“Captain, can she pursue?” Sharpe asked.
“No,” Maxwell replied. “Gunther and I swam through the engine room on our way in. The second torpedo damaged both engines. The Lion sleeps.”
Garret stared. Holy shit. Maxwell and that crazy German guy swam through the torpedo hole and up into the ship from the inside. That’s how they got the uniforms. They must have killed a couple guys. He probably knifed them in the back.
Garret surreptitiously inspected the back of Maxwell’s British uniform for a knife slit. He didn’t see one.
Despite his best efforts, Garret was impressed with Maxwell. Then the thought about the sailor whose uniform Maxwell was wearing. He was a guy like me, just trying to keep their ship from sinking and drowning all his friends.
Garret suddenly felt a bit ill. He couldn’t stop picturing Theo, stabbed in the back by a foreign captain, even though a uniform Theo’s size would never have fit a captain unless he was a midget.
Commander Sharpe, still grinning like a fiend, slapped his captain on the back. Maxwell let him do it without comment. Behind them, the guy who’d chickened out was vacillating up and down the deck like a whipped dog. At last he gave up, crept up, and presented himself at attention beside Maxwell.
Maxwell ignored him.
“Captain, I…” he began.
“Sailor,” Maxwell said, still looking at the Lion, “that was my favorite uniform.”
Garret stared at the guy, then at the sodden wad of wool he himself was wearing, which would probably shrink to about half its normal size when it dried.
I just ruined Lieutenant Bartram’s uniform, Garret realized. He looked at the uniform, then at his captain, who was still staring calmly at the Lion as she slipped away astern.
“Sailor,” Maxwell said to the big guy.
“Yes sir!”
“I’m sure you have duties.”
Garret didn’t know whether or not the command was meant to give him leave as well, but he took it and went. He went because his guts weren’t steady and he was feeling a bit lightheaded. Maybe he was just overstressed. Maybe the emotional load of what he’d just been through had to break through in one way or another. Whatever the reason, no sooner did Garret make it inside the citadel than he burst into peals of uncontrollable laughter.
That torpedo guy’s dead, we’re not, and I ruined Lieutenant Bartram’s uniform.
Garret felt giddy, and the sick feeling in his stomach was worsening. He didn’t know why. He leaned against Nancy in Lieutenant Bartram’s uniform and laughed until it hurt. He couldn’t seem to stop. Garret’s friends started appearing around him, concerned and curious. A baker stuck his head around the corner. A master chief from port side slowed down as he passed.
Twitch came around the blast shield. He had a new book from the crew’s library in his hand, but he was talking in low tones to Velvet. “The Captain didn’t even order ‘clear ship for battle’,” Twitch muttered. “That’s past confident. That’s—what’s so funny, Lover Boy?”
Garret was helpless, laughing harder and harder, but it didn’t feel good.
“Garret?” It was Theo. The other guys were grinning curiously at Garret’s laughter. Theo wasn’t smiling at all.
“Why not me?” Garret asked Sweet Cheeks through gales of laughter. His cheeks felt damp.
“What?” Sweet Cheeks gripped Garret’s shoulder.
Out the nearest gunport, Lion lay a long ways off, black and shrinking against the sunset. Certain death, fading away behind them.
“They could have shot anybody,” Garret laughed. “Why not me? Why is it never me?”
W
Andrew settled into one of the sumptuous leather chairs in the Captain’s cabin. Maxwell sat across from him, a glass in one hand. Maxwell reached across the table, pushed the decanter of Tennessee mash closer to Andrew, then he pulled another glass from the cabinet behind them and slid it across the wood.
Lieutenant Bartram lounged a short distance from the table, in a leather chair against the bulkhead, hiding in the shadows where he belonged. Andrew poured himself a couple fingers. He picked up the glass, watched the amber liquid swirl. Maxwell wasn’t looking at either of them, he was staring at the picture of his daughter, on the desk.
A rap came from the door. Lieutenant Bartram got up and went to get it. Andrew sipped his whiskey. Maxwell always kept the worst sort of drink. It was harsh and dry and tasted as if it had been distilled inside a dead rattlesnake. He never understood why the Captain didn’t purchase something a little finer.
