Theo shrugged. He started picking the funk off his boots, with the same deliberate, single-minded concentration he did everything.
“My brother’s name is Sarn,” Garret offered.
“Sarn?” Theo stopped boot-picking.
Garret grinned. “It’s actually Samuel. My Ma wanted to call him Sam, after her grandpa. But Ma wrote really light, so every time she wrote ‘Sam,’ it didn’t look like the bumps in the ‘m’ were connected, so it looked like an ‘r’ and an ‘n’ instead.” Garret spread his hands. “So, Sarn it is.”
Theo scrunched his face as if it was worthy of much deep thought and concentration. “That’s a strange name, but I like it.”
Garret stretched his legs out on the deck and leaned back on his elbows. “It fits him, actually. You’d have to meet him.”
“I’d like to meet your brother,” Theo said as he returned to boot picking. Each piece of funk he picked off, he flung gently over the side as if he was freeing doves.
Garret considered that. “Well then you will. When we all get out of here, you’ll have to come stay with us for a while, you and Fishy both. You’d get along with Sarn. He loves animals. Drives me crazy with them.”
“I love animals too,” Theo said in awe, as if it was Divine Providence that they shared an interest. Then Theo scrunched his face again. “How does he drive you crazy with them? I love our old donkey, Faustus, even though he brays in my face.”
“I’ll bet you’ve never had a skunk in your blacksmith’s shop,” Garret said.
“I don’t have a blacksmith’s shop,” Theo said openly.
“Well there you go,” Garret replied.
“What about your name,” Theo asked after a pause. “Are you named for your other grandpa?”
How do I keep getting into this conversation? Garret wondered. “Well, sort of. Garret is an old family name. My Pa was named Garrett, and my grandpa and my great grandpa. I don’t know how far back it goes.”
“Do you have a baby?” Theo asked. “Floyd said you were a daddy.”
Garret tensed up, and the shame and guilt drowned him again. “Yes,” he admitted.
Theo was looking at him again, though Garret was very carefully keeping his eyes elsewhere.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Theo asked curiously.
Garret wanted to throw himself over the side. “Boy,” he said.
Then Theo asked it. “What’s his name?”
Garret couldn’t think about his baby for another second. “I… I gotta go Theo,” he said, jumped up, and walked quickly away.
W
“You wanted to see me, Skipper?” Andrew asked through the open door.
“Come in and shut the door, Andrew,” Maxwell said.
Commander Andrew Sharpe stepped across the threshold into the Captain’s cabin and closed the door behind himself. It shut with the solid clank of steel, but muffled by the fine wood paneling that lined the inside of the room. Andrew turned from the door, and only then did he notice the First Lieutenant, who was standing to the side, arms folded. Maxwell was a few feet away, leaning up against his paper-strewn writing desk, but Andrew’s eye was drawn past the Captain to the corner of the room where there hung a telephone, black and polished brass.
Andrew was surprised to see it. All the major departments communicated with each other via the Kearsarge’s newly installed network of internal telephones, but Andrew didn’t know they had installed one in the captain’s stateroom. Kearsarge’s refit must have been more extensive than Andrew had thought. Which reminded him, Mr. Carr was still having trouble with the phone system. The phone junction to engineering had shorted out completely that morning, and as soon as Andrew had finished with whatever Maxwell had summoned him to do, Andrew needed to check on Mr. Carr’s progress.
Distracted by phones and refits and everything else he needed to do, Andrew didn’t notice the tension in the room until the First Lieutenant spoke. His voice was low and measured.
“Captain. With all due respect. I have no idea what that was,” he pointed out towards the upper deck. “Or why you’ve taken so long to see me. Nor do I care. But you left without our Marines. Not one single combat-trained soldier do we have on this vessel. What chance of success do we have now? Do you expect our sailors to go hand to hand? I demand to know how you plan—”
Apparently, everything was fine up to that last remark. When Maxwell moved, it happened so fast that Andrew flinched. The First Lieutenant hit his knees, sucking for air. Maxwell stood over him, his fist still clenched in case First Lieutenant needed to be punched in the stomach again. Or somewhere more convincing.
