate and almost crushed

him. He saw one beam fall, and then another, until a small avalanche fell

free, the remaining ropes not able to withstand the weight. They fell,

crushing the remains of the two lost souls trapped years before. When

the dust cleared and Deveroux stopped shaking from fright, he saw the

gate had succumbed to his minuscule efforts, thanks in most part to the

rotted rope holding it together.

He rose from the damp earth, and on shaking legs stepped through

the opening and easily swung the torch forward. He couldn’t make anything

out at fi rst, but then he saw the stacked items along the wall. Three

hundred large and small chests. Some made of wood, others of iron. Some

were locked while others had come apart with age and water damage.

He approached one that had broken open and held the fl ame close to

the spilled items. There, twinkling in the bright fl ame, were what he assumed

were diamonds. A thousand pigeon- egg- sized pieces of glittering

and sparkling stone that had been torn from the earth, possibly centuries

before.

Deveroux swung the torch back and looked at the two skeletons. He

examined their clothing again and thought, pirates! Buccaneers, free seamen.

He had found what these men had hidden, and had obviously been

murdered for.

He turned and examined more of the chests. Gold from Syria, Babylon,

and Arabia, and diamonds from Africa. Arabic coins stamped with

artisans’ renderings of faces that were hundreds of years old. He held the

torch against a lock that still sealed one of the large chests and saw the

seal of England— the head of the lion and the three crowns of Richard I.

Deveroux fell to his knees, lowered the torch, and crossed himself.

The rumors were true. He had found what was lost more than six hundred

years before: the legendary lost trea sure of the Crusades. Gold, diamonds,

and other riches ripped and stolen from the Holy Land. King

Richard was rumored to have invaded Jerusalem for the sole reason of

pillaging, not its liberation. The king died soon after his return home and

his trea sure was lost, or hidden away from his own countrymen, later to

be discovered by this marauding band of cutthroats.

Deveroux saw in the trea sure the route and means to his revenge

against Napoleon. By his quick estimation, and not fi guring in monetary

terms of pound, shekel, or carat, he calculated that he had found over

fi fteen tons of riches. Billions upon billions of francs’ worth of diamonds

and emeralds alone. The gold was incalculable.

He cried at seeing the redemption that lay before him. He would exact

the revenge he had coming to his soul for the death of a wife and the

murder of his father.

He would then use this wealth to continue the work he had started.

He would make the world a better place and in the end he would challenge

humankind not to need the very avarice that lay before him.

As he turned to look back toward the cave’s opening, knowing the

sun had set, he began planning. His brilliant mind was regaining its edge

and complex thought was becoming easy once more. His thoughts were

cutting through the detritus of a world that wanted what he had—

command of the sea.

In the fading light of the dying torch, there was movement in the

water. With wild and insane eyes Deveroux believed his horrid memories

of the past years were returning in the form of men to reclaim his

soul. As he slowly slid to the softened sand, he saw for the fi rst time the

true magic, the real trea sures of the sea— and they were beautiful.

Deveroux stared at the magical creatures as they in turn watched him

from below the crystal- clear waters of the cave. Gold, diamonds, and

emeralds— they all paled in comparison to the miracle his eyes now beheld.

Fantasy mixed with reality— biblical stories with that of fairy tales.

It was there before him in the waters, legend, myth, and sea- tales. Reality

and clarity of mind beckoned him. Then suddenly the clear- skinned,

glowing, angellike mermaids were gone as if they had never been. The

darkness, the sea breeze, and the sound of life slowly returned to his ears

as a plan began to form for revenge and a reason to live once more.

Now he would claim the sea as his own.

UNIVERSITY OF OSLO, NORWAY, 1829

The old professor leaned closer to the makeshift gauge. The needle hovered

at the 98 percent mark. He noted this fact in his journal and then

looked up and tapped the gauge once more, making the needle jump minutely,

only to settle back into the same position as before. He smiled.

After twenty- seven hours, the electrical charge remained high.

He laid his pen inside the journal and closed it. He stretched and as

he did, he saw his young son, twelve- year- old Octavian, lying peacefully

on the makeshift bed in the far corner of the laboratory. Professor Heirthall,

the man once known as Roderick Deveroux, pulled out his pocket

watch and saw it was nearly two thirty in the morning. He shook his

head and then decided to check his connections one last time.

