Garret, you know something’s not right. You need to read the letter.
Jesus, just leave me alone, Garret thought miserably. He stood for a second, letting the ocean air wash over his back. The mushroom-like capstan rose in front of him, and several yards beyond, the Kearsarge’s deck ended at her rounded rump. Her deck lights shed a warm glow on the first few yards of her foaming wake and the undersides of the thirteen’s barrels. Beyond that, all was dark.
Garret turned away and walked all the way around the turret towards the bow. The wall of the citadel rose in front of him. He took the ship’s ladder atop it to the upper deck.
Garret, you must see the contents of the order, the Hollow Man said as he climbed.
You don’t want to help me, Garret thought miserably. You never did.
When the voice came back again, it carried a darkness that made Garret’s skin crawl. I gave you the hell hound’s body, and without it, you, Molly, and Sarn would surely have died.
Garret’s head hurt. I can’t read it. I told Captain Maxwell I wouldn’t. He passed the long vegetable bins and wove around a couple of the large, trumpet-like air intakes that circulated fresh air to the lower decks.
Deck lights shone down through and around the boats, creating a maze of lights and shadows beneath. He threaded it quickly.
The Hollow man did not respond, but Garret felt him nearby, watching.
Garret saw with relief that he had reached the forward portion of the upper deck. The conning tower, charthouse, and wheel house rose before him. He looked around for the master-at-arms. There the big man was, up on the flying bridge, the large, wing-like platforms that extended to either side of the wheelhouse. Garret started climbing the ship’s ladder. The master-at-arms and a couple junior officers were discussing something. The master-at-arms had crossed his arms. All of their shoulders were tight. None of them looked happy.
I think Captain Maxwell is a good man. Garret nodded to himself, making his decision.
The Hollow Man did not reply. It seemed to have left him.
Finally attaining the flying bridge, Garret headed for the master-at-arms. He peered over the railing on his way. Wow, that’s a long way down. The flying bridge narrowed to points, like the ends of a boomerang, out over the edge of the main deck, just shy of the water’s edge. The other officers turned at the sound of Garret’s approach. They were irritated at his presence.
“Orders from Captain Maxwell,” Garret said dutifully, holding out the folded slip to the master-at-arms. He was a burly man, all paunch and arms and meaty jowls. Garret’s head was full of cotton. No wonder they said fatigue would kill a sailor faster than a shell. He blinked owlishly and tried to remember if he could leave, or if he had to stand there until the master-at-arms dismissed him. The master-at-arms snatched it and read it. His expression turned from annoyance to consternation to amazement.
“Are you seaman Vilner?” the master-at-arms asked.
“Aye sir.”
The master-at-arms stared at him. His subordinate leaned in to read the slip. The master-at-arms handed it to him while still staring at Garret.
The big man stepped forward and reached for Garret. Something about the way the man did it was too aggressive. It made Garret want to flinch away, but he stood his ground. That was a mistake. The master-at-arms closed a powerful hand around Garret’s arm. Garret couldn’t shift anymore, nor could he call on the wolf’s strength. He was merely human now. Had been for a long time. And he was only a one hundred and fifty-five pound, seventeen year old human at that. The master-at-arms’ subordinates, both of them, grabbed him by the other arm.
One of them, a guy not much older than Garret, looked sick. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Let’s get it over with,” the master-at-arms snapped.
Garret’s heart dropped. “What do you mean you’re sorr—”
All three of the men were bigger than Garret, and he had no strength but his own to fight them. The wolf was gone long ago. They hauled him towards the edge of the flying bridge. Garret panicked. “No! Stop! What are you doing?!”
Garret flailed and fought, but they hauled him forward, hardly slowed by his efforts.
“What are you doing?!” Garret begged.
Someone else was yelling too. Garret managed to wrench an arm loose. He tried to spin and throw himself back, but the master-at-arms snatched him out of the air and cranked his shoulder until Garret cried out and was forced to stumble towards the edge to relieve the pain.
“What in the seven hells are you doing?” someone barked. It was Master Chief Greely. He was coming down the flying bridge as quickly as his old body would take him.
