Leviathan

PROLOGUE

Three years in darkness. Since Napoleon's coup in 1799, Roderick Deveroux had been imprisoned at Chateau 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 finally threatened, but still Deveroux had refused to give the brutish little man what he desired: the design for an oil-fired 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.

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 finally 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 filled 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 first 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 find what he was seeking, and then his trembling fingers 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 finger across the sharp edge of the plate once more, bringing the sensation he was looking for — the cutting of flesh.

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 flow 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 flowing 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 self-satisfied 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 first 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 flutter 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 floor. 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 filled 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 horrific 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 floor 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 crucifix.

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 flowing 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, fish, 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 fifty 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 Chateau 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 first 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 flooded 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 afloat 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 fine 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 Chateau 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 first 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 floated 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-filled 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 floated 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 floating 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 floating right back into the arms of Chateau d'If.

A large breaker caught his floating tree and pushed him toward what he now knew would be his final 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 salt-encrusted 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 fingers though it. He hit upon an object and brought it up into the diffused sunlight. It was flint, used at one time to ignite these very torches lining the wall. With flint in hand, he brushed up the cloth-and grease-covered tip of the torch, then he knelt and started striking the flint against the stone wall.

It took him more than thirty minutes and five bloody fingers, but in the end the torch finally smoldered, then caught and flared to life. As he averted his eyes from the brightness of the flame, he saw the skeletal leg in the sand. He stepped back, brought the flame 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 nervously. 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 nervously. 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 flotsam he had seen in the streets of Paris in the past. The bony fingers 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 first, 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 first 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 firm. With eyes wild, he knew he had to find 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 fingers 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 first, 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 flame close to the spilled items. There, twinkling in the bright flame, 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 treasure 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 treasure was lost, or hidden away from his own countrymen, later to be discovered by this marauding band of cutthroats.

Deveroux saw in the treasure the route and means to his revenge against Napoleon. By his quick estimation, and not figuring in monetary terms of pound, shekel, or carat, he calculated that he had found over fifteen 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 first time the true magic, the real treasures 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.

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 floor 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 beneficial to his end goals, or he would have to find 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 floor and pulled the blanket around his shoulders as he stood and slowly shuffled 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 tousldeged 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 final 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 figured out that the pump used to relay fuel into the combustion chamber was inefficient, 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 first three times, and then when they had figured a way to filter the fine spray of kerosene, removing the impurities of the refined 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 fine 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 treasure 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 first 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 finger 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 floor, 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 profiteer 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 deflated.

"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 flame. He then reached up, pulled the lantern from the wall, and smashed it to the floor, 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 floor; 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 fire 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 finger, but then his hand fell to the wooden floor 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 finger 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 flick 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 fire was spreading and thickening, so he squeezed out from underneath the cot, sliding through the warm blood of his father. That was when the first 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 fire 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.

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 fledgling 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 Maryland 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 jellyfish 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 Englishman 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 political act that would finally 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 Devil 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 finished 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 flocked 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 flags. 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 first officer stepped up to the two men and whispered at close quarters.

"Port Royal has spotted a vessel five 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 officer did not answer at first, 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-two-pounder cannons were ready for action.

"Very good. Even though our sister ships of propeller, paddlewheel, and coal would be most welcome here, I figure 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 flash 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 gunfire 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 flame and smoke. All three men watched in astonishment as the sound finally 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 finally 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 five 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 first. 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 finally 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, semi-rounded 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 fire as your guns come to bear!" Rand shouted, immediately taking command from the captain.

The massive thirty-two-pound rifled cannon started to open fire as they sighted on the strange monster. Rand was pleased to see the first 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 fleet. 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 afloat 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 fifty 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 flooded 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 floating 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 spider-webbed framed glass. Engersoll saw a man with long black hair almost as 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-filled eyes.

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 amplifier, and that could doom them all.

"It seems we have caught a shift in current," the captain said as he ventured back inside the wheelhouse.

