Ganymede (6 page)

On the one hand, he managed an operation that peddled poison to willing takers. On the other, he’d done an admirable job of holding the underground together while leaving the doornails in peace. Therefore, complaining was kept to a superstitious minimum, as if Yaozu might change his mind or vanish, only to be replaced with someone worse if too much ill were spoken of him.

“Strange persons such as ourselves,” Cly recalled out loud.

He resolved to await the list with an open mind and an open pocket, and he approached the great vault door.

From the outside, it looked like the portal of an enormous bank—which it had been, once upon a time. The spinning lock jutted like the spokes of a wheel, and though the combination to this lock had been long-since lost or forgotten, it had been rigged to open to a different key. Now, when a visitor wished to come inside, all he had to do was pull a lever hidden beneath the panel. Unless the door had been barricaded from within, it would open with a tug.

Cly lifted the panel and pulled the lever with its rubber grip and rusting hinge. With a creak and a low moan, the heavy door swung out, and Cly descended the uneven steps down into Briar’s living quarters in a basement beneath a basement, two cool, secure stories deep underground.

  
Three

Night at the Café du Monde was illuminated with strings of hanging lanterns anchored to gas lamps on pillars; candles in jars made the small tables bright enough for beignets and coffee blended with chicory root. These small bubbles of light pocked the darkness and gave the impression of privacy in public, a place where people might be seen, but they might not be observed. It was never quiet, always bustling with the kitchen fryers and workers calling back and forth, taking and filling orders. The café always hummed with the noise from the river off to one side, and the street on the other—ships’ horns and paddle wheels, horse carts and singing, drunken partiers, the patrols and bickering of soldiers, and the music of a dozen bands playing for their supper within half as many blocks.

Josephine Early was careful to keep the lace from her gloves away from the candles, and the napkin in her lap was covered in powdered sugar—but not a drip of coffee. She was joined by Marylin Quantrill and Ruthie Doniker, both of whom nibbled and sipped along with her. Together they chatted about virtually nothing, and at length, until the four slowly sobering Texians at the table beside them finally rallied and staggered back to their barracks.

Marylin raised the white mug to her lips, blew at the steamy mists of the still-warm beverage, and said, “We aren’t meeting much luck at the airyard, ma’am. Lots of fellows are interested in us, but only for the usual reasons.”

“And we aren’t finding useful foreigners, either.” Ruthie, darker and by some accounts prettier, sighed and discreetly adjusted her bodice. She was thin as a waterbird, and twice as graceful. “Nothing but Rebels and Texians. And a very pretty Spaniard, but he wasn’t a pilot. Perhaps a new customer, though?” She lifted her mug and an eyebrow at the same time, and hid her smile behind her coffee.

“A new one for you?” Josephine asked. “Be careful, love.”

“A new one for me, maybe. He is very beautiful, and the Spanish … they are almost as easy as the French in these things.”

Marylin asked, “What about you, ma’am? Have you found anyone to fly for us?”

Josephine wrapped both hands around her drink, even though the night was almost hot and the beverage’s steam might’ve been too much for a woman who wasn’t accustomed to it. “I sent off a telegram to a man who might help us, if he’s willing to make the journey.”

“For you? I cannot imagine a man would say no,” Ruthie insisted.

“Hainey said no.”

“But he had, how would you say?
Extenuating circumstances
.” Ruthie’s French was stronger than her English, but she practiced at every opportunity, working to expand her vocabulary. She said
extenuating
with the accents in all the wrong places. She was a voracious reader who had seen the word spelled, but never heard it spoken.

Josephine corrected the pronunciation with context, rather than rebuke. “This other pilot comes with extenuating circumstances of his own. He’s terribly far away, for one thing. And for another, I suspect he does not wish to see me.”

“Why?” Marylin frowned.

“We haven’t spoken in many years.” That was all she offered. “It doesn’t matter. We need a pilot, and he’s a good one. If he’ll come, we’ll be lucky to have him. But it’s only been a few days, and the telegram had quite a distance to travel. I had to send it through Mr. Hainey, and wait for the message to reach the Washington Territory.”

“Washington?” Marylin gasped. “That’s practically the other side of the world!”

“Practically, yes. Realistically, it’s only two or three thousand miles.”

Ruthie’s eyes narrowed with cunning, and a hint of mirth. “He must have a very impressive ship.”

“Pirates usually
do
have good equipment, and last I knew of him, that was how he earned his living. And I know you don’t like pirates,” she cut off Marylin before the protest could be mounted, “but we can trust Cly if we have to.”

To return to their previous conversation, Marylin asked, “Is he
perfect
?”

Josephine considered the question. “No, he isn’t perfect. He’s just about the biggest man you’ll ever lay eyes on—if he hadn’t gone into raiding, he could’ve had a career in a circus, easy as you please. He could’ve been the world’s most amazing strong man.”

Ruthie noted, “A very big man would not be good. The craft we need him to pilot … it was not made with a giant in mind.”

“No, but he’ll fit. He was always good at working around his size, and unless he’s collected sufficient money to custom-build his own ship, I expect he’s still flying in cramped quarters today.”

Marylin pondered aloud, suddenly sounding more optimistic. “You said he’s from Washington, ma’am. He’s not a Rebel or a Texian, but not a Yankee either—so the airyard will let him come and go, and that’s something.”

“Furthermore, Cly never cared about the war, and he’s friends with Hainey, so he isn’t in a rush to kidnap runaway negroes home to the Rebs, not even for the money they offer these days.”