Barty returned to his chair, still languidly relaxed. Mr. Wilkes, whom Barty had just let in, approached the table. Maxwell pulled out a chair for him and the older man sat. He leaned heavily on his cane as he did so, and seemed to be favoring his right hip.
“Are you injured, Mr. Wilkes?” the Captain asked.
Wilkes waved a hand in dismissal. “When you’re this old, something always hurts.”
“Then may I offer you a drink?”
Mr. Wilkes shot a longing glance at the bottle, but shook his head. “I’ll need to get back to work soon.”
“Then what can I do for you, sir,” the Captain asked him, still looking at the picture of his daughter.
Wilkes sighed. “The Brahmanda Astra was damaged while we were under fire.”
That got Maxwell’s attention. “How badly?”
Wilkes sat back, looking tired and old. “I don’t know. One of the standard eight inch shells broke loose from its shelving and fell onto the bracework supporting the six inch Astras. It caused a dent in the secondary casing.”
“I am not a weapons expert, Mr. Wilkes,” Maxwell said shortly. “How severely will a dent in the casing of a shell interfere with the function of the weapon?”
Wilkes removed his glasses and ran a wrinkled hand across his eyes. “Function isn’t the problem. The destructive power of the Astra is unimpeded. The problem is aerodynamics. Our design tolerances for the Astra were one-one thousandth of an inch. That’s why it took six months to construct just four shells. Given the range at which the Astra was to be fired, the tolerances have to be that tight to ensure accuracy, even with the new barrel liners.”
Maxwell inclined his head in thought.
“How much range have we lost?” Andrew asked.
“That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I need to borrow your blacksmith. Due to the rifling in the new liners, the four shells of the Brahmanda Astra will be spinning at greater than normal velocity at the muzzle. A dent in the casing of one of them will destabilize it in flight. Given the Astra’s projected muzzle velocity, the damaged shell could begin to orbit too soon in its fight path, or it could even go into a tumble. That would be worst case scenario. I think if your blacksmith and I work together on the damage, we can eliminate that possibility.”
Wilkes sat back. “In other words, Captain, the best I can offer you is to restore the weapon to the point that it won’t detonate in mid-flight. Its range, however, will still be greatly reduced.”
Andrew asked again, tensely. “By how much, Mr. Wilkes?”
“Less than half,” Wilkes replied.
Andrew’s heart sank. He gave a deferring glance at Maxwell. The Captain’s poker face was impassive, but he only said, “Will that keep the Kearsarge outside of the effective spread of the weapon?”
Wilkes nodded. “It will, once the repairs are complete.”
Maxwell nodded and appeared about to change the subject.
“Sir!” Andrew protested at the same time Barty said, “Captain!”
Barty was better at making a point than Andrew was, so Andrew let him do the talking.
“Captain,” Barty protested, “that will bring the Astra’s range down to barely more than a normal salvo from Kearsarge. The plan hinges on being able to fire the weapon from outside the ranges of the dreadnoughts. Now we will have to sail for miles inside the firing range of an entire convoy of advanced warsh
ips before we can even open fire. They will obliterate us the moment we come over the horizon!”
“I understand your concerns,” Maxwell said, then turned to Mr. Wilkes. “Are you certain you can repair it?”
“I believe so,” Wilkes said resignedly, but Andrew barely heard because he was still staring at Captain Maxwell as if the man had suddenly jumped up on the table and started meowing and arching his back like a cat.
“Captain,” Andrew interrupted, too flabbergasted to realize he’d done it. “They’ll kill us miles before we can intercept them. Dozens of ships against one. I understand a slim chance, but this is no chance at all.”
Maxwell did not chastise him. “There is always a chance, Andrew.” Maxwell almost smiled. “Trust your captain.”
Mr. Wilkes harrumphed in frustration. “Captain,” he said. “Maybe this isn’t meant to be. This isn’t really our fight, you know.”