Stanton felt the large boat shift to the right, and his stomach fluttered as if the Mary Lincoln rose on a small wave.

"It's not a current, Captain; make no adjustment to your station. Our guest will make the appropriate course change in regard to your vessel," Stanton said as he took the situation in.

"What guest? The fog is not yet so thick I cannot see, sir. We have—"

The captain was cut short when the Mary Lincoln rose into the air along with the Penobscot River under her keel — ten, fifteen, and then twenty feet higher than just a moment before.

"My God—"

Edwin Stanton calmly reached out and took hold of the thick railing until the riverboat settled. "Calm yourself, Captain Smith; you are just feeling the displacement of water from the approach of the vessel."

"Displacement of water?" Smith inquired as he returned to the wing and looked out over the calming river. "The river is void of traffic — even in this fog I can see that! And what vessel would displace so much water as to almost capsize a boat of this tonnage?"

A small man approached from where he was standing just inside the pilothouse and cautiously made his way to the even smaller Stanton.

"Has the man arrived, Monsieur Stanton?" the small man asked in his heavily accented English.

The secretary of war turned angrily toward the Frenchman. "You are to observe only. You are not to speak; you are not to approach this man. I am acquiescing to a favor owed of your government. Otherwise, sir, I would not give you the time of day. Now stand to the far railing and disappear, and you may be lucky enough to witness one of mankind's greatest achievements."

The Frenchman placed his woolen cap on his head and backed away from the rotund secretary, knowing he was lucky just to be here on the Penobscot. However, lucky or not, he held information that would embarrass the U.S. government, and if he had not been allowed to board the Mary Lincoln, he would have taken his eyewitness accounts to the capitals of all Europe. Still, he had to play this cautiously. He wanted to know only if this amazing craft truly existed.

"Ahoy on deck, keep your eyes open. I hear movement on the river," the captain called out as he gained the bridge wing and stood next to the secretary.

Stanton nodded his head as giant water geysers shot into the air, causing the mist to eddy, swirl, and then finally part. Then as the two men watched, the great ship rose from the depths. The giant tower parted the river as if a mountain were being born right in the center of the Penobscot. The great glass eyes of the beast glowed green and red, easily piercing the fog.

"Holy Mary, mother of—"

"Such sentiments would not save you this man's wrath, Captain. He is not one of God's children, but a devil born of man."

"What is that… that thing?"

Stanton walked closer to the edge of the bridge wing and watched as the upper bulk of the great iron beast settled on the surface of the Penobscot. As it did, it sent surface water rushing toward the Mary Lincoln, making her rise once more on the swells and allowing the river to overflow her gunnels. The water geysers ceased their roar and the river became still. It seemed to Stanton he could hear the far off ringing of bells and the voices of men giving commands. Then a bank of fog rolled in and covered the great black submarine.

"The thing is called Leviathan, Captain Smith, and no matter what happens here tonight, you are never to speak of this to anyone, not even to your wife. I don't think I have to make any unnecessary threats, do I, sir?"

Stanton ignored the shocked look that covered Smith's face. He just listened to the night and the sounds of water meeting iron. The night had become deathly still, seeming also to await answers as to what this strange object was. Stanton then turned toward a man that was standing unseen inside the pilothouse stairwell. He nodded his head, and the man slipped away unnoticed by all except the Frenchman, who was unceremoniously shoved out of the man's way.

Stanton's man gathered the five selected U.S. Navy seamen and gave them each an oilcloth, which weighed in excess of thirty pounds apiece. Then he watched as they gained the boat deck on the opposite side of the Mary Lincoln and slipped over the side.

"Ahoy the riverboat!" Six deckhands ran to the starboard side, listened, and strained to pierce the fog. Then the call from the river repeated, "Ahoy Mary Lincoln, permission to tie up and board!" The voice was deep, booming, and filled with command.

The first officer looked up at the riverboat's bridge for permission from the captain to allow the unseen to board. Smith nodded his head.