Half of the large laboratory space was taken up with three hundred

small, boxlike cubes. They were stacked on metal shelving that ran fl oor

to ceiling. The mountain of material gave off deep shadows in the dim,

gas- lantern- illuminated lab as the professor walked to the main cable

connection and felt the insulation. He quickly removed his hand and

then pulled out his journal. He checked the thermometer connected to

the thick copper cable and then found the reading for his last entry. The

cable’s temperature was up sixteen degrees from the last mark two hours

ago. It was now reading 120 degrees. This was a problem. The thick cable

was not going to hold up for the duration of the electrical charge.

Either his cables needed to be thicker, which was not benefi cial to his

end goals, or he would have to fi nd a way to keep the metal cooler inside

the leather insulation.

“Father, have you considered letting the sea cool your battery lines?”

The professor turned to see his son sitting up on his cot. He was

propped on one elbow and yawned as he looked at his father.

“The sea? Do you mean run the cables outside of the enclosure?” he

asked.

The boy placed his feet on the fl oor and pulled the blanket around

his shoulders as he stood and slowly shuffl ed to where his father was standing.

“No, sir,” he said through a yawn. “I am aware that seawater would

invade the coiled copper wire inside the insulation, and corrupt it. However,

would it not cool if cocooned in rubber, the same material as your

batteries and inside a metal guard, inches from the cooling waters of the

sea?”

“You mean as veins, like in a human arm, just under the surface?”

In answer, the twelve- year- old yawned once more, nodding his head.

“You must get your intelligence from your mother, for I am constantly

overlooking the obvious,” he said as he touslºed the boy’s thick

black hair. “You have a remarkable spark of intelligence bouncing around

in that head of yours.”

The admiration and love for his son was evident. The boy had been

with him throughout the summer months, and was here with him now

instead of enjoying his winter break for the Christmas holidays. Ever

since the breakthrough in the spring, when his revolutionary electrical

storage system began to show promise, the boy had been by his side, forsaking

even the warmer company of his mother, Alexandria.

The boy had only been ten years old when he had completed the fi nal

assembly of the combustion motor. Converted from a steam piston drive,

the motor was also revolutionary and very, very secret. Still, even at that

young age, Octavian had fi gured out that the pump used to relay fuel

into the combustion chamber was ineffi cient, just by studying its operation.

He had tinkered with his father’s design, and in three months, using

only scrap parts, the boy had pieced together what he called a distilled

kerosene- injection pump that utilized the motor itself for power. Kerosene

derived from the recent discovery of crude oil from America. It had

failed the fi rst three times, and then when they had fi gured a way to fi lter

the fi ne spray of kerosene, removing the impurities of the refi ned oil,

it had not failed since.

Professor Heirthall smiled at his son and then pulled his pocket watch

out of his white coat once more and examined it.

“Almost three a.m. Octavian; your mother is going to throw me into

the fjord.”

“Of all people, Mother knows you get lost in your work. She will be

fi ne and fast asleep.”

“Yes, I suspect so, but nevertheless I will call the carriage and have

you taken home.”

“Father, my time is wasted at home. Mother only talks of what a great

man I will one day be.”

The professor replaced his journal and smiled.

“The part of her that needs it will never feel the spray or touch of the

sea again. This is a sad fact to her, son. Your mother, well— part of her is

a very special woman, from very, very special people. And because they

were special, and are still so, we have this,” he said as he gestured around

the laboratory. “All this is for them. We are dedicated to the sea, Octavian—

it is in your blood, quite literally. Without that special part of her,

your mother would have died a very long time ago.”

The boy had ceased listening and was instead standing in front of the

mountain of black rubber- encased batteries. He pulled the blanket around

him tighter and was lost in his own world.

“Are you dreaming your underwater dreams again, Octavian?”

The boy turned toward his father and smiled, embarrassed.

“Is the story true— I mean, what people are saying about you?”

Heirthall was taken back by the sudden change in topic.

“You mean my magical escapades upon the sea, and of being a prisoner

of Napoleon? Yes, it is all true. As for the trea sure of King Richard—

no, I’m afraid our wealth is derived from a long line of inheritance.

Nothing as dashing and daring, I would think, as the rumors from

France or other tall tales told in other countries.”

