The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [333]
With the thick grey layers of storm clouds what’d hung over the city that day now breaking up into separate black clusters that stood out boldly against a moonlit sky, we all filed out of the house and moved to the corner of Second Avenue, followed by Mr. Roosevelt’s big landau, what had its two canopies pulled up against the weather. Once we’d secured two hansoms for Mr. Moore, the detective sergeants, and Cyrus, the rest of us got into the landau behind Mr. Roosevelt and Lieutenant Kimball, and before long conversation was filling the roomy shell under the canopies. The Doctor, Miss Howard, and Mr. Roosevelt spoke about Libby Hatch and the case in quiet tones what showed consideration for my feelings, consideration I appreciated greatly. As for the amiable Lieutenant Kimball, he seemed so determined to keep me entertained that I wondered if maybe Mr. Roosevelt—who obviously knew at least the basic facts of what I’d been through that day—hadn’t given him instructions to try to give my spirits a lift. If so, the lieutenant followed his orders admirably. From a description of all the wondrous things what he expected to take place on the seas in the next ten or twenty years, he moved on to tales of foreign lands he’d served in, and of the strange people he’d met there: stories that, while they couldn’t and didn’t really cheer me up as such, at least diverted my attention from the bleak thoughts what were still standing ready to flood back into my soul.
We took the Brooklyn Bridge across the lower portion of the East River, then made a hard left and traveled along the waterfront until we reached Wallabout Bay and the entrance to the great maze of dry docks, piers, cranes, railroad tracks, ordnance docks, foundries, and construction sheds what was the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The place was pretty much a New York institution, dating back to the beginning of the century and as familiar to natives of the city as any part of the harbor; but for some reason it looked very different to me that night. Maybe it was just my mood, I thought to myself, or maybe it was visiting the place in the company of the man who, for all practical purposes, was the most important naval official in the country at that moment. But very soon I realized that neither of these was the real explanation:
It was the lights—there were lights on everywhere and, underneath the lights, scores of men hard at work. All this at near ten o’clock on a Monday night. And as I noticed the men. I noticed what it was that they were working on:armored warships—some of them half built, some near ready to sail, all of them big and impressive—were crammed into every slip and corner of the joint.
“An awful lot of building going on out here, Mr. Roosevelt,” I said, watching fire tenders and riveters holler to each other and toss red-hot plugs of steel through the black night.
“Yes,” Mr. Roosevelt answered, looking around like a kid on Christmas morning. “We launched the Maine from here two years ago, and there have been several others since. Many more to come, as well!”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught the Doctor giving Miss Howard a look: a quiet reminder of how important it was that Mr. Roosevelt not find out just whose baby it was we were trying to rescue or why we’d been forced to go about it the way we had. The daughter of a high Spanish official, missing; that same official beating his wife and not seeming to care if he never saw his child again; the lies about the case what’d been issued by the Spanish consulate; suddenly all these things seemed very connectable to the humming activity in the navy yard, in a way what could have spelled bigger trouble than even we’d experienced lately.
The torpedo boats what Mr. Roosevelt and Lieutenant Kimball had spoken of were tucked away along one concrete wharf at the far end of the yard—and quite a collection they were, too. Not all that much bigger than the steam yachts and launches what generally shot around the harbor, the boats had much more powerful