"Permission granted! What is the number of your boarding party?"

"One," was the short answer as a long rope flew through the fog and struck the wet deck as if from nowhere. The deckhands tied off the rope as they heard the heavy footsteps on the gangplank lowered earlier.

Captain Smith watched his men on deck freeze as the unseen footsteps continued up the stairs at a leisurely pace. The fog swirled around the ship's railing as the footsteps stopped. Then the blanket of moisture parted, and there stood a man. He was a giant, standing at least six feet, five inches. His dark hair was long and wild. His blue seaman's jacket was plain and devoid of rank or insignia with the exception of four gold stripes at each cuff. The knee-high boots were as shiny as a polished deck.

"Leviathan requests permission to come aboard," the deep voice boomed.

"Permission granted. May I have your name, sir?" the Mary Lincoln's first officer asked.

The man stood motionless at the top of the gangway. He was silent as his large eyes took in the riverboat's crew before him, an old and battered Bible clutched in his large hand.

"Express my greetings to Secretary Stanton, and convey to him that the man he wished to meet, Captain Octavian Heirthall, has arrived to end my relationship with the U.S. government, and to reclaim my family."

The first officer became confused as he looked from the dark form shrouded in fog at the top of the gangway to the captain and his guest looking down from the bridge. The crew heard footsteps as a lone figure made his way down to the main deck.

Edwin Stanton, using his cane, approached the ship's railing cautiously. His eyes never left the imposing figure standing over him; he felt as if he were a mouse watching an owl, and the owl was ravenous. The stranger's dark blue eyes burned through the fog and into his own. Stanton stopped ten feet in front of the man known to only a few — Captain Octavian Heirthall.

"Please, come aboard, Captain," Stanton said, looking up.

"My wife, my children — they are aboard?"

"Captain, please, join me on deck. Talking up to you, while not quite below my station, is, at the least, uncomfortable," Stanton said, acting as bravely as he could under the circumstances.

"My thoughts are, there is no station below yours, sir, save but one, and that is the hell you will be sent to upon your meaningless death. My wife, my son, and my five daughters, they must be here, or I swear to you, Mr. Secretary, you will fall so far and hard from grace that the mere mention of your name will be a loathsome experience for any soul saying it. I have already sent a dispatch to President Lincoln by ship's courier. If my family is not delivered here to me this night, the courier has instructions to deliver the letter, regardless of the consequences to my children and wife."

"Forgive me, Captain; you have been at sea, so of course you could not have heard the news. President Lincoln was murdered just eleven days ago in Washington, struck down by an assassin's bullet."

The large man seemed to deflate before Stanton's eyes. He reached for the rope railing to steady himself. He missed at the first attempt, and then grasped it with the weakened strength of a dying man.

"Horrible news, I know."

"He… he was — he was the only man of honor I have ever known," Heirthall said as he stepped down slowly from the gangway and onto the deck. "What of the president's promise to me for the protection of the gulf and… and its inhabitants?"

"You now know your courier will do you no good," Stanton said, ignoring the captain's question. "Your threat to me has fallen on deaf — or should I say dead—ears, my good captain."

Heirthall grasped his Bible with both hands, but he could find no solace in its touch. His blazing eyes turned to the river and his shoulders straightened. He then turned slowly to face Stanton.

"I am a prideful man, a God-fearing man. My words were harsh, so I ask you again, sir, please, my wife and my children, are they safe? — And the president's pledge to help me with — my discovery, this promise is still intact? I have done what you asked."

"May I remind you, Captain, you came to us for the protection of the gulf waters. It was just coincidental our spies in England learned of this foul treaty between England and the rebellious states. If they had consummated that despicable document, those bases would have been the death of your amazing discovery, would they not?"

"You had no right to remove my family from my island in the Pacific — I would have fulfilled my part of the bargain without you resorting to your obvious evil nature, Mr. Secretary."