After another sip, Ruthie said, “Good to know he’s not
that
kind of pirate.”

“I wouldn’t employ
that
kind of pirate. It’s a goddamn ridiculous thing, too,” the madam complained, picking at the edge of a beignet. “Except for Alabama and Mississippi, there’s no difference between free coloreds and the rest anymore. It’s nothing but spiteful, Georgia putting up bounties and insisting on their return.”

“But, ma’am, wasn’t Hainey one of the Macon Madmen?”

“Oh, even if Hainey weren’t a bona fide crook, they’d want him back regardless. Nothing but spite,” she repeated. “I just can’t abide it. Anyway, Captain Cly isn’t that sort.”

“I hope he decides
soon
. It’d take him a week just to get here, if he’s that far away—and if his ship is half as good as we could hope. And how much longer until you-know-who wants his report?” Ruthie meant Major Daniel Alcock, who intended to make a final decision on the
Ganymede
project within the next weeks.

“End of the month. I could probably beg a few extra days through the start of May, but I’d rather not have to. It’d look desperate.”

Softly, Marylin asked, “Ma’am, are we desperate yet?”

Josephine bought herself a few seconds by taking a bite of beignet and savoring its fluffy sweetness. She washed it down with coffee and replied, “No. Not yet. But if Cly doesn’t respond within the week, I’ll have to assume he isn’t coming—and
then
we’ll be desperate.”

She opened her mouth to add something, but closed it again when she spied two men walking toward the café. They were speaking in low tones, their heads too close together for either of them to be up to any good, and they both wore the brown cotton “summer” uniform of the Republic of Texas.

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t look now,” she murmured. “I mean it—
don’t look
.”

“Who is it?” Ruthie wanted to know. She lifted her mug and pretended to drink—while she only whispered from behind it.

Josephine did the same. “I’ll be damned if it’s not Colonel Betters and Lieutenant Cardiff.”

Not only were they two of the highest-ranking Texians stationed in the city, but Lieutenant Cardiff was one of the investigators leading the search for the
Ganymede
. It was an open secret. Any Union spy or sympathizer knew about Cardiff and his wheedling into the affair of the “missing” craft. His name had become a watchword for the guerrillas in the bayou and out at the lake. They knew he was looking, and knew he was coming.

For the time being, all they could do was hide from him.

The look on Marylin’s face said she was exerting superhuman willpower to keep from turning around. “What are they doing?” she asked.

“Conspiring.”

Ruthie said, “They are going the wrong direction, yes? Barracks are back the other way.”

“Hush.” Josephine lowered her eyes and leaned forward to touch Ruthie’s arm. She laughed lightly, and the other ladies joined in for the sake of show. Still wearing her pretend smile, she said in an ordinary voice—in case anyone should overhear them after all—“Perhaps you two had better run home without me. I have some business to attend to before I settle in for the night.”

“Ma’am, are you sure?”

“Oh, yes. Besides, we left Hazel in charge. She does all right when things are slow, but she’ll want your help if business picks up.”

Marylin and Ruthie understood, but they didn’t like it. Marylin fretted with her coffee mug and whispered, “But, ma’am, they’re headed—” She could only guess, since she was forbidden to turn and see for herself. But they weren’t coming toward her, so they must be walking away, in the other direction. “—down to the river, I think.”

“Then that’s where I’m going, too. Chins up, ladies.” She slipped her hand down to her left thigh and patted a bulge that no one could see. “Little Russia and I will be just fine.”

She rose from her seat and placed her half-empty mug on the table, then folded her napkin and put it beside her plate. Nodding coolly at her companions, she set out in the wake of the two Texian officers, who had now passed beyond her sight … but Marylin was right. Josephine knew where they were going. There was nowhere else to go, not if they’d taken that turn she’d seen—down the steps and away from the city lights.

Down to the river.

Josephine always made a point to wear quiet shoes. Even if she sported the most fashionable boots in the whole city, she’d glue wool felt to the bottoms and replace it as needed. It was a small precaution, but never had it served her quite so well as when she stepped along the damp-swollen stairs and along planked walkways that flanked the river’s banks between the piers.

Her dress rustled as a matter of course, but it was the sort of sound that was easily lost in the Quarter, beside the water most especially. The noise of her skirts blended seamlessly into the soft rushing of the Old Man as he worked his way to the Gulf. Her passage was masked by the calls and wings of night birds, and the dipping paddles of rum-runners coming in for the night, unwilling to crank the diesel engines on their small, flat crafts. It was lost in the sound of low, loose waves lapping up against pilings and the broad sides of the larger boats that were moored along the way.

She followed the Texians’ footsteps and the grumbling trail of their conversation—too distant to be heard with any clarity—down along the rickety wharves and alongside warehouses that no one examined too closely—not even the Republicans, unless they had strict orders to do so. And even then, only in the daytime.

This was a dangerous place, dangerous to any given group of men—armed and strong and unencumbered by corsetry or ankle-length skirts. No one knew this better than Josephine, and no one liked it less.

As the city glow was eaten by distance, and the banks, and the taller buildings that cast devious shadows thicker than ink, the only light to be seen bounced off the river in splintered fragments and skinny ribbons. It sparkled along the currents, cast by the lights on mercantile ships and riverboats chugging through the night, or sometimes by a quickly shuttered lantern or a smattering of torches left lit but fading at the edges of civilization.