Caleb Carr - The Angel Of Darkness

“Fists’ll suit me fine, sir,” Cyrus answered with a smile. “I owe a couple of those Dusters a few good licks.”

“And you’ll get them in, I don’t doubt it for an instant. You know, we must go a few rounds in the ring, someday, you and I!” Curling up his arms, Mr. Roosevelt took a few light jabs in Cyrus’s direction. “It would be fine sport, don’t you think?”

“I’m at your disposal, sir,” Cyrus replied, bowing a little and still smiling.

“First rate,” Mr. Roosevelt answered. “That’s bully. Well, now, we’re expected at the yard! The crews have been alerted and are standing by. Everyone prepared? Good! I have a carriage waiting, Doctor, one that can accommodate most of us, and perhaps the rest can travel in one of yours.”

“I fear cabs will be necessary,” the Doctor answered, “as we’ve had no time to retrieve our horses from the boarding stables.”

“Well, then, who’s to ride with the lieutenant and myself?” Mr. Roosevelt asked. “What about you, Stevie? Like to hear more stories about the wondrous weapons Lieutenant Kimball dreams of loosing on the world?”

I looked quickly and eagerly to the Doctor, who nodded, knowing, I think, how much I did want to go with the navy man, and why. The discussion of weapons and destruction, far from thrilling me in any boyish way, was speaking to a dark, determined desire, one what’d been planted by Kat’s death and had been growing all day: the hope that we might finally be able to strike at Libby Hatch in a way what even she wouldn’t be prepared for.

“Yes, sir,” I told Mr. Roosevelt. “I’d like that.”

“Good! Kimball, I appoint young Taggert your aide for this operation. Don’t underestimate him-several officers of this city’s police force made that mistake, and some of them still can’t walk correctly.” As Mr. Roosevelt turned to the Doctor, his expression grew more serious. “I hope you’ll ride with us, too, Doctor,” he said; then he looked to Miss Howard. “And you, Sara, as well-for I confess I’d like to know more about this devilish woman we’re chasing.”

With the thick gray layers of storm clouds what’d hung over the city that day now breaking up into separate black clusters that stood out boldly against a moonlit sky, we all filed out of the house and moved to the corner of Second Avenue, followed by Mr. Roosevelt’s big landau, what had its two canopies pulled up against the weather. Once we’d secured two hansoms for Mr. Moore, the detective sergeants, and Cyrus, the rest of us got into the landau behind Mr. Roosevelt and Lieutenant Kimball, and before long conversation was filling the roomy shell under the canopies. The Doctor, Miss Howard, and Mr. Roosevelt spoke about Libby Hatch and the case in quiet tones what showed consideration for my feelings, consideration I appreciated greatly. As for the amiable Lieutenant Kimball, he seemed so determined to keep me entertained that I wondered if maybe Mr. Roosevelt-who obviously knew at least the basic facts of what I’d been through that day-hadn’t given him instructions to try to give my spirits a lift. If so, the lieutenant followed his orders admirably. From a description of all the wondrous things what he expected to take place on the seas in the next ten or twenty years, he moved on to tales of foreign lands he’d served in, and of the strange people he’d met there: stories that, while they couldn’t and didn’t really cheer me up as such, at least diverted my attention from the bleak thoughts what were still standing ready to flood back into my soul.

We took the Brooklyn Bridge across the lower portion of the East River, then made a hard left and traveled along the waterfront until we reached Wallabout Bay and the entrance to the great maze of dry docks, piers, cranes, railroad tracks, ordnance docks, foundries, and construction sheds what was the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The place was pretty much a New York institution, dating back to the beginning of the century and as familiar to natives of the city as any part of the harbor; but for some reason it looked very different to me that night. Maybe it was just my mood, I thought to myself, or maybe it was visiting the place in the company of the man who, for all practical purposes, was the most important naval official in the country at that moment. But very soon I realized that neither of these was the real explanation:

It was the lights-there were lights on everywhere and, underneath the lights, scores of men hard at work. All this at near ten o'clock on a Monday night. And as I noticed the men, I noticed what it was that they were working on: armored warships-some of them half built, some near ready to sail, all of them big and impressive-were crammed into every slip and corner of the joint.

“An awful lot of building going on out here, Mr. Roosevelt,” I said, watching fire tenders and riveters holler to each other and toss red-hot plugs of steel through the black night.

“Yes,” Mr. Roosevelt answered, looking around like a kid on Christmas morning. “We launched the Maine from here two years ago, and there have been several others since. Many more to come, as well!”

Out of the corner of my eye I caught the Doctor giving Miss Howard a look: a quiet reminder of how important it was that Mr. Roosevelt not find out just whose baby it was we were trying to rescue or why we’d been forced to go about it the way we had. The daughter of a high Spanish official, missing; that same official beating his wife and not seeming to care if he never saw his child again; the lies about the case what’d been issued by the Spanish consulate; suddenly all these things seemed very connectable to the humming activity in the navy yard, in a way what could have spelled bigger trouble than even we’d experienced lately.

The torpedo boats what Mr. Roosevelt and Lieutenant Kimball had spoken of were tucked away along one concrete wharf at the far end of the yard-and quite a collection they were, too. Not all that much bigger than the steam yachts and launches what generally shot around the harbor, the boats had much more powerful engines what required two and even three smokestacks; at the same time, they were much sleeker in design than the private and commercial vessels, having a graceful bullet shape what made it seem impossible that they were actually plated with steel. Not that there was much plating on them-as Mr. Roosevelt’d said, the boats sacrificed safety for speed, and they could go better than thirty miles an hour when required. Each boat appeared to be manned by just twenty-five or thirty men, and at various spots on their decks they carried the deadly weapons what gave them their names: torpedoes, fourteen-foot steel cylinders filled with compressed air and tipped with powerful explosive devices. The air, when it was released, shot the missiles on their way out of the boats’ torpedo tubes and through the water for upwards of hundreds of yards: plenty of time for the fast little boats what delivered them to get clear of the resulting explosions. All in all, a very ingenious bit of inventing, one what stood in very great contrast to the enormous battleships with their huge artillery turrets what were being built in other parts of the yard. It would certainly be interesting to see, I thought to myself, if the battleships of other countries would one day be laid low by the same kind of fast, hard-hitting little craft as we were on our way to board that night.

Along with the crews of the torpedo boats, there were another twenty or so sailors lined up on the wharf, men who looked like they’d been specially selected for the job ahead of us. I’d seen a lot of brawling seamen in my day and in my neighborhood, and watched more than one dive and concert saloon get dismantled when a group of them were taken by some fast-talking “dancer” or quick-handed faro dealer; but no bunch I’d ever come across could’ve matched those boys what were waiting for us at the yard that night. Muscle-bound, scarred, and obviously itching for a genuine, top-drawer brawl, the men appeared to be having a tough time controlling their high spirits enough to stand to attention when Lieutenant Kimball and Mr. Roosevelt got out of the landau. Lieutenant Kimball had some words with the three torpedo boat commanders, who then mustered their crews on the wharf next to the bruisers what were already there. Stepping in front of this collected force-which, I had to admit, looked to be a fair match even for the Dusters-Lieutenant Kimball ordered them to stand at ease, then began to walk up and down the wharf as he explained the evening’s business.