Heirthall remembered the stories told to him by a father long dead. How Napoleon had done the same to his family, destroying them to gain access to the family science: a horrible history repeating itself.

Stanton lowered his head and turned away from those pleading blue eyes. He found himself unable to look the captain in his face as he said his next words. "Your son has died. Consumption, I was told. I am truly sorry."

The wail of the large man pierced the darkened night. River men who heard the cry would forever have it in their nightmares. A sound as such should never originate from a man of Heirthall's stature. He went to his knees and placed the Bible so that it covered his face.

The small Frenchman standing above on the bridge wing watched, his heart going out to this man he did not know. Such anguish chilled his blood. Suddenly, he knew he did not want to be here, even if it meant never confirming the sight he had seen two years prior while at sea, that of a great metal monster.

"It was never my intention for this sad thing to happen. Now you must understand my position, sir, you must continue your good work upon the seas. We cannot allow you to do any different. Your country needs you now more than ever. The foulness of the British try at power in this hemisphere will be attempted time and time again, and maybe your Gulf of Mexico will no longer be a safe haven for your find."

Captain Octavian Heirthall, with his long black hair covering the Bible he held to his face, slowly looked up at Stanton. He lowered the old book and gained his feet until he towered over the secretary. He reached down and straightened his jacket, pulling upon the hem.

Stanton never hesitated upon seeing his own fate embedded in those blazing blue eyes — he snapped his fingers and twenty marines came from the opposite side of the wheelhouse. They leveled rifles at the man standing before him. He became concerned when Heirthall did not react.

"Before you do something foolish, I will tell you that your family has been split up. Your wife and four of your daughters are close, but the fifth — the very, very special one, the one closest in nature to your mother — is being held at the armory in Washington. She will be the lamb that is sacrificed, so think well, Captain, before your next words come from your mouth."

Heirthall felt his chest clench as his destiny was presented to him. He had fallen into the same trap as had his father. Instead of Napoleon, it was Stanton pulling the strings of his naivete. His mind snapped, but his features never betrayed that fact.

"Your magnificent science, sir, is all we seek, the details of which you will hand over to the department of the navy. Your vessel will be forfeit. It will be taken apart, piece by piece, analyzed and then rebuilt. Then you will offer up the knowledge of the seas, which is yours alone. Your cooperation is essential for the safety of your youngest daughter. After I am satisfied you have met my conditions, you and your family will be reunited, intact. Am I understood?"

"President Lincoln — he knew of this foul thing?"

Stanton shook his head and stepped behind the closest marines.

"Mr. Lincoln never understood anything beyond what was right in front of his face. As a country, we have entered a new world — a global society where the strong will dictate. This nation needs what you have — your friend Mr. Lincoln never understood that. He accepted your decision not to offer to us your science as a tool of war; I, sir, did not. Your mission for the president to stop the alliance of Britain and the traitors of the South was just the start. There will be many such tasks in the future, and you will perform them. If you fail in this, I will make public your discovery in the gulf, the Mediterranean, and Antarctica… needless to say, that will end your dream along with your family."

A moment of clarity struck Heirthall, as bright as a bolt of lightning. His eyes widened and he took a menacing step toward the secretary.

"Return my daughter to her mother and sisters, or there will be such retribution taken against you that you will believe Satan has risen to devour you and yours. I have known men such as you. Men — twins of you — murdered my father for the sake of owning the great secret of the seas. I once looked fondly upon my adopted country, until madness struck these shores as it had so many others." Heirthall took a menacing step forward and used his commanding, booming, deep voice: "My wife and children — produce them or reap a bitter harvest."

Stanton swallowed but held his position behind the marines.

"As I speak, your vessel, your great Leviathan, is being mined. Argue and fight and you will lose far more than just your oldest child."

