Full Fathom Five Read online

  Having allowed Marcel to slip back into the waters, de Lôme pleaded fatigue and Asha took over their impromptu tour for a time. Trailing behind her, the Southerners were led along the paths of the simple but bountiful garden the three maintained. Asha showed them the simple hearth she and her father used to fire their clayware at need, and described the clay deposits found in the cliffs not far north.

  The time passed only too quickly, and Traveaux was the first to make mention of it. “Mademoiselle, we must return to our ship before dark, or they will fear for our safety.” Rakestraw nodded and lent his agreement. Delacroix wondered what was in Traveaux’s mind, for concern over his shipmates was the last thing imaginable when it came to the ice-veined Traveaux. Still, he was correct: the time had flown.

  Asha guided them back to the tree-hut in which they had dined so they could make their farewells to Henri de Lôme. It seemed the older gentleman had rested in their absence, for his eyes were sharp and alert as they thanked him for his hospitality. “Bien, it was most pleasant to entertain such excellent guests. We have so few visitors here.” Something in the way he said it struck Delacroix oddly, as if once more seeing a glint of a golden torus through dense vegetation without truly understanding its nature. Giving their assent to de Lôme’s insistence that they should come see him again ere the ship departed the island, Traveaux reversed his earlier position and took up the lead as the five men retraced their steps. Delacroix lingered only a few moments behind, for there was one more thing he wished to do before departing.

  “It was a great pleasure meeting you,” he said softly to Asha de Lôme, taking her hand once more. Was it his imagination, or did she favor him with a smile more genuine than she had the others? “Whatever the travails that brought me here, I bless them for having spent this time with you.”

  She cast her eyes down, not demure but clearly unused to such compliments. “It is true we have few visitors,” she replied at last, even as the other Southerners were moving off into the trees and out of sight. “I did not feel the lack until now.” Her lips worked, searching for the words, but she settled for a smile and pressed his hand warmly. “I hope we see you again, Monsieur Delacroix.”

  With that he had to be content.

  Delacroix hastened to catch up with the others, but his mind was so thoroughly preoccupied with thoughts of Mademoiselle de Lôme that he almost collided with the broad back of Captain Rakestraw. The four men who preceded him were stopped a short distance out of sight of the de Lôme’s tree-dwellings and Delacroix had a moment of consternation at the obstruction. He was about to utter some wry comment when he saw the reason they had stopped.

  Calhoun stood blocking the path.

  The Irishman had not grown more couth for his absence. Wild red hair stuck out in all directions from his head and face, and his clothing was, if anything, more disheveled than ever. But it was his eyes that arrested Delacroix: blue and staring, they burned with something more than anger. As he watched, the man’s left eye twitched spasmodically, then did so again. He did not seem aware of it.

  Casting a peripheral glance at Traveaux as he sidled between Rakestraw and Stephan, Delacroix stepped to the front of the group. His arrival seemed to stir something in Calhoun, for at this moment he bristled, clenching his massive fists tightly enough the sound of popping joints was clearly audible above the distant sea-swell.

  “Ye’ll keep awa’ from Miss de Lôme.”

  The voice was low and dark and filled with menace. Delacroix wondered if the man had guessed the reason for Delacroix’s own absence as the group left the de Lôme’s dwelling to return to the ship. Or perhaps it was not focused solely at him?

  “Monsieur de Lôme cares for his daughter most ably,” Delacroix replied steadily. “We enjoyed our brief visit with him, and are returning to our ship now.” Perhaps that would allay the man’s overprotective streak—or was it possessiveness?

  Calhoun visibly clenched his jaw. “And ye’ll sail on the first tide, if ye know what’s best for ye. Just keep awa’ from here. Keep awa’ from her.” His expression could have ground stones to sand.