Andrew was at least as stunned as the lieutenant. The Captain could probably have been court martialed for striking a fellow officer. He’d hit the lieutenant hard enough to lift him off his feet. Andrew realized he was gaping, so he closed his mouth. The skipper knows best. He always knows best.
Maxwell knelt in front of the groveling man. “You demand?” Maxwell asked. “We are going to buy this world’s freedom. The only way that will happen is with blood. You knew the risks when you signed on with me, and now you dare to walk into my cabin and make demands? If you can’t serve me as unquestioningly—as unfailingly—as you swore, then your failure is before the Almighty, and I’ll hang you as close to Him as I can get you.”
As Maxwell spoke, his veneer fell away, revealing the cougar in uniform, ears back, pupils dilated, claws waiting. “If you question my authority like that again, you’ll dangle from the fire control top until your head rots off your body as a warning to the crew.”
The lieutenant sucked for air. “We’re… all oathbreakers, Captain. That’s how the men will… see us.” It wasn’t a challenge this time, just a plea for mercy.
Maxwell grabbed the first lieutenant’s arm and hauled him to his feet. Maxwell straightened the man’s uniform across his shoulders.
“I know that, Martin. When the time comes, I’ll deal with it.” He grabbed the first lieutenant by the nape of the neck and shook him. Maxwell’s expression became feral enough to curl Andrew’s hair. “But your self-centeredness is a threat to my crew and my ship. You will end it right now, or I will.”
Martin buckled. “I’m sorry sir,” he said.
Maxwell’s ferociousness faded. “Then show me.”
The first lieutenant was pale and unsteady, but his rage was gone. He gave a shaky nod to his captain. “I will, sir.”
Maxwell continued, slow, but steadfast as the tide. “I need you, Martin,” he said. “I cast off without our Marines because Undersecretary Clemson got wind of this a few hours before. He sent an entire battalion of Marines our way under the guise that we were a one-ship insurrection. They were ordered to end us all. I waited longer than was safe so we could finish coaling. The Marines assigned to us did indeed make it to the Kearsarge on time. I sent them to engage the battalion. They fought their own brothers for us. Marines fighting Marines. Do you understand what that means, Martin?”
Martin didn’t look like he understood, but Andrew did. Loyalty within the Marine brotherhood was the stuff of legends. Marines did not kill Marines.
Maxwell rejoined coolly. “I believe you to be an honorable man, Lieutenant Martin, so I need not remind you of what the sacrifice of even one life is worth. Are you with me?”
The first lieutenant nodded, straightening to attention. “Aye sir!”
“Then you are dismissed,” Maxwell said.
The first lieutenant stepped past Andrew and opened the door.
“And Martin?”
“Aye Captain?”
Maxwell’s eyes glinted. “Don’t do that again.”
Martin shrank a little, nodded, and shut the door behind himself.
Andrew was alone with Maxwell. He exhaled. Finally he could talk to his Captain. Maxwell sat down at his writing desk, facing away from his XO. “At ease, Andrew,” said Maxwell. Andrew took stock of himself. The exchange with the First
Lieutenant had left him standing stiffer at attention than one of Kearsarge’s stanchions.
Maxwell spoke again as he rifled papers. “Martin is a capable officer, Andrew. He just forgets his place. You will make certain that no one hears of this exchange unless Martin decides to tell them.”
Andrew relaxed. “Aye sir.”
Andrew looked around. This was the first time he’d been in the Captain’s stateroom. The difference between it and the berth deck outside the door was jarring. It was like stepping from the cold steel of a factory straight into a country club. The captain’s state room, like the often unoccupied Admiral’s stateroom that flanked it, was opulent almost to the point of garish.
Maxwell pushed papers around on his desk. Like every other surface in sight, it was made of beautifully carved wood. Leather-upholstered furniture littered the expansive cabin. There was a bookshelf attached to the wall, specially designed with wooden retainers to keep the books from flying off the shelves during heavy seas. Ornate glass and wood cabinets were built into the opposite walls. They were loaded with crystal and silver, all locked securely in place, where Andrew knew that it would remain for the duration of this voyage.