Heirthall broke. Far too much had his mind and heart absorbed the past three years. The betrayal, the long separation from his children and his wife, the killing of innocent and guilty alike upon the seas, were too much for his once great mind. He threw his black Bible toward the cordon of marines and then turned for the riverboat's railing. As his hands touched the damp wood and rope, several shots rang out. Two minie balls pierced his back. One bullet hit his liver and one his upper back. He staggered, but managed to catch himself. He pulled with all of his strength until he could fall over the railing and into the river.

"You fools, what have you done?" Stanton cried out. "You men." He pointed at the four marines that had just missed taking Heirthall before he jumped. "Into the river. Bring the captain to me. He cannot have gone far!"

The marines dropped their rifles and started to climb the railing, but they never made it. Loud popping sounded through the thick fog and a hundred bullets cut the men down. A speed of fire no man had ever heard in the long history of firearms punctured holes in the large riverboat. Wood flew as even more bullets zinged through the fog. Stanton realized as he dove behind stacked barrels that he was witnessing something akin to the Gatling gun, but this was far faster, far deadlier. The remaining marines never had a chance to reload their weapons before large-caliber rounds sliced them to pieces.

They were facing another of Octavian Heirthall's miracle weapons.

The captain's wounds were mortal. He struggled to keep his head above water as he kicked with his legs. The fog and Leviathan's automatic weapons were keeping the riverboat's marines at bay, but Heirthall knew the secretary would not have been satisfied with just the one surprise treachery.

Suddenly arms were pulling him up and out of the cold river. The captain felt the cold iron of Leviathan against his wet clothing as he was hauled aboard. The voices were jumbled and he sensed fear and anger in his crew. He fought to gain his feet and finally cleared his vision enough to see his first officer, Mr. Meriwether, standing at his side.

"Take her down, Thomas, we have been betrayed."

"Captain, your wounds, they are—"

"Down, take Leviathan down, set course upriver." He struggled to the giant tower where he collapsed against the thick iron hatch. He slowly but angrily stood, leaning against the frame, and then entered the vessel.

"All hands stand by to dive!" Meriwether called out as he saw the thick swath of blood that covered the deck and hatch combing. He then followed Heirthall inside.

"Two ships approaching from the far shore. Our echo-sound report says they are ironclads!" he heard as he half-stumbled down the ladder into the control center.

As the announcement came, an explosion rocked Leviathan from beneath the bow, and then in quick rapidity another rocked her from the stern.

"That was not shot from an ironclad, those were placed charges. Get me a damage report."

Meriwether then eased his captain into the large chair placed on a raised platform at the center of the control room. As he removed his hands, he saw they were covered in blood, thick and dark red.

"Report depth under the keel!" Meriwether called out while still looking at his hands.

"We have only thirty feet under the keel!" the helmsman called from the front of the control room.

"Come about, all ahead full!" Heirthall said in a pain-filled voice.

Meriwether turned to Heirthall. "Captain, we must make for the sea before we find our way blocked."

"My son is dead, my family hostages, and… and the president… is dead," Heirthall said as his eyes clenched closed in pain.

Meriwether saw his despair. His own anger could have been that of the man that he loved more than a father.

"What are your orders, sir?"

Heirthall struggled and used the chair to stand. He quickly waved Meriwether away when he lunged to assist him.

"Lieutenant Wallace — I need him."

A young man, no more than twenty, stepped from his post at the ship's ballast control.

"Diving Officer Wallace, here, sir!"

Heirthall waved him over without ever opening his eyes to see him. He reached out and felt for the young man, finally feeling him underneath his hand.

"I… have a mission… for you, boy," he said, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.

A solid shot rang off Leviathan's hull. The echo was almost deafening. It was the first time her crew had ever heard their vessel's hull struck solidly at point-blank range by another warship.

"Ironclads are opening fire, Captain."

Heirthall's eyes fluttered open and fixed on Wallace. The captain knew the boy had been sweet on his youngest daughter, Olivia. It was reported to him that the two spent never-ending hours together, talking and reading. Heirthall would not sacrifice this boy — instead he would use the young man's feelings for his daughter's sake.