Maxwell fixed him with a look that chilled Andrew’s blood. Andrew had seen the look before. It was savage and feral, the inner animal pressing tightly against the man’s skin. Maxwell only gave the look to people who had fallen below his assessment of their quality.
Mr. Wilkes sat back from the table.
“Repair it,” Maxwell said quietly. “Use whomever and whatever you need from this ship for as long as you need it. I care about only one thing: make certain the Kearsarge will be outside of the Astra’s expansion radius. Lieutenant Bartram, see that Mr. Wilkes wants for nothing.”
“Aye sir,” Barty replied.
Maxwell continued, “And don’t think for one moment, Mr. Wilkes, that this won’t be our fight, or our children’s fight. That’s fear talking. Don’t ever lend it your mouth in the presence of my crew again.”
Anger crept into Mr. Wilkes’ face. He stood. It was obviously hard on him. When he’d made it to a standing position, he leaned on his cane, pulled out his pocket watch, checked it, then put it away. “One of the benefits,” he said quietly, “of being my age, is that I get to say what needs to be said. You, Max, are blinded by your own loss of hope, and so you proceed as if not only you, but the entire world has nothing to lose. Tyrants and worse are born that way.”
Andrew was flabbergasted, but Maxwell dismissed Wilkes as easily as if he were a puff of smoke on a passing breeze.
Wilkes left, slowly and painfully. His right leg had definitely been injured when Lion fired on them. Lieutenant Bartram closed the door behind Mr. Wilkes, then returned to lounge in his chair. Andrew began breathing again.
“Any word from Captain Watson on the liners?” Maxwell asked him.
“No sir,” Andrew answered. “When I’m not in the wireless room, only my most trusted are. There has been no communication from the Arethusa.”
“I wonder,” Barty interjected, “how the barrels would fare if we fired the Astra without the liners?”
“We cannot fire six and eleven inch shells from eight and thirteen inch guns, Lieutenant,” Maxwell responded.
Barty nodded. “Aye sir. Of course, sir.”
Andrew turned the glass in his hand. He couldn’t believe Mr. Wilkes had said what he’d said and then been allowed to walk out with his head still attached to his shoulders, so the question Andrew had been nervous about posing suddenly seemed tame and boring. “Captain, Mr. Sokolov came and found me after we returned from the Lion.”
Maxwell continued staring at the picture of his daughter. He didn’t reply.
“Sir, he informed me that our guns were not loaded because you passed orders specifically not to load them before we pushed off on the cutters. He requested to know why. I didn’t know what to tell him.”
“Don’t hide behind another man, Andrew,” Maxwell said flatly. “It’s beneath you.”
Andrew groped for his poise and hoped his face didn’t look as hot as it felt. “So… you knew Captain Shearer would not fire on us?”
“Yes.”
“Why not tell our men to load the guns just in case?”
“Because our boys were terrified, Andrew. Don’t underestimate the power of a single mistake made by one frightened person, let alone hundreds of frightened people.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw Barty cover a half smile by taking a drink.
“But Kearsarge was a sitting duck,” Andrew pressed. “How could you know he wouldn’t fire?” He added, “Sir.”
Maxwell didn’t change positions, didn’t so much as bat an eye, but he looked away from his daughter’s face when he said, “Because Captain Shearer is a good man.”
Andrew sat for a minute, at a loss. Eventually he said, “I don’t understand, sir.”
“Good men have no place in situations like this,” Maxwell said. “It’s time you learned that, Commander.”
W
Garret stood at attention outside the officer’s wardroom, warm and dry in one of his own uniforms. Before him stood Lieutenant Bartram, holding the dripping wool uniform Garret had just handed him. Bartram held it away from himself, looking from it to Garret with such distaste that it seemed to make his nose even longer and pointier.
Garret made absolutely certain to keep his face neutral when he said, “I’m sorry about your uniform, sir. Captain Maxwell ordered us to jump over the side of the Lion.”
Bartram glowered at Garret, but only for an instant. He quickly replaced it with his usual look of condescension, though at least Garret did enjoy standing there and staring at Bartram while he struggled to get his pomposity adjusted properly. Then Bartram said, “Seaman, I’ve been thinking about our last conversation, and it’s been bothering me. Do you trust your captain?”