Heirthall knew he wasn’t fooling Octavian. The boy was just too

smart for his own good. Not once did he ask about portraits of family

heritage from either side— even though he knew other families of wealth

had them. Yes, the boy knew the stories were true, but he had yet to

guess the real secret of the Heirthall family. That would take a delicate

touch.

Deveroux had met Alexandria after his escape and revenge upon Napoleon.

She had been young, vital, and loving toward him at the fi rst

moment of meeting. Then, after the birth of Octavian, she had become

weak and bedridden. Consumption, the doctors had told him. Only the

intervention of the Deveroux angels had kept her alive all of these years.

Now, even their grace from death was ending. The solution to her health

was now her killer. He now feared Octavian— their precious offspring—

might be cursed to the same fate as his mother. He was physically weak,

and his blood held too much of his mother’s.

The sound of loud footfalls, possibly that of several men, came through

the thick double doors. The professor held his index fi nger to his lips to

make sure Octavian quieted. Then he hurriedly took his son by the

shoulders and pushed him toward the cot. He wrapped him tighter in the

blanket, shoved him to the fl oor, and looked deeply into Octavian’s deep

and beautiful blue eyes.

“You stay under here and come out for no reason, am I clear, my

son?”

“Father, who could these men be?”

“I don’t know, but I have noticed strangers around the university, and

several have been following me the past two months. Now, Octavian,

answer me, do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.” The boy looked up into Heirthall’s tired features. “I

can be of help.”

“I know you could, but sometimes you must know when to use silence

as an ally, not strength. Understand me, son, stay under the cot.”

The boy nodded.

With his answer, Heirthall helped the boy slide under the cot until

he could go no farther. Then he stood and faced the double doors. The

hallway beyond the framed window was dark, but he could still see moving

shadows there. A loud knock sounded.

“Professor Heirthall, this is Dr. Hansonn. May I come in?”

Heirthall walked to the door, started to reach for the handle, and

then stopped short.

“Why would the dean of biology be here at this hour, Doctor?” he

called through the thick wood. “And why is he accompanied by others?”

“I have a friend that wishes to speak to you.”

“My work is not for examination by anyone, including you. Now

please take your friends and go away, I wish to—”

“Professor Heirthall, I assure you, this is not about your fanciful

dream of underwater vessels— it’s about your fossil.”

“The fossil has been lost since the last time you inquired about it. I

see no reason—”

The doors split apart and crashed inward. Two very large men quickly

entered, followed by three more. Dr. Hansonn was there, and standing

beside him was a man that Heirthall recognized immediately.

“Why have you brought this profi teer of history to my laboratory?”

The rotund man removed his top hat and pushed by the Norwegian

biology dean.

“I will be happy to answer that,” the man said as he handed his hat to

the larger of the two men. “Professor, we care not for your dreams of

underwater fantasies, sir; we have come to buy the fossil from you. I am

willing to pay handsomely for it, I assure you.”

“You have already decried it a hoax. Why would you want it if no one

believes it’s real?”

The man turned and took a few steps away, deep in thought; he held his

right hand to his lips. “I have to have it, Professor. Not for any public display,

I have plenty of tomfoolery to enthrall the public. The unique specimen

in your possession is for me alone— to amaze myself as to the wondrous

nature of our world. I will not harm it or display it, only love it.”

“Again, Mr. Barnum, I have lost the specimen. Now please take your

men and get out.”

Heirthall watched P. T. Barnum as the man defl ated.

“I implore you, Professor, I am only a man who wishes to understand

the world around me,” he said as he noticed Dean Hansonn move to the

far wall.

Hansonn walked toward one of the lanterns and blew out the fl ame.

He then reached up, pulled the lantern from the wall, and smashed it to

the fl oor, and the smell of lamp oil immediately permeated the lab.

“Now, we have but mere minutes, Professor, before the oil is ignited

by my associates. So if you will, the fossil, please.”

Heirthall looked at his Norwegian colleague. The man glared at him

in return.

“How can you do this? This science is for the betterment of all, and

you are willing to destroy that over a fairy tale?”

P. T. Barnum looked from Heirthall to the man he thought was helping

him purchase the fossil.

“There is no need for threats of violence. Professor Heirthall is far

too important to gamble,” he said as he reached for a rag to clean up the

spilled lamp oil.