  Delacroix took a slow step forward, then another. Behind him he heard the others beginning to follow and he let the sound push him forwards, ever closer to Calhoun. The nearer he came, the more the red-haired man grew to resemble a steam boiler about to burst at the rivets. Delacroix stepped past him, waiting for a blow that never came. Still, as he passed by he looked into Calhoun’s blue eyes and saw behind that spasmodic facial tic a barely-constrained rage almost indistinguishable from madness.

  The journey back to the Opelousa was made in silence.

  *****

  “Henri de Lôme? Are you certain?”

  It was hours later and the return of the five explorers to the Opelousa had resulted in no little comment from their shipmates. This was especially true of Dahlgren, who by his own account had spent the day in frustration: “I am no carpenter, to make spare parts out of what Nature leaves lying about on the ground. Metal does not grow on trees!” It seemed the stress on the engine had worn out several key linkages and replacing them was all but impossible—unlike the carpentry to shore up the bow, the work of which was already well underway.

  The four men had gathered in Rakestraw’s quarters, the largest and most spacious on the ship, to discuss the engineer’s news of the repairs. Talk had quickly shifted to the explorers’ discoveries, and Dahlgren was keenly interested almost in every detail. At the name of their host, however, he had drawn up sharply like a lock-bolt about to burst from its housing.

  “Henri de Lôme! My god, man! Could it truly be?” Dahlgren seemed beside himself with amazement and incredulity.

  “How do you know the name?” Delacroix was more curious to learn why Traveaux seemed so interested in the man, but wondered if perhaps he might goad the taciturn agent into some revelation if Dahlgren spoke first.

  In this the engineer required little provocation. “I suppose it’s little wonder you’ve not heard of him, not being engineers, but Henri de Lôme is quite famed among my colleagues at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. By all accounts he is the father of steam engines in their application to modern naval engineering! Why, he practically invented the ironclad ship-of-the-line forty years and more ago. Do you remember, Delacroix, a ship by the name of La Gloire? The first French ironclad, and a triumph of design—though out of date now, I suppose.” He looked enraptured with the thought. “Ah, if it really is de Lôme I should very much like to meet him. I’d not heard of it but I’d assumed he would be long passed on by now. To think, meeting him here in the middle of nowhere!”

  Traveaux had listened to Dahlgren with poorly concealed condescension. At this, he finally spoke. “In the middle of nowhere is exactly where one would think to meet him, Dahlgren.”

  “Eh? What do you mean?”

  “Officially, he retired from the French navy almost twenty years ago. In truth, he fled the country, stealing away from the shipyards of Brest in the dead of night. It was even rumored he was wanted on charges of treason, but the nature of the warrant is unknown. It was covered up when he slipped through their hands.” Traveaux folded his own. “And now, here he is: in exile, on an island that does not appear on the most recent charts—an island he calls Oubliée, the Island of Forgetting. Exactly as one might expect.”

  Dahlgren looked incredulous. Delacroix wondered how so brilliant an engineer could be as dense as the man sometimes seemed. “Look here, Dahlgren. We told you about the telescoping rod he used to stun those fishes. There were other signs as well that this is no mere castaway. He did not somehow accidentally capsize near this island; for god’s sake, man, it is surrounded by a fog bank that will not disperse, and our compasses have not ceased spinning since we came here! It is clear this man, whoever he may be, has knowledge and resources of which we can only guess. And that is why we must be cautious.”

  “Cautious?” Dahlgren looked at Delacroix as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “You
tell me to be cautious, when there is so much we might learn from this man?”

  Traveaux spoke softly. “If he could be convinced to come with us, he could single-handedly turn the tide of the war.”

  Delacroix had no doubt that was true, though he had kept the thought unconscious until Traveaux spoke it aloud. He felt a momentary pang of disloyalty that that had not been his own first thought, but at the same time he felt a kind of admiration for de Lôme’s ingenious Caribbean refuge. Given the chance, would he himself leave behind the war-torn South and live in pleasant exile, far from home? The thought troubled him, and with an effort he turned his mind away from Asha. Aloud he said, “True, but can we convince him to go on to France with us?”

