Ganymede (26 page)

Cly said, “Mine and Fang’s? No. Huey, yes. Troost?”

“I never been here before,” the engineer informed them. “Been around the Gulf a bit. Visited Galveston once, and Houston. Spent some time in Mobile. Somehow, never managed to land myself right here on the delta. Not till now.”

“Then, let me welcome you to my home city, and I hope you enjoy your stay.”

The rest of the way was filled with jovial chitchat of a similar nature, and gradually the tall grasses, half-paved roads, and spotty marshes gave way to more fully untamed wet, thick grasslands and roads that were not paved at all. The rumbling buggy drove them bumpily along the rutted dirt paths and beneath gigantic trees that oozed lacy gray curls of Spanish moss and peeling spirals of bark and vines. Though the day was young, the world became darker as they moved farther from the city’s hub; before long, the paths were so overgrown that the long elbows of cypress trees met above them, and the whole road was cast in shadow. Whereas before, they could hear the guttural hums of other buggies and the clattering buzz of the street rail cars moving back and forth between their stops, now the passengers heard nothing but the rollicking grumble of their own engine. And behind it, in shrieks and whispers, they picked up the calls of birds and the croaks of a million frogs, plus the zipping drone of clear-winged insects the size of bats.

Off to the side of the road, among the trees, the land grew less landlike and more swamplike.

“Where the hell are we?” wondered Kirby Troost aloud.

Norman Somers somehow overheard him, and he replied, “Over there, to the right, see? That’s the Bayou Piquant.”

“Where’s the lake?” Troost asked, louder than he needed to, given the superior quality of Mr. Somers’s hearing.

“On the other side of the bayou. No worries, my friends! I get you to Pontchartrain just fine, okay? We’ll be there soon.”

True to his word, Norman pulled off to the side of the road on the far side of what could reasonably be proclaimed a swamp. He dismounted from his seat and said, “One moment, fellas.” And Ruthie did her best not to look put out at being lumped in with the lads.

Somers disappeared behind a buttonbush slightly taller than himself. Sounds of rustling, heaving, shoving, scraping, and finally the steady
tick-tick
noise of a chain cranking clattered out from the spot where he’d vanished. He did not immediately emerge again, but a definite shift occurred—some strange motion that at first made so little sense that Cly and his crew members couldn’t be sure what they were seeing.

But as the seconds clicked by and the chain pattered on, seams appeared in the landscape.

What had seemed at first to be a pair of colossal bald cypress trees were lifted, and as if mounted on a track, they slid to the left, taking a significant chunk of the landscape with them. The buttonbush and two smaller members of the same species went jerkily scooting away as well, and the whole scene slipped as easily and thoroughly as the dropcloth background of a play—revealing a pair of large mirrors that served as the juncture of three unnatural lines. Their angles made the trunks, mosses, twigs, and vines repeat indefinitely, creating the perfect illusion of infinite swamp-space as long as they were touching.

Fang let out a low, impressed whistle.

Houjin’s mouth hung open.

Kirby Troost adjusted his hat and sniffed as if he encountered this kind of thing every day.

Ruthie gave a small, smug smile.

And Captain Cly said, “I’ll be damned.”

Ruthie asked in French, “You’ve never seen anything like it, have you?”

“Non,”
replied Cly.
“Jamais.”

If she was surprised to hear him reply in kind, she did not give him the satisfaction of showing it. Instead she said, in English this time, “Anderson Worth designed it. He grinds glass lenses for spectacles, and he says that mirrors are not so different, the way they change the light—and the things we see.”

Houjin found his voice and asked, “Where’s Mr. Worth now?” “Is he still here? I’d like to talk to him. I want to know how he made this!”

“You will meet him at the camp.”

Before any more questions could be generated, Norman emerged from behind a water oak with a mile-wide smile on his face and said, “This is something else,
bien sûr
?”