Garret’s stomach sank. Not again. “Yes sir,” he said, stumbling a little over the lie.
“You trust him even after he tried to have you thrown overboard?”
Garret pushed the answer through gritted teeth. “Yes sir.”
“Well I wouldn’t.”
Garret had no clue what to say.
The lieutenant went on. “If I was innocent, and the captain tried to have me thrown overboard, I don’t know if I would ever be able to trust the man again, yet you can do it so easily?”
“No sir,” Garret answered quickly, then realized what that sounded like. “I mean yes sir!” Then he realized what that sounded like. “I mean…” Damn you lieutenant rat!
The lieutenant had cupped the fingers of his right hand into his palm and was calmly inspecting his fingernails. “Because if a man tried to have you drowned for a crime you didn’t commit, that would be a massive error in judgment on his part, would it not?”
“Yes sir?” Garret answered timidly.
“Are you asking me or telling me, seaman?”
I don’t know, which one will end this fastest? “Yes sir,” he said.
“So you’re questioning your captain’s judgment, then? And as his entire fitness for command rests on his sound judgment, you are thereby questioning his ability to command the Kearsarge? Because that sounds like exactly what a saboteur would do.”
“No sir!” The ship was shrinking around Garret, like it was going to crush him. Or maybe Lieutenant Bartram was expanding to fill the whole damn ship.
Bartram put his hands on his hips and gave a dramatic sigh. “Well which is it, seaman? Get your story straight. Do you question his judgment or do you not?”
“No sir, not at all sir!”
“So you don’t question the judgment of a man who tried to have you thrown overboard?”
“No sir!”
“Well that’s what worries me, seaman.”
Garret was eyeing the gun port. With all the baffles down, it was large enough that he could fling himself out beside the barrel and fall into the ocean. It sounded nice.
“That worries me,” the lieutenant repeated. “You see, if he tried to condemn you for a crime of which you are innocent, you would naturally distrust him. Anyone would. Yet now you are telling me that you trust him implicitly. To me, tha
t can only say that you knew he was right in condemning you: that you are indeed the saboteur we have been looking for.”
“I’m not! I swear!” Garret was desperate. “Sir, I didn’t! I wouldn’t know how to sabotage things! I don’t even know how to spell it!”
The lieutenant crossed his arms with a flat expression. “Well… I guess I can’t argue with that.” He walked away, patting Garret’s shoulder on the way by and saying politely, “Carry on, sailor.”
As soon as he was gone, Garret exhaled explosively and sagged back against the bulkhead. Damn him. I should have peed in his uniform when I had the chance.
Chapter 16
Garret was still rattled from his Bartram-interrogation when he sat down at their mess table. His end of the bench was a little high. “Damn it Fishy,” he said. “You didn’t get the legs all the way out. Get up,” he waved at Theo and Burl. Before they could, Curtis leaned over and kicked the leg, slamming the table out level on the deck. Garret was the only one standing, so everyone in the citadel turned and stared at him.
“That better?” Curtis asked.
Garret blushed and sat down. Curtis’s kick had sloshed Garret’s food out on the table. No one else cared. Grumbling, Garret scraped apricots and mashed potatoes off the wood. Lunch was more boisterous today. Everyone was still flying high after their “defeat” of the mighty Lion.
“Where’s Velvet?” Fishy asked Garret.
Garret shrugged, annoyed. “Emptying ash hoists last I saw.” Sure, ask me where Velvet is. Don’t bother about where I’ve been. Maybe I just won’t tell you guys about being on the Lion.
Theo had his piece of toast in his mouth, gnawing on it, but couldn’t seem to bite off a piece. He gripped it with both hands and pulled. Still nothing. Garret picked up his piece and tapped it on his bowl. It sounded like a piece of wood.
Sweet Cheeks sat down beside Twitch. After taking a look around the table, Sweet Cheeks laid his sketchbook on the table and began to draw, glancing occasionally back up at his friends. He paused every now and then to take a bite of his food.
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