"Mr. Wallace, when we… make our turn, our last run for the sea, you… will not be aboard."

"Captain?" Peter Wallace asked, looking from Heirthall to Meriwether.

"Take… some men — my… daughter is in Washington… the armory. Please find my Olivia, then… my wife and daughters…. Please, son." He grimaced again. "You're the youngest and the brightest — the best of us all. If need be, to secure my child, kill all in your path."

Wallace looked around the control room as every hand present was starting to understand the depth of their betrayal. The serious-featured young man straightened and saluted Heirthall. When he saw his captain was too weak to return his gesture of respect, he slowly lowered his hand.

"Take the deck watch, that's six armed men," Meriwether said, his eyes never leaving Heirthall's dying form. "I have more items to give you, with your permission, Captain?"

Heirthall could only nod his head once.

Meriwether disappeared and went aft of the control center. He returned two minutes later carrying a leather satchel and pouch. The pouch he handed to Wallace.

"There is enough gold inside to get you, your men, Olivia, and the rest of the family back home. Enough to buy a ship if need be."

The boy nodded, looking guiltily up and around at the rest of the control room crew. He felt he was betraying the men he had come to love by leaving them.

"Pay attention, Lieutenant." Meriwether then handed him the small satchel. As the boy held it, the first officer opened it and pulled out some old and much-worn pages. "When you have the child back home, you are to guard her with your life. You will be in command of the base, the only officer left. The men are loyal to the captain until their deaths; they will be the same for you, boy, and to the girl if her mother and sisters are not recovered."

Wallace swallowed and looked at the captain, but Meriwether slapped the boy lightly.

"This" — he grasped the yellowed pages—"is her family legacy; this is who she is, where she came from." Then he held up another book. "This is the logbook of Leviathan. It is also for her. You will have to make the last entry. The plans and specifications for Leviathan are on the island with all the captain's research. Olivia will one day know what to do with them. The last pages are of the life form — these are not to fall into the hands of our American brethren. Is this clear?"

Peter Wallace looked at the pages and then the logbook. His frown deepened when he realized his responsibility.

"You tell her the story of what happened here this night. Burn into her soul the betrayal that took place. She will eventually know what to do. Her father's and grandfather's designs are locked away. She is to learn — learn the science, and the sea is where she will discover who she really is and why the family is who they are…. Do you understand, boy?"

"I will not fail the captain, sir."

"I know you won't, lad." Meriwether looked around as explosions rocked Leviathan. "Godspeed, son, now be off. Jump over the side when we make our turn. Take care of Olivia, boy — love her as I already know you do."

Wallace turned and made for the tower hatch, stuffing the pages and logbook into the satchel as he did. The eighteen-year-old boy never looked back.

"We are at sixteen knots and three hundred yards, Mr. Meriwether," the helm called out.

"Captain, your orders, sir?"

"Take me to… the tower, Mr. Meriwether," Heirthall ordered, and then went to his knees. Several men left their posts as they saw their captain fall.

"Attend your stations!"

All eyes went to the bald-headed Mr. Meriwether, who stood like a rock beside Heirthall.

"We have one last mission to perform for our captain. We will do it right!" he yelled in his Boston accent just as more iron shot struck their hull.

Meriwether assisted Heirthall to his feet, and they made their way slowly up the spiral staircase and into the green-tinted tower. The first officer walked his captain to the auxiliary ship's wheel, staying long enough to make sure he was steady.

"Thank you, Mr. Meriwether," Heirthall said as he leaned heavily against the mahogany wheel. "Inform the crew that any who so choose can depart Leviathan." He closed his eyes in pain.

Meriwether saw the large pool of blood as it spread across the tiled decking. He was amazed that such an amount could be lost without death coming swiftly.

"Aye, Captain," he said as he turned and made his way back down into the control room.