  Dahlgren looked triumphant. “Of course we can! With the goodwill assurances we have received from the French it would be a simple diplomatic negotiation for the Confederacy to bring him back with us, surely?”

  Traveaux held his gaze steady but his tone could have driven nails. “I very much doubt that, Dahlgren. But for the moment, we need him. We cannot make the journey across the Atlantic without a fully functioning steam engine we can rely upon. You have already indicated you cannot repair it with what we have available to us.” Dahlgren looked as if he wanted to launch into another extended explanation but Traveaux spoke on inexorably. “He has the knowledge to aid us, and I think it quite likely he has the resources as well. For instance, I cannot imagine that during our visit any of you noticed the most obvious thing of all.” He glanced around the table and looked satisfied at what he saw: Rakestraw dumbfounded, Dahlgren on tenterhooks, and Delacroix quietly waiting for him to speak.

  “If de Lôme, a near-legendary naval architect, sailed here from France twenty years ago…where is his ship?”

  Part Three: Ariéle

  From the journal of Julian Delacroix (written in cipher)

  We landed at de Lôme’s cove the next morning.

  Rakestraw had finally agreed with Traveaux: we required a fully-functioning steam engine for the crossing to France. Our mission, and the hopes of the Confederacy, rested upon it. He ordered the anchor weighed and we slowly sailed the ship around the northern end of L’île Oubliée with depth-soundings shouted from the longboat. From an anchorage a few hundred yards off shore of the cove we rowed the longboat toward the white sand beach, and I tried to ignore the presentiment of danger I felt when I looked at Stephan and Bastian, who had once more been chosen to come with us. In their eyes I read a poorly-hidden glee that filled me with dread.

  I knew the purpose for which they accompanied us ashore, of course. Traveaux had cornered me in my cabin late the night before and let it be known in no uncertain terms: de Lôme must come with us to France. He had even proposed a suitable leverage over the man—his daughter. If we possessed the only thing Henri truly treasured, Traveaux insisted, we could compel him to come with us peacefully and help design ships that would crush the Union ironsides and win the war. Win the war, he kept repeating.

  I was no longer so certain of the rightness of our cause as I once was. “I will not countenance any plan that will treat a gentlewoman roughly, Traveaux. You must promise me she will come to no harm.”

  In his pause before replying I read everything I needed to know of his answer. “Of course not,” he said. I knew him for a lying Creole dog, but I could not gainsay him, or I would be floating face down in the blue Caribbean waters while he did what he would with Asha. For the moment, at least, I had to act the part he expected of me.

  So it was that Traveaux had brought Stephan and Bastian along for extra muscle—and, I supposed, to ensure I suffered no cold feet. Once the longboat gained the beach, Traveaux and Dahlgren followed me to the trees and we hailed de Lôme. He came down directly, appearing unsurprised to see us again so soon.

  “Gentlemen. How may I assist you?”

  Dahlgren took it upon himself to preempt my carefully rehearsed plea. “Mister de Lôme, what a great honor to meet you. I am William Dahlgren, an engineer sailing with the Opelousa. I would enjoy nothing more than discussing our shared interest in naval architecture until both of us were hoarse, but in truth I came because I need your help. The linkages on the Opelousa’s steam engine have become damaged and we lack the capability to repair them. We cannot make the journey across the Atlantic without them. Might you be able to help us?”

  Traveaux said nothing, leaving it to me to fill in for Dahlgren’s inadequate polish. “Monsieur de Lôme, we would not ask save that you offered us your assistance yesterday, and an expert of your caliber was an unlooked-for boon to those in our dire position. Pray forgive our presumption, but your kind assistance would be deeply appreciated, and never forgotten.”

  De Lôme’s kindly eyes crinkled at their corners as he considered our plea. I wondered, then, if he would decline, and leave us unable to complete our mission. At last he spoke, but what he said was a great surprise to me. “Monsieur Delacroix, might I speak privately with your for a moment?”