The dean nodded to one of the large men, who stopped Barnum from

going to his knees to clean the spill.

“Professor, we haven’t the need for your amazing mechanical apparatus.

Just the fossil, please,” Hansonn said.

When Heirthall made no move to retrieve the fossil, Hansonn nodded

for his men to take action. One held Heirthall and the others started

tearing apart the lab as Dr. Hansonn stepped forward.

“Gentlemen, I implore you to stop this madness. The fossil is not

worth losing this man’s work!” Barnum cried out to Hansonn. “You will

not receive one red cent, I assure you. This is not the way!”

Hansonn gestured to a large wooden vault on the opposite wall while

holding a white handkerchief to his nose and mouth.

Heirthall was straining in the arms of the bigger man as he saw the

men tear through the thick wood of the vault and pull the glass- encased,

alcohol- protected specimen out. Barnum stood stock- still in the arms of

Hansonn’s hirelings and watched as the dean stepped up and placed a

loving hand over the glass as he saw the remains inside.

“There truly is a God,” Hansonn said. “Take it out of here and get it

to the ship. We leave on the next tide.” He turned to Barnum. “And I

assure you, Mr. Barnum, you will pay me what is owed.”

“If you harm the professor, you’ll get spit from me. This was not the

arrangement!”

“We will stop you. The world can never know about what that specimen

represents,” Heirthall said, straining against the man that held

him.

“It’s either this fossil or your wife, Professor. You looked shocked

that I know about the medical procedure you performed on her several

years ago. I know all about her illness, and how you arrested it. So it’s

either this fossil, or your wife. . . . Which is it?”

“You scum, you could never harm my wife!”

“Yes, yes, we know your estate is very well guarded, that is why we

were forced to come here. We are not barbarians, Professor, the sea angel

you have here is quite enough,” Hansonn said as he nodded at the man

holding Heirthall.

The knife went unseen to the professor’s throat and sliced neatly

through it.

“I am truly sorry, but I can’t have the authorities chasing me forever.

After all, I am going to be a very rich man from this day forward,” Hansonn

said, looking with dead eyes toward Barnum. “Now, spread more

oil on the fl oor; the professor is about to have a horrible laboratory accident.”

Barnum screamed in terror at what was happening.

“You bastard, nothing is worth this. I . . . will see you hang, sir!”

“Then you will hang right beside me, my American friend. After all,

you will be in possession of the most remarkable fossil in the history of

the world. So, Mr. P. T. Barnum, I would make sure there were two

ropes hanging in the death gallery that day.”

Barnum went down to his knees when the evil plan was made clear to

him. The world would never believe that the verbose pitchman wasn’t

involved in this murder. He was doomed to go along.

As he slowly raised his head, he saw the boy hiding under the cot.

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, Barnum learned more about himself

than he ever thought he would. He shook his head, and with spittle

coming from his mouth, said he was sorry so that only the boy could see.

Octavian’s deep blue eyes went from Barnum to his father’s body

only inches from the cot. He tried to scream, cry, anything, but nothing

came out. He heard the men leaving with their prize, and that was when

he saw the dying eyes of his father. Roderick Deveroux, the man now

known as Heirthall, was looking at his son, fully aware his death was imminent.

The footsteps retreated to the nearby door, and a lighted match

was tossed inside just before the doors closed.

The fi re was starting to spread fast in the crowded lab and was working

toward the highly explosive batteries. Heirthall managed to keep his

eyes open even as his blood spread toward his cowering son. Then he

tried to raise his hand. He extended his fi nger, but then his hand fell to

the wooden fl oor and into his own blood. His eyes closed as Octavian

reached out with a shaking hand and tried to touch his dying father.

Heirthall’s eyes opened one last time. Instead of raising his hand to indicate

for the boy to run, he allowed his fi nger to do his talking. He only

managed three letters: HEN.

Octavian was being told to get the assistance of Hendrickson, the

family’s American butler. However, the boy only reached out and grasped

his father’s still hand. Heirthall, eyes closing, tried to fl ick the boy’s

hand off his own, but failed. He tried to speak, but blood was the only

thing to exit his mouth when he opened it.