“Stay out of this, Ira,” the master-at-arms snapped. “Captain’s orders.”
They were almost at the precipice of the flying bridge. Only a few feet and a thin railing separated Garret from the fall into choppy black water.
He struggled, and of all things, instead of panic or fright or anything else that would have been reasonable, sorrow crept into Garret’s heart. They’re going to throw me over. They’re going to kill me, and I don’t even know why.
All that came out of his mouth was, “Stop… please don’t... I have a baby.”
Greely was nose to nose with another officer who’d intercepted him. “I don’t give a flying fuck who gave the order, that boy’s one of mine and you take your hands off him right now or I swear by Mother Carey’s ugly cootch I’ll see you all fed to the crabs!”
As they reached the rail, Garret’s own words came fully home to his frazzled mind. Baby… I have a baby. Oh my dear Jesus God, I have a baby!
Garret went crazy. He screamed and flailed and thrashed, tearing his uniform as all three men struggled to lift him over the rail. Twice he almost escaped them, but they brought him back under control both times. The sea stretched dark and endless around them. They hoisted him off his feet. If they shoved him forward another six inches and let go, he would hit the water and they would steam away, taking their light, their warmth and their food and their wooden decks with them. Darkness would close in, and the cold water. He would cry for mercy, but they would keep going, fading away into nothing. He would tread for as long as he could, but only the stars would watch as he finally weakened and drowned, slipping beneath the surface, his body sinking forever into the crushing abyss. And then his baby would be alone.
Garret flailed and gasped as they struggled to control his wrists and ankles. He was insane and adrenaline fueled, but he was merely human, and they overpowered him and lifted him clear of the rail. He grabbed the top cable on the rail, only to have his hand torn free again.
The other officer, whom Garret didn’t know, was trying to physically restrain Chief Greely. The Chief kicked the younger man in the knee with his boot, and then proceeded to beat him to a bloody mess on the deck with his gnarled old sea dog fists.
At last, they lifted Garret free, chest up towards the stars, gripping him by the belt and the shoulders. They prepared to heave. He screamed again, despairing this time.
“Stop!”
The command had been barked so sharply that it sliced the night air. “Put him down. Captain’s orders.” It was the rat-like lieutenant. He’d just walked around the corner of the charthouse into view. He leaned against it, arms hanging lazily at his sides.
They started to lower Garret, but he ripped himself out of their hands, fell to the deck and scrambled away from all the crazy people. He kept trying to rise until he fell against the aft edge of the wheel house. There was nowhere to run, really. They were on a battleship together in the middle of the Atlantic. Where could he go? So he pressed himself there, hugged his knees to his chest and stared wide eyed at the men around him, ready to leap away at the first sign of aggression.
Footsteps pounded up the ladder to the flying bridge. The XO, Commander Andrew Sharpe was roaring loud enough to rattle the cage masts before his head had come into view. “What in God�
�s name is going on here?! Explain yourself, Lieutenant-Commander!”
The junior officers, chagrinned, looked at the master-at-arms, who simply retrieved the order from where it had fallen to the deck, walked to Commander Sharpe, and handed it to him.
Sharpe read it, then rounded on Garret, who was still panicked.
“Is this true?” Commander Sharpe demanded.
“Is what true?” Garret yelled, still terrified. “What? What!”
“No,” said Lieutenant Rat. “It isn’t true.”
Old Chief Greely was getting painfully to his feet. He pointed down at the bloodied and bleary man beneath him. “You stay right there.”
“Seaman Vilner,” Greely said, limping his way. “Report.”
“I’m—I’m okay, Chief,” Garret replied.
Sharpe approached Garret and handed the order to him. It contained two sentences: Seaman Garret Vilner is the saboteur. Throw him overboard. It was signed by Captain Maxwell.
Garret’s head was spinning. His fingers suddenly became too weak to hold the order. It fluttered to the deck. Why is this happening? Then another thought: Captain Maxwell. The Captain did this to me. I trust him and he almost took me away from my baby.