Every Captain in the Navy lived like a king. He had a steward to look after his needs, and he ate his meals alone on a linen covered table, off of silver and crystal. Except Maxwell. As far as Andrew knew, Maxwell had never had a steward, and he ate in the officer’s mess with his men. The claw-footed table on which he was supposed to eat was sitting in the corner, covered with a heap of paperwork, several books, and a broken sextant that Maxwell had disassembled for repair. Andrew had no idea where the linen was. Probably in any one of a hundred drawers built into those nice cabinets.
“The men look up to you, Andrew,” the Captain said. He still hadn’t turned.
Andrew shifted a little. It took him a second to respond. “Thank you sir, but they don’t know me yet.”
“They will. And they’ll trust you.”
Andrew stared hard at his captain’s back. “They’ll trust you too, sir.”
Maxwell turned in his chair. His wry smile wiped a few years from his lined face. His eyes had once been blue, but they had greyed with time. When Andrew had first met Captain Maxwell, they had been clear as a summer sky. Now they were the color of a winter lake on an overcast day.
Maxwell’s strength and sense of duty, however, had not changed. They were the only things Andrew knew of that were not dulled by wear. The more pressure the world brought against Captain Maxwell, the sharper he became. It was what kept Andrew from hesitating when the Captain had asked him to join this suicide mission. It was also the thing that made him afraid Maxwell might someday break. No one could grow stronger forever, could they?
The Captain’s gaze rested against Andrew like a small weight. It was palpable.
“Tell me about our crew, XO.” It sounded like a change in topic to Andrew, but Maxwell said it as if it was a continuance.
Andrew paused. “What do you want to know, sir?”
“Just tell me about them.”
“After our losses, the crew consists of three hundred and eighty-three enlisted men, and twenty-two officers. Their ages range from sixteen to fifty-three.”
“Many of them are younger than that, XO.” Maxwell replied mildly.
Andrew felt himself flush. “It’s the Navy’s policy not to accept men younger than age sixteen, sir.”
“None the less.”
A silence hung between them that was awkward for Andrew, but seemed perfectly serene for the captain.
“What is the average age of our men, Andrew?”
“Average, sir?”
“If they range from sixteen to fifty-three as you say, shouldn’t the average be near the middle?”
Andrew moved his mouth like a guppy.
Maxwell answered his own question. “Most of our enlisted are from poor families. Many do not have birth certificates. Some could not tell you for certain what year they were born if you asked them, but as near as it is possible to calculate, the average age of our enlisted men is sixteen years and nine months, currently.”
Andrew was embarrassed, even though it wasn’t his fault.
“They’re boys, Andrew. Children. Ours to take care of and instruct, and ours to sacrifice to the flames and steel of war. That’s the way it has been since the first man built the first boat and set sail. Who is the oldest among our crew?”
“Master Chief Ira Greely,” Andrew said swiftly, glad to have a question he could answer.
“Did you know I fought alongside him at Manila Bay?”
“No sir.”
Andrew always listened to his Captain, but now he listened intently. Manila Bay was the decisive battle of the Spanish American War. The then-untested American Navy had dominated the engagement. The Spanish fleet had been reduced to an assortment of flaming hulks while the United States Navy had scarcely lost a man.
Andrew should have realized that Maxwell had been there. It made sense. Maxwell was in his mid-forties. The battle of Manila Bay had taken place sixteen years ago, in 1898. Since then, the world had been at peace, even though at times it felt like the calm before the storm. Europe had been a powder keg for a long time, and Andrew and all the officers knew that was where Kearsarge was headed. Andrew wouldn’t have said he yearned for combat, but he did desire to test his mettle.
“We were stationed aboard the Olympia,” Maxwell was saying. “I was a young lieutenant then, a turret officer, but Ira was already a masterchief.” Maxwell shook his head. “Never a man earned the rank more.”
Maxwell shuffled some papers on his desk and said, “I remember standing behind my gun crew. They trusted me, but I was sweating all the way down into my boots. Just before we opened fire on the Spanish, I saw Chief Greely and a few of the older men scattering sand on the deck. After that, it was all gun powder and fire and steel, and sand was the last thing on my mind. It was weeks later before I remembered to ask him about it.”