Octavian could take no more. The fi re was spreading and thickening,

so he squeezed out from underneath the cot, sliding through the warm

blood of his father. That was when the fi rst and last tears ever shed by Octavian

Heirthall appeared. As he stood, then slipped and fell, he screamed

in anger as he felt his body was not responding. His hand fell upon his

father’s journal that had fallen from his coat pocket. Octavian retrieved it

and started crawling toward the doors as the fi re reached the batteries.

Reaching up for the handle of the double doors, he managed to open

them and start out on his hands and knees when his only world exploded

around him.

SEPTEMBER 23, 1863

THE GULF OF MEXICO—

THIRTY- FOUR YEARS LATER

The day was hot and the seas were accommodating as the HMS Warlord

plied the gulf waters 120 miles off the coast of Texas. Her destination

was Galveston. A thousand yards to her starboard quarter was the HMS

Elizabeth; at equal distance to her port side was the HMS Port Royal. The

two smaller frigates had been sent by the Admiralty for the protection of

HMS Warlord, a 175- foot battle cruiser of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.

On her teak deck stood two passengers dressed in civilian attire. The

shorter of the two men was entrusted with the safety and well- being of

the taller, far more intense person at his side. This gaunt man was one

of utmost importance to Her Majesty’s government because he and the

young nation he represented were now the British Empire’s newest ally.

The man who calmly and silently watched the passing seas of the gulf

was a diplomatic courier for the Confederate States of America.

The fl edgling nation was close to the point of collapse. Abraham Lincoln’s

Union Army had recently taken the mystique of Southern invincibility

away with a stunning move in Tennessee by a small bearded general

named Grant, at a place the Union papers called Shiloh Meeting House.

In addition, and almost simultaneously, General Robert E. Lee had been

stunned while venturing northward from Virginia through Mary land

and into Pennsylvania, where he had met a small band of dismounted

cavalry that was the vanguard of the entire army of the Potomac. Robert

E. Lee, the Army of Northern Virginia, history itself— none would ever

forget the name of the small town where two of the greatest armies of

men ever assembled on the face of the earth would clash: Gettysburg.

Special Assistant Thomas Engersoll, a close friend and advisor to

Stephen R. Mallory, the Confederate Secretary of the Navy, was standing

on the fantail of Warlord watching the gentle swell of the gulf and

the gathering of seabirds which, he knew, signaled their closeness to the

Texas coast, and the successful completion of his desperate and very secret

mission. As he looked over the railing at the placid sea, he blinked

his eyes as something resembling a jellyfi sh appeared. The animal didn’t

seem too alarmed by the thin man looking down upon it, and it kept

pace with the wind- driven ship with very little effort. He was just getting

ready to call over a seaman to ask about this exotic animal when his

thoughts were interrupted.

“Well, Mr. Engersoll, you are close to setting your feet once more

upon your home soil. Your thoughts, sir?”

The thin man turned and studied Her Majesty’s envoy, Sir Lionel

Gauss, for a moment as the En glishman smiled and reached up, placing

his small hand upon Engersoll’s shoulder. He thought about telling him

about the strange blue- eyed creature, then changed his mind.

Thomas Engersoll did not return the short fat man’s smile, but instead

just nodded his greeting. He was tired and tried desperately to

keep his lips from trembling.

“Home is a welcome sight for these eyes to be sure, but the thing that

is of the utmost importance to my country is the signed letter and the

accompanying documents locked up in the captain’s safe. Those items,

and those alone, sir, are what are desperately needed ashore, not myself,”

Engersoll stated without emotion.

The rotund courier representing Queen Victoria laughed and patted

Engersoll on the arm.

“And with the might of the Royal Navy at your very disposal, I assure

you, Thomas, the documents will be placed into the hands of your President

Davis very soon. And the weapons, ammunition, medicinal supplies,

and rations that are being carried in the holds of these vessels are

just the start of our material friendship to your young nation.”

Engersoll returned the smile with just a twitch of movement from his

mouth, and even that sad attempt never reached his eyes. He knew he

was as high a rank in the Confederate government as he would ever

achieve. It was well known, in the South as well as in the North, that he

had been against the war in the years leading up to this foolishness, and

now it was he who carried the very machinations needed to carry on the

bloodbath that maddened his countrymen on both sides of the Mason-

Dixon line. He knew that hidden in the captain’s safe was the answer to

a Southern victory, and still this did not make him happy or proud.