“It surely is, Mr. Somers!” Houjin exclaimed. “Can I come down there and look at it?”

“Right now? No, but maybe later if you want, okay? For now, we got to get out of the road and close this gate back up again.” With that, he climbed back onto the buggy’s driving seat and restarted the engine with a yank of its chain. “We can’t go leaving the way open for anyone to come inside. It keeps out the riffraff, because this is one of only two ways through the swamp to the camp.”

“What’s the other way?” Cly asked.

Ruthie answered. “You’ll find out later.”

Norman drove the machine past a certain line, deeper into the swamp than it felt the wheels could possibly turn, given the terrain … and he dismounted again, landing with a splash in a soupy mess that was not half so deep as it looked. He skipped back to a set of controls, large cranks and a locking lever, and as he moved, he walked on water.

“Another illusion?” Cly asked Ruthie.

She said,
“Oui.”

And when Somers returned, still smiling that toothsome grin, he said, “What we do, you see—is we drop down stones into the bayou, and then we build a road on top of them.”

“What do you use to make it?” Houjin asked.

“Oak boards, mostly. We paint them black, and just like that—” He snapped his fingers. “—they disappear, and for all anyone can tell, the bayou is as deep as the ocean. ’Cept for the cypress knees. Those don’t lie, but they fib.”

Another mile through what looked like open swamp—without any roads, without any signs, and without any hint of a path—and the way opened to something like a clearing, though it was not very well cleared.

It might have been better described as a settlement, for such it was, and a well-considered settlement at that.

Tree houses were lifted up above the soft, easily flooding ground. They were mounted six to eight feet up the trunks, and accessible with ladders; they were roofed with native flora and insulated with thick bundles of dried moss, so that when viewed from above, they would not rouse suspicion. Let the dirigibles scope and soar. Nothing at the bayou camp would give any scout a cause for alarm.

Large canopies, woven from palmetto leaves and carefully camouflaged, were strung up on willow poles in order to hide two rolling-crawlers either bought or stolen from the Texians. Another canopy covered boxes of munitions and supplies, which were stashed upon a platform that was raised off the bayou floor much like the houses—and yet a third canopy clearly functioned as a meeting place, and possibly a dining hall.

There beneath the verdant overhangs both natural and man-made, the swamp was a green-black place of beauty and shadow. It was a place of precision and caution, activity and consultation.

At a quick, casual count, Cly estimated perhaps two dozen men in the camp, the majority of them dark skinned and wearing Union uniform pieces in much the same way that the Texians wore their own garb—without any attention paid to the official lines of the garments. Everything was adapted to the thick, wet warmth that was trapped there in the swamp. Everything bowed to the dense heat and close-pressing smell of vegetation being soaked in its own rot—of new plants and freshly broken branches, of stringy grass filaments and gray-felt moss, and the leftover whiffs of catfish fried at an earlier meal but long since eaten.

Shirts were left open, and sleeves were rolled to elbows. But pants were worn down long, sometimes cinched at the ankles or tucked into boots. Cly understood. There were places where a man didn’t dare walk with his ankles unprotected, regardless of the temperature, for fear of stinging insects, snakes, and thorns.

From the corner of his eye, he watched Houjin stick a finger into the mandarin collar of his shirt and wipe away the dampness that collected there. Then the boy swiped at the back of his neck, at the place where his ponytail hung over the collar, and his hand came away wet with perspiration there, too.

The buggy was lured up beneath yet another canopy, which was not otherwise covering anything. It was guided into place by a thickly muscled man with skin that gleamed with humidity and sweat, and hair that grew into a soft black halo. Using both hands, he helped Norman Somers park the machine in the perfect position, where every edge, bumper, corner, and cranny would be covered by the net of manipulated foliage.

“Welcome to camp!” Somers announced. “Everybody be careful getting down, you hear? And stay to the walkways when you can. The earth is half made of mud, my friends. Ruthie, love—you especially. Shall I help you down?”