  I agreed immediately, and much to the chagrin of Dahlgren and the tight-leashed wrath of Traveaux, I climbed the stairs behind our host and sat across from him at the table where we had shared a meal only the day before. He poured a cold-brewed tisane into a glass for me and poured one also for himself. I raised my glass to him and he to me, and we drank. It was pleasant, tasting of some exotic fruit. After a short time, he spoke.

  “I came this place to forget the world and raise my daughter in peace, monsieur. It may surprise you to learn, but I left France many years ago because I had tired of war and the incalculable waste of lives and property it brings—to say nothing of the untold human misery it brings to the earth. Despite our isolation here, I know something of the conflicts that wrack your nation at present. Though they grieve me deeply, I would not willingly involve myself in them for any reason; no, not even to repair your ship—which, as your engineer companion guessed, is well within my capabilities.” He paused, taking a small sip of tisane to wet his throat. “I have known many government agents in my time, and though your engineer companion Dahlgren no doubt thinks of little beyond what he might learn from me of the Ars Mechanica, I can conjure something of Traveaux’s larger intentions for me. The ironclads were a wondrous invention turned to such evil purposes as I cannot endure long to think upon. I will not become the author of further horrors, sir, than those already unleashed upon the world because of my Art.”

  He had seen through Dahlgren and Traveaux with remarkable clarity. I wondered if he knew my mind as well as he had guessed theirs. “Monsieur de Lôme, is that why you remain here, in exile on an island enshrouded by perpetual mist and which causes compasses to be perpetually confounded?”

  He nodded briefly, and I sensed he did not wish to speak on such subjects but found I could not resist it. “Are these marvels achieved by the large metal ring we saw atop this island? Wherever did you find so much gold wire?”

  Once more he nodded and sighed. “I came to this place seeking a refuge, a land where I could be untroubled by the world and those who bring suffering to others through technology. I knew there were those who would not cease to seek for me, and others who might stumble unwittingly upon my home, as you did. I constructed the device you speak of to steer such folk away from this place without harm, and it has done so admirably for many years. And as for the wire, it is a simple matter—I was not the first to find this island. One of my predecessors on the island seems to have been a rather successful corsair of the Spanish Main, for I found a considerable trove of Spanish doubloons hidden in a cave. I have no use for money, not here, but gold is a wondrous metal for one who knows aught of the workings of electricity.”

  I considered him, this brilliant man, forced into exile by those who used his inventions for ill. “Your tale brings me great sadness, monsieur. That a mind such as yours should be immured here, far from where it might enjoy both the recognition it deserves and the opportunity to do good for many, is an inequity for which the world must bear the co
st. I will not ask you to come away with us—not to France, not to the South, not to any other part of the world. But there are no innocents in war, monsieur; if you will not help us, it will contribute to the suffering and deaths of many through your inaction, and many more than would perish if our errand succeeds. I seek to bring an end to this war, but I must have the tools in order to accomplish that. Such a tool awaits us across the Atlantic.”

  His blue eyes were troubled, but I had made a point he could not refute. “What tools do you seek there that would avail your cause?”

  I knew there was nothing for it but to take him into my confidence. Strangely, I now felt less compulsion to remain discreet than I once had. “What I am about to tell you is a state secret of the Confederate States of America, sir. I trust you will keep the confidence I am about to share with you.”

  He chuckled softly. “My views on war quite apart, you might have noticed we are quite isolated here on L’île Oubliée. I will keep your confidence. Say on.”

  “The Union holds all the ships of war on this side of the Atlantic. With them, they blockade our ports and bring misery to my people. We sail with Confederate gold to build ironclad ships in France, that we may lift the blockade and win freedom and peace for the Confederacy.”

  De Lôme sighed deeply. “I feared it might be so. That my work should be so used for destruction is a thought that haunts my nights, Julian Delacroix. Would I had never set my hand to learn the Art!” He shook his head. “But that burden is mine to bear, here in exile. If I must choose whether to be damned for action or inaction, I must choose the latter. Thus I would still decline your request—but for one thing.”