The guarded gift was one of recognition— a po liti cal act that would

fi nally drive the killing wedge between North and South forever. The

words of men now but ghosts kept echoing in his mind: divide and conquer.

One of two concessions that no American could ever tolerate, North or

South, had been struck with his pen: the Royal Navy would forever have

eight naval bases in the gulf of Mexico and South America, a deal with

the Dev il that would be a thorn in his young nation’s side forever.

However, maybe, just maybe, this mission would answer his prayer

and put a stop to the mass killing of his fellow citizens, North and South.

With God’s help, maybe then the split could at least be fi nished without

the loss of more young men.

He turned away and watched as the seabirds cawed and swooped to

the wave tops and then shot back skyward.

No more slavery— the single most important factor that had brought

on the war was now a thing of the past. The one obstacle that stood between

legitimacy and recognition by other nations, slavery, had been

erased by a single swipe of his pen, bringing the South the most powerful

ally in the world.

When the seas surrounding the three warships suddenly became silent,

Engersoll looked up as the skies cleared of the diving and frolicking

birds. He watched in amazement as they fl ocked away from the three

warships.

“What’s this?” Sir Lionel asked aloud.

A thousand yards away, Her Majesty’s frigate Port Royal raised a line

of signal fl ags. Then the sudden beating of a drum announced the crew

of Warlord was going to battle stations. Eight royal marines quickly surrounded

the two men as loud footsteps ran about them as the beating of

the war drum became louder, as were the shouts of sailors as they took up

their action stations.

“Is it a Union warship?” Engersoll asked.

“I don’t know, but I must be informed of our circumstance!” The

angry courier pushed past the armed guard. They had orders from the

Admiralty that dictated they avoid contact with the blockading American

warships at all costs. Gauss knew they must land the treaty and arms

that day.

Captain Miles Peavey stood on the quarterdeck as he surveyed the

situation farther out to sea. He watched as the frigates Elizabeth and Port

Royal made sharp turns to come about.

“I need more sail! Put on more sail!” he ordered, his spyglass going

from his view of southern waters to that of the Warlord’s smaller escorts

as they maneuvered.

“I demand to know what is happening, Captain,” Sir Lionel asked as

he arrogantly stepped into Peavey’s line of sight.

“Not now, sir!” Peavey shot back, not too gently shoving the man

aside.

“I will report your boorish behavior, I assure—”

“Remove this man from my command deck!” the captain ordered,

never taking his eye from the spyglass.

“Why, I never—”

“Now!” the captain shouted, turning away from the sight of his two

escorts as they attempted to run interference for his larger ship.

The red- coated royal marine escort moved Sir Lionel forcefully away

from the captain. Engersoll didn’t need to be manhandled, so he avoided

confrontation, silently and calmly joining the group of men. The Warlord’s

fi rst offi cer stepped up to the two men and whispered at close quarters.

“Port Royal has spotted a vessel fi ve miles off. This . . . this ship has

been spied several times in the last two days, and now appears to be making

a move on our position.”

“A single vessel?” Sir Lionel asked incredulously. “This is the Royal

Navy, sir, no single vessel, not even one of their mighty ironclads could

hope to stop us from our goal!”

The executive offi cer did not answer at fi rst, but instead looked to

where his captain stood ramrod straight, watching the seas of the open

gulf to the south.

“The vessel that has been following us is unlike any we have ever

seen. We’re not even sure if it’s a ship at all,” he said feeling uncomfortable.

“There is ridiculous talk that it’s some kind of sea—”

“Mr. Rand, Port Royal is attacking at maximum range. Report ship’s

readiness!” the captain said loudly while still maintaining sight on the

horizon.

Warlord’s second in command just looked at the two politicos, half

bowed, and then moved off to his master’s side.

“All stations report battle ready, Captain!” he said, as he had been

informed a moment before that all seventeen of the cruiser’s thirty- twopounder

cannons were ready for action.

“Very good. Even though our sister ships of propeller, paddlewheel,

and coal would be most welcome here, I fi gure we old sailing men can

give the American Navy what for, hey, Mr. Rand?” The captain took his

eye away from his glass for a short moment and winked.

“Yes, sir, we’ll show them what the Royal Navy is capable of.”

