Garret was so tired. He just wanted to sleep. Bucket… how do I…?
Sweet Cheeks collapsed.
W
Captain Maxwell stepped around the corner into the brig. Captain Shearer was just throwing his jacket over an unruly pile of blankets on the floor of his cell.
Maxwell leaned against the bulkhead. He waited wordlessly.
Captain Shearer continued facing away from him, straightening his uniform calmly, ignoring his American counterpart. A full ten seconds later, Shearer faced Maxwell. They assessed one another through the bars.
Maxwell knew Shearer wasn’t about to speak first, so he did. “I had that mattress removed from the admiral’s cabin.”
Shearer had stood the mattress up against the wall. He was sleeping on the deck.
Shearer gazed hotly at Maxwell for another protracted minute. Maxwell was content to stare back and wait.
Shearer said, “Then the United States Navy treats its admirals as poorly as it treats its honor.”
“Save it, Robert,” Maxwell snapped. “Your crew isn’t here.”
“You look poorly,” Shearer replied, pointedly staring up and down Maxwell’s ruined, coal and soot-blackened uniform. “I think the life of a naval captain does not suit you.”
“Your crew could not have done what mine did,” Maxwell replied simply.
“Because I would not have asked them!” Shearer retorted.
“And now you are in my brig,” Maxwell replied.
“The weight of history descends on you,” Shearer barked. “The power of the Royal Navy will not be sated until you—”
Maxwell laughed, shifting his shoulder blades, feeling the old scars pull. “Yes, I remember well what sates them.”
Shearer glowered at him, angry but chagrined. “I would never have allowed that, David.”
“Perhaps. We will never know.”
An angry silence passed between them.
At last Shearer spoke again