Maxwell had picked up a paper and was scanning it as he spoke. Over the Captain’s shoulder, Andrew could see the fluid, female handwriting. He recognized it. A letter from Maxwell’s wife, Helen. She was a wonderful woman.
“When I asked Ira about it, he told me he’d done it since he was a powder monkey aboard the sloop of war Kearsarge, the predecessor to this ship. He told me they always scattered sand on the deck before a battle.”
“For tradition?” Andrew asked.
“For traction,” Maxwell said flatly. “In the old days of wooden ships, like the sloop of war Kearsarge, the ships fought close enough to smell each other. Black powder, swords, knives, fists and teeth. In prolonged engagements, the decks became so slicked with blood that it was difficult to stand up and fight without sand mixed into the blood for purchase.” He gesture to the old battleship in which they were sealed. “Now, Kearsarge’s thirteen inch guns can punch through twelve inches of steel armor from eight miles away, and yet she’s a relic.”
Andrew didn’t know what to say.
“Sixteen years nine months,” Maxwell said, reiterating the earlier age reference. “Do you know how many fourteen year olds we have aboard, Andrew? Serving our food, manning our guns, shoveling coal into our boilers?”
Maxwell laid the letter down as gently as if it was his wife herself, then he faced his Executive Officer.
“They aren’t men, Andrew. They’re children who are going to die alongside of us. They’re going to pay for our sins by bleeding out on these decks with their guts strung out next to them. They’re going to cry for their mothers as their life slips from them.”
Maxwell softened. It was rare. “My wife thinks you are a fine young man. She wants to have you and Ida over for dinner again as soon as we return. My little girl thinks you are the big brother she doesn’t have.
“You and I have talked at length about your family and mine. I know about the double mortgage on your family farm, an
d you know about my brother. The enlisted boys don’t talk about things like that. They have come a thousand miles from everything they’ve known and everyone they love, but they don’t speak of it. Why?”
Andrew was scraping for some kind of poise. “Well, sir, I would assume the reasons are as varied as their backgrounds and—”
“That is not why.” Maxwell began writing on a small slip of paper. “I am adding to your duties as Executive Officer. Your primary function for the duration of this voyage is to learn why these boys are here. That is an order. And bring me a steward.”
Andrew’s head was starting to spin. “Sir?”
Maxwell handed him the slip of paper with a name written on it.
“Bring me this one. Now. Dismissed.”
W
Garret lay in his hammock, swinging lightly with the rocking of the Kearsarge. Towards the dog watch, clouds had scurried in and the sea had begun to roll gently. A banging sound came from the galley, but it wasn’t pots and pans. The chief cook was trying to hang up the phone, but was so frustrated with its constant malfunctioning that he banged it three times before landing it in the hook. Garret knew the feeling. It was all going to shit. After a bad day like this one, Garret was grateful for his sleeping spot directly above their gun. It allowed him to curl up and face the bulkhead, studded with fist-sized rivets, and not look at anyone else.
The day had not improved after his embarrassing fright on the deck. It proved that the invisible iron ring around his finger hadn’t been the terrible nightmare he had hoped. The ring was as real as the Hollow Man’s hold on him. Maybe it was the Hollow Man’s hold.
Garret’s buddies had given him tight sideways glances for the rest of the day, despite the fact that they had seen him do similarly strange and spooky things during bootcamp.
It must have looked bad this time, Garret thought miserably, and curled tighter beneath his blanket. God, I’d give anything to be able to tell somebody, but they’d lock me away for sure.
The ring—the other ring—the physically real wedding band that he wore always against his chest—burned him with shame and desire. He always kept it on a thin chain around his neck, close to his heart, even though jewelry was against regulations. As long as he didn’t have to remove his shirt in front of an officer, his uniform hid it well enough. He reached up under the blankets and clutched it with his left hand, gripping his wedding band until it dug into his palm. He’d taken it off his finger so the soft gold, silver, and copper braiding wasn’t destroyed by the hard labor aboard ship, but he couldn’t bear to keep it in his ditty box. He couldn’t be without its touch.
Ironclad Page 12