Heirthall came close to losing his battle with consciousness as Meriwether's voice came across the sound-powered speakers overhead. When the dizziness passed, he looked around his familiar surroundings. He gently touched the handholds on the wheel, caressing them as he once had his beautiful wife. Sweat and tears of loss poured into his eyes, and he wiped them away with a swipe of his arm. Then he looked up and straightened as best he could as Meriwether returned. He saw his first officer cringe as a solid iron shot bounced off the exposed tower of Leviathan.

"The crew has been informed, Captain. The Union ironclads are drawing near, and the fog, I'm afraid, is lifting with the dawn."

"Do we have enough men to send Leviathan on her last mission?" Heirthall asked as he held Meriwether's gaze.

"Yes, Captain, we have the entire complement — minus the seven you sent over the side."

Heirthall listened to the words, but they could not be right.

"They—"

"— are following your last orders, Captain. They are your men."

Heirthall stood straighter and gripped the ship's wheel.

"Order flank speed, Mr. Meriwether. By the time we are a hundred yards off Mary Lincoln, I want Leviathan's belly… rubbing the riverbed." Heirthall lowered his head. "I never wanted this…. They have… pushed me to it."

"The ironclads?"

"Target two of the new compressed air torpedoes on those fools," he said as a tear slowly rolled down his left cheek. "And Mr. Meriwether, will you thank the men for—"

"No sir, I will not. You do not thank those for doing their duty to a man who saved their lives repeatedly. One who gave those lives meaning."

Heirthall watched as Meriwether turned and shouted down the spiral staircase: "All ahead flank, stand by both forward-torpedo tubes, target the enemy ironclads with the new magnetic warheads!"

Belowdecks, men sprang into action just as the giant submarine lurched forward in the water. Her stern dug so low in the river that her main center propeller dug into the mud, sending a geyser of black muck a hundred feet into the air and announcing her intentions to all those on the river that fateful morning.

"My God, the madman is charging us!" the captain said from the bridge.

Stanton ran to the aft railing as the river erupted a thousand yards upstream. He held his hands to his ears as the two Union ironclads opened up a withering fire from their revolving turrets. They tried in vain to target the fast-moving submarine as it started its dive. The giant tower and triple rows of arched spikes were now the only visible sign above water that declared Leviathan was on her way. As they approached at more than fifty knots, the large bubble windows on the side of the tower were glowing an angry bluish-green, just as if they were the eyes of Heirthall himself.

Stanton backed away as the marines on deck started firing on the onrushing target. Then two explosions shook the Mary Lincoln on her keel. Stanton turned toward the tumult, staring in horror just as the two great ironclads blew up.

"What evil is afoot here!" he screamed, and then turned in anger. "Lieutenant, bring them out on deck and line them up against the stern railing. Make sure they are visible to this crazy fool!" he ordered.

The young marine ran below and disappeared. He soon returned with the four children and the wife of Captain Octavian Heirthall. The woman was calm, but Stanton could see the girls were frightened.

The small Frenchman was at Stanton's side. He pulled on the man's coat sleeve, ripping it.

"This is barbaric. You cannot do this — send the children over the side!"

Stanton pushed the Frenchman away.

"Quickly, allow the captain to see what he is to lose in this foolishness. Mr. Verne, you may run if you wish, but the Mary Lincoln will stand her ground!"

The marine reluctantly used his rifle to push the screaming girls and the silent woman to the rail. Then Elizabeth Heirthall slapped away the bayoneted rifle and gathered her children to her as they saw the great Leviathan run true to her course. The woman turned to look at Stanton, a knowing smile slowly spreading across her face. She shook her head as she hugged her daughters close to her.

"The ironclads are no longer a concern, Captain," Meriwether said as he used his binoculars, examining the spots where the two warships were sinking into the Penobscot mud. "The Mary Lincoln is getting her boilers going, but she cannot escape. She is at about two knots and—"

Meriwether's words cut off as he adjusted his glasses on the scene before him.