“Mr. Somers, I am always happy for your assistance,” she said, with a bat of her eyelashes.

When everyone had left the buggy and no one was standing in the mud, the man who’d guided them into the shelter said, “Folks, I’m Rucker Little, and I’m second in command here after Deaderick Early. You,” he said to Cly, “must be the captain Josephine’s been telling me about.”

“Yes, yes, I am,” he said, extending a hand and receiving a shake. “I’d ask how you knew, but Ruthie’s already said that my description is going around.”

“Tall son of a bitch, that’s what Josie told us,” he said. “And this must be the rest of your crew?”

His question called for introductions, and these were made.

By the time the captain had finished, two more men had approached, and these were identified as Chester Fishwick and Honeyfolk Rathburn. Like Rucker Little, they had served in the Union’s colored troops, and they carried themselves like men who’d seen the inside of a military operation.

Once everyone was formally acquainted, Chester Fishwick said, “I can take you to Josephine, if you like. She’s with her brother, in his place. There’s not much room for the whole gang in there, but I expect Rucker would be happy to give the rest of you folks a tour of the camp. When you’re finished speaking with Miss Early, we’ll take you out to the
Ganymede
so you can see it for yourself.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Cly said, and seeing that everyone agreed to this arrangement, he followed after Chester, who led him up to one of the tree houses closest to the lake’s edge—though he did not realize how close it was until he’d scaled the ladder. From halfway up it, he could tell that they were in fact quite near to Pontchartrain, no more than fifty yards away from one of its banks.

The ladder creaked beneath Cly’s weight, the willow wood flexing and springing as he climbed from rung to rung behind Chester Fishwick, who scaled the thing swiftly, like a man who did so every day and no longer needed to think about the particulars of hanging on, stepping precisely, or watching his head. At the top, the captain hauled himself over the edge and into a cabin that seemed larger on the inside than the outside would have led him to expect.

Again contrary to its outer appearance, the cabin was not remotely rustic. If anything, it looked like the headquarters of an advanced operation. Texian manuals and tools were shelved and mounted on the walls; a large chalkboard was covered with mathematical formulas and maps; and high-grade military guns were racked beside the door, their ammunition boxed beside them in crates with precise stencils detailing the contents. Mosquito curtains hung from the ceiling, but were tidily bundled above a row of three cots, or draped across the open windows to function as screens.

On the edge of one cot sat a man with wide, strong cheekbones and skin the color of coffee. His hair was long and braided tightly into rows, and his chest and shoulder were swaddled in a bandage fashioned from clean cotton strips.

Beside him on a small camp stool sat Josephine Early, looking not remarkably different from the last time Cly had set eyes upon her. She rose from the camp stool and her brother—for the resemblance was not overwhelming, but decidedly present—shifted his weight as if he’d like to do the same. But she stalled him with a hand upon his unbound shoulder.

Ten years had left her body fuller by perhaps that same number of pounds, as if she’d grown into her age. It looked good on her, Cly thought. And he tried not to think any harder about other things that had looked good on her, in other times.

Now she wore a dress that was out of place among the camp full of men; it was too fancy by at least five dollars, and its fabric was meant to shimmer in a ballroom rather than perch upon a stool. It was easy to see that she still wore whatever she’d arrived in. She’d tucked up the lace on her sleeves and traded her pretty boots for a brown set of workman’s footwear—though the boots, as well as a beaded bag and a light brocade jacket were folded as carefully as if they were in a shop-front window. They rested underneath the next cot.

Before the captain could summon any words, Josephine said to him, “Cly, I can’t believe you came.”

“Well, you asked me to.”

“I guess this isn’t exactly what you expected.”

“Not exactly.”

“But, you’re here.”

“Yeah, I am.”

The man on the cot said, “I’m Deaderick Early—and I don’t believe we met, last time you were passing through New Orleans.”