“Tell our gentleman guests they can stand at the stern railing and

watch Port Royal and Elizabeth engage our new adversaries. They’ll have

quite a shock realizing that the Confederacy has a new friend on the

high seas.”

“Yes, sir,” Rand answered without enthusiasm or further comment as

he turned and made his way back to Sir Lionel and Engersoll.

Just as the three men stepped to the rail, they saw the fl ash of powder

long before they heard the reports of the large guns of Elizabeth and Port

Royal. Then, over the surface of the gulf, the loud popping came to

Engersoll’s ears. It was unlike what he imagined naval gunfi re to sound

like, even at this extreme distance.

“Both frigates have opened up their port- side guns. That means they

must have caught the enemy off guard and crossed the T, a formation

allowing them to bring the guns of both ships to bear,” Rand explained

as he watched. “A fatal error by the American, if that’s who he is.”

“But why can’t we see the American ship?” Sir Lionel asked.

“Well, they are more than likely over our horizon. We should be able

to see them—”

A sudden, tremendous explosion lit up the blue southern sky as HMS

Elizabeth vanished in a matter of a split second behind a solid wall of fl ame

and smoke. All three men watched in astonishment as the sound fi nally

reached them. Warlord shook beneath their feet as Rand started shouting

orders. He spared a glance at Captain Peavey who stood stock- still, the

spyglass slowly lowering to his side. Lieutenant Rand shouted to bring the

ship about.

This order fi nally moved Peavey to action as he turned angrily toward

his number one.

“Belay that order, make for the coast at all possible speed, we

must—”

Without seeing the initial or even the second cataclysmic action, the

sound wave of another explosion almost knocked Peavey from his feet.

As he straightened and turned from his spot on the wooden deck, the

mushroom- shaped cloud of red and black was rising from the spot where

Port Royal had been just a moment before. In a matter of two stunning

moments of elapsed time, two Royal Navy frigates had vanished without

having the chance to reload their guns. As Peavey regained his feet and

raised his glass, he could see no sign of either ship save for the debris and

smoke still rising in the clear air.

“We have movement aft at fi ve thousand yards and closing!” The call

was shouted from high above in the rigging.

Engersoll tried desperately to spy the enemy vessel, but he failed at

fi rst. He gripped the handrail and then raised his right hand to his brow

and strained to see.

Peavey shouted out orders and reversed his earlier command to run

for the coast.

“My God!” Sir Lionel cried. “Look at that!”

Engersoll turned to the spot Sir Lionel was pointing to as Warlord

turned hard to starboard to bring her main guns to bear on the suddenly

visible target.

At a mile away from Warlord, Engersoll fi nally spied the enemy that

had just cremated three hundred men in a matter of moments. It truly

was a sea monster. The wave it created was spectacular as it charged the

British warship. Three hundred feet into the air the wake rose, as water

was pushed aside by a force no man aboard could have ever imagined.

“Come on, come on, turn, damn you, turn!” Captain Peavey pleaded

with the slowly moving Warlord as she lethargically leaned over to bring

her main armament to bear on the approaching juggernaut.

“God in heaven,” Engersoll said as a massive gray tower rose from

the sea, splitting the ocean like a sharp knife, sending foam and spray

hundreds of feet into the air.

They all watched from the quarterdeck as the full view of the glistening

tower came into sight. Engersoll’s jaw clenched as two massive, semirounded

bubbled windows appeared on either side of the great enclosure.

Then he saw with dawning horror that rising from the streamlined tower’s

uppermost area and sloping to its monstrous round bow were large

gleaming spikes, arrayed like the giant teeth of a great serpent in three

long rows arching from bow to tower. As they watched, the beast accelerated

to an incalculable speed.

The Royal Navy seamen watched slack- jawed as the strange apparition

started to sink back beneath the sea.

Rand looked to his captain, who was standing in shock and not moving.

His spyglass slipped from his hand and the lens shattered on the

deck.

“Open fi re as your guns come to bear!” Rand shouted, immediately

taking command from the captain.

The massive thirty- two- pound rifl ed cannon started to open fi re as

they sighted on the strange monster. Rand was pleased to see the fi rst

three explosive rounds strike the beast before it went too deep. However,

his joy was short-lived as this seagoing nightmare kept accelerating, shaking

off the killing blows of the most powerful guns in the British fl eet.

Rand saw what was going to happen as clearly as if it were already history.