"No, no, no!" The words came out in more of a moan than a cry.

Heirthall, though barely conscious, heard the fear in his first officer's voice. His face was now ashen gray, the blood long since absent from skin and veins. He managed to raise his head but his vision was cloudy at best.

"The children — Captain, the barbarian has your wife and children on deck!"

Heirthall came fully awake and fell to his knees as he let go of the wheel. He tried to stand and was thankful when Meriwether once again lifted him to his feet. He left him, ran to the wheel, and tried to turn the giant ship. The rudder was nonresponsive as it was dragging in the thick mud of the bottom. He used all of his considerable strength to turn her, but the resistance was just too great. The mines Stanton had ordered placed against Leviathan's hull, coupled with the weight of her ballast, were dragging the stern into the mud.

"She's not responding, Captain," Meriwether cried out.

Heirthall leaned heavily against the thick crystal of the viewing window. His eyes blank and his body dying, he still needed no binoculars to see his family lined up on the riverboat's stern.

"Elizabeth," he cried out weakly as his body slumped and blood seeped heavily from his mouth.

"Captain!" Meriwether cried out as Heirthall collapsed.

"What has thy vengeance wrought?" Heirthall said, the words coming out as a whisper.

Stanton ran to the railing and jumped over the side. His large body hit the cold water unnoticed by the riverboat's crew and complement of marines. The French news correspondent stood his ground as the great submarine rushed toward him. He suddenly tried to run and reach the woman and her children, but he slipped on the wet deck and went down hard just as the Mary Lincoln started a turn. The momentum of the large riverboat rolled the young Jules Verne into the river. Once the cold water closed over him, the Frenchman heard the scream of Leviathan's three propellers as they pushed the huge mass of iron boat through the water. He kicked as hard as he could to fight his way toward the rocky shoreline of the Penobscot, crying as he did at the ruthless fate awaiting the woman and her children.

Leviathan's triple prow sliced the waters of the Penobscot cleanly, and her tower rose majestically over the doomed riverboat. It seemed as if Heirthall had aimed the killing apparatus directly at his wife and children, cleanly slicing into the Mary Lincoln's stern. The tower of Leviathan followed the killing cut of the arched keel breaker. If any were alive inside the strange craft to see, they would have beheld a bizarre sight, as the first mate was covering his captain with his own body.

Leviathan was traveling in excess of fifty-eight knots when she made contact with the wood, iron, and brass riverboat. She sliced through her from stern to bow in less than three full seconds, with the impact only slowing her by six knots.

The Mary Lincoln simply folded over in two separate sections and sank as if she had never been, while Leviathan continued into the broad mouth of the Penobscot and the deeper waters of the ocean beyond.

Meriwether assisted Heirthall to his ship's wheel. The great submarine was dying. Water cascaded into the tower from the cracks in the nearly indestructible crystal of the viewing ports. He could hear the men below fight the flooding caused when her steel rivets popped upon impact with the steel and iron of the riverboat's power plant.

"I have killed that which I loved most, I—"

"It was not you, Captain, 'twas warmongers; it was the likes of Stanton. They are responsible for this."

Heirthall reached up and grabbed the wheel. She turned easily now that her rudder was clear of the river bottom. She had made it back to the sea — made it back to her home.

"Take her… to the continental… shelf, Mr. Meriwether; she'll die in deep waters," he ordered as his chin sank lower until it rested against the wheel's stanchion.

The lights flickered and then went out as Leviathan dove deep for the last time in her short life. As the red battery-driven emergency lights came on, Octavian Heirthall died.

As the crushing depths started to take a lover's hold on Leviathan, Meriwether and the crew were under no grand illusions about their fate.

Meriwether closed his eyes as the thick, meticulously machined crystal window cracked, the crack streaking across the surface like an invisible hand. Then the first inward bulge of the crushing effect popped loudly outside in the companionway.

"Down to the sea with heavy heart, we follow our captain. We are going home."