“We needed to be sure,” Lieutenant Rat said. He was relaxed. Conversational. Then his tone became flippant. “Seaman Vilner, you may go.”
Garret was up off the deck in an instant, filled with the hurt of betrayal and the anger that inevitably comes with it. Commander Sharpe saw the look on his face when he passed. Sharpe tensed. “Seaman Vilner,” he began.
Garret jumped, hitting the ship’s ladder with his hands and the soles of his boots, face towards the steps, as if he was going to shimmy down the rails. Instead he slid, rocketing back down to the upper deck, which he hit with a crash.
“Seaman Vilner, wait.” It was Sharpe again, quickly descending the ship’s ladder behind him.
Garret wasn’t smart, and he knew it. He wasn’t strong either. He’d just had that fact driven home. Even his profession, blacksmithing, was becoming a useless relic. Who needed a man to pound out nails one at a time when men could build steel monsters like the Kearsarge? In fact, there seemed to be very little that Garret was good for anymore, but there was one thing he could do.
Garret could run.
Garret had spent a significant portion of the previous year doing little but running. Garret had run to save the people he loved. He had run from the creature as it tore his life down around him. Long before, he had run from his Ma. And even though the wolf was long dead to him, killed by his own hands, he had been one with it for so long that he would never forget what it had taught him. It had felt so right, to run on four legs as if it was what he was meant to be and to do. But the wolf inside had betrayed him, just like everything else.
Though Garret did not know it, it was indeed right for him to run because a promise had been made long ago to the first of his line: that no matter where he and his descendants scattered across this good earth, no matter whether they walked upon two legs or four, the wolf’s heart of courage would be theirs to keep, forever. It was beating now, slow and solid in Garret’s chest.
Despite this long and storied history, in the present moment, it meant only one simple thing: when Garret took off at a dead sprint for the Captain’s cabin, Commander Sharpe didn’t have a prayer of catching him.
W
Garret probably should have run back across the upper deck the way he had come. Instead, since he was already at the forward edge of the upper deck, he decided to take the ladder immediately at hand, which dropped him back down onto the main deck in front of the citadel. The unearthly glare of Kearsarge’s electric lights spotlighted him every step of the way. Garret was a predator. He didn’t like the light.
“Seaman Vilner!” Commander Sharpe boomed somewhere above him. “Stop! That’s an order, sailor!”
Garret barely heard him. He ripped open the door into the citadel. Nancy was Gun no.1, so she was first in line down the citadel. Garret sprinted beneath his buddies’ hammocks, which were swinging gently around Nancy, but even before Garret had entered the citadel, he’d raised enough ruckus that half of them were already sitting up on their elbows.
Theo stared at Garret as he flashed past. Fishy stared too, both of them quizzical and still partially asleep. Pun’kin just snored sonorously, an arm and a leg hanging over his hammock. Twitch had also sat up, but one look at Garret wiped the sleep off his face. He looked ready to say something, but someone else cut him off. It was the XO, Commander Sharpe. He was somewhere nearby. “Stop Seaman Vilner!”
Garret heard Twitch hit the deck behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Garret caught sight of Sweet Cheeks. He watched Garret, but unlike Twitch, Sweet Cheeks made no move at all.
“Lover Boy!” Twitch yelled. “Garret, stop!”
But something inside Garret had snapped. Some of it was Maxwell’s fault. Most of it wasn’t, but that didn’t matter. Maxwell was there, aboard the ship, not two hundred feet from where Garret currently ran. The blast shields flipped past on Garret’s left, one gun after another. He sprinted past the galleys, the blacksmith’s shop, and Commander Sharpe’s office. Two men happened to get in Garret’s way. He knocked them aside. One of them was a mess steward. Stale kaiser buns went flying.
Garret exploded out the far end of the citadel. Sharpe was still yelling from above. Other people were joining him. A bell started ringing. Garret sprinted across the stern deck. When he hit the ship’s ladder beneath the barrels of the thirteens, Commander Sharpe had only made it to the stern of the upper deck. Twitch was closer though, running for everything he was worth.
Out of the ten treads on the ship’s ladder, Garret only touched two as he dropped. He hit the berthdeck in the passage beside the captain’s cabin and charged through the open door.
Maxwell was still sitting at his fucking table, filling out pointless paper work. He was going to sit there reading papers while I drowned! Other than his pounding feet, Garret made no sound as he flung himself at his commanding officer. He had no idea what he planned to do when he got hold of the man, he only knew he was going to beat some sense into this crazy world, one face at a time.
Maxwell was both faster and stronger than he looked. He caught Garret’s crazed visage from the corner of his eye and managed to stand, turn, and fling a chair at Garret in one motion. The leg of it connected with Garret’s face and then left shoulder in rapid sequence. Garret’s flight plan lost cohesion and he crash landed into the table, scattering paperwork everywhere.
Maxwell had slid to the side and was standing ready, a grim expression on his face. Garret gathered himself up as he yelled, “You tried to kill me! I trusted you, and you told them to drown me!” Garret flung himself at Captain Maxwell.
The last time Garret had tried something this stupid, Sarn had brought him down. This time it was Twitch. Twitch, who was also airborne, hit Garret around the waist and changed his trajectory enough so that Maxwell only had to slide to the side again. Both Garret and Twitch crashed into a bookshelf, breaking off a piece of the facing and crushing one of the book-stops. The jagged end that was still attached to the bookshelf snagged Garret’s arm on the way by. Volumes poured to the floor as Garret tried to get at Maxwell and Twitch tried to restrain Garret without hurting him too badly.
“You’re just like Pa!” Garret screamed at his captain as he fought to get free. “You don’t care about anybody but yourself!”
The Captain wasn’t standing there anymore. As soon as Twitch had intercepted Garret, Maxwell had moved to the door to close it. He was interrupted when Commander Sharpe barged through.
“Captain, are you alright?” Sharpe demanded.
Maxwell headed towards Garret again. “I’m fine Commander,” he said with annoyance. Then he glanced back and snapped, “Shut the goddamn door, Andrew!”
Commander Sharpe closed it, then dodged around Maxwell to pounce on Garret, who
was just about to break free of Twitch. Sharpe had twice Garret’s strength. Together, Sharpe and Twitch had Garret subdued in moments.
Garret laid there on the floor, feeling weak, foolish, betrayed, and hurt beyond description. He could only reiterate as his struggles abated. “I trusted you.”
Maxwell knelt in front of Garret but said nothing until it was all done and Garret lay quietly, eyes closed. Garret felt Maxwell take hold of his arm, push the sleeve up, and turn it for inspection. The sleeve was sticky and wet with something warm. Garret opened his eyes. The forearm area of his sleeve was reddening with a spreading stain. Commander Sharpe was hovering right beside the captain, looking desperately like he needed an assignment of some sort.
“Commander Sharpe, clear the table, then go to ship’s stores and get the seaman a new uniform shirt.”
Garret watched without interest as the commander quickly and efficiently sorted the different items on the table into related stacks, stacked the stacks in a counter-laid pile so they wouldn’t get mixed up, and set them aside.
“Max?”
Maxwell stood and faced the door. Commander Sharpe had just opened it to leave. The doorway was filled with the heads and shoulders of officers and men. “Max?” It was the surgeon, a kindly older man. “Is everything alright?”
“We’re fine. Leave us.”
A younger lieutenant spoke, “Captain, did he—”
“Get out,” Maxwell ordered. They went and the door slammed.
Maxwell turned his attention to Twitch, who was still wrapped around Garret’s back and shoulders like a large beetle. “Let him go.”
Twitch obeyed and crawled out from behind Garret. Garret pushed himself to a sitting position against the bookshelf and put his head on his knees. He made no attempt to rise.
Maxwell was talking to Twitch. “Have we met before, seaman?”
Garret could hear the sound of standing-at-attention in Twitch’s voice. “Yes sir, you came and talked to us the other day at breakfast.”
“Before that seaman. You have a familiar face.”
Ironclad Page 17