He turned and grabbed for the ship’s wheel, assisting the helmsman.

“Port, turn to port!” he cried.

It was an order that would never be carried out.

As the underwater creature approached, the swell of ocean rose around

them, taking the great battle cruiser to a height that should have allowed

the submerged giant to plow harmlessly beneath her. Instead, the

175- foot- long Warlord was rocked violently from beneath, struck so hard

that her main mast splintered and came crashing onto the deck, trapping

and killing Captain Peavey beneath the broken tonnage.

As Rand fell back he saw a great geyser of water knock free the four

main hatch covers below the quarterdeck, as the force of the collision

gutted the great vessel from below, smashing her thick keel as if it were

made of nothing more than twigs. The heavy cruiser heeled to her port

side as the ship’s wheel was still turned in that direction. Lieutenant Rand

fought his way to his feet as the great ship lost her battle for survival.

Engersoll watched in horror as the impact sent Sir Lionel to his death

when the stern of Warlord was thrown into the air. Suddenly the ship

rocked as the powder stores below erupted outward, splintering the oak

ribs of the vessel out in a frenzy of destruction. Engersoll was thrown into

the erupting sea.

Engersoll slipped under the water, trying to avoid one of the ship’s

spars as it crashed into the sea. All about him men struggled to stay afl oat

as Warlord, her back snapped like cordwood, broke in two with a death

sound horrible to the ears of seamen. She quickly slipped under, dragging

another fi fty men to their deaths.

Engersoll felt a hand grab his long coat and pull him up from a death

to which he had already resigned himself. As he spit out the warm water

that fl ooded his mouth, he saw it was Lieutenant Rand pulling him free

of the sea’s grip.

As he turned away to grab for a piece of fl oating debris, Engersoll saw

a sight that froze him into stillness. There, not two hundred feet away,

rode the great metal monster. It surfaced with a loud hiss of escaping air

and violent eruptions of water that rocketed skyward, creating a magical

and terrifying rainbow effect.

As the metal ship centered itself in the middle of dead men and debris,

Engersoll was shocked to see the giant tower sitting on the broad

expanse of metal that made up the unimaginable sight of the iron hull.

The great bubble window shaped like the eye of a demon was in front of

him, and as he looked skyward, he saw a man standing in the spiderwebbed

framed glass. Engersoll saw a man with long black hair almost as

WBRT: Prepress/Printer’s Proof

26 DAVID LYNN GOLEMON

wild as his blazing eyes as the seven- hundred- foot sea monster slowly

gasped a great sigh of air, and enormous bubbles rose to the surface of the

sea as the man and his metal monster vanished.

As Engersoll felt the suction of the vessel drag him down into the

depths of the gulf, the last vision of the earthly world he would ever see

were those eyes— those terrifying, hate- fi lled eyes.

APRIL 25, 1865

PENOBSCOT RIVER,

MAINE

The riverboat lay at anchor with the fog hiding her entire lower quarter,

the gentle lapping of the river against her low- slung hull being the only

sound. The many exterior and interior lights were ablaze in the thickening

fog. The captain of the Mary Lincoln looked forward from the port

bridge wing and saw nothing but the rising white veil of mist.

“Damn it all, sir, this is far too dangerous. What fool would be crazy

enough to navigate the river in this kind of chowder?”

The heavyset man to his left did not respond. He knew exactly what

kind of man would brave the Penobscot after dark and in heavy fog, but

why say anything until he had to? After all, the captain was frightened

enough.

The silent passenger pursed his lips and brushed at his gray beard.

The upper lip was freshly shaven and his greatcoat recently cleaned and

pressed. His top hat was placed upon his head, tilted forward so that most

who spoke with him could not view his dark eyes. It was for the better,

since most of the riverboat’s crew did not know his identity.

The United States secretary of war, Edwin M. Stanton, watched

deckhands pull taut the anchor ropes. They were in the grip of the deepest,

widening section of river as it neared the sea.

As Stanton peered into the fog, he thought he heard a shout from

across the way. He cringed and shook his head. Every man on this mission

was under orders not to make any noise. He strained to hear left and

then right, but there was no further disturbance. This damnable fog was

acting like an amplifi er, and that could doom them all.

“It seems we have caught a shift in current,” the captain said as he

ventured back inside the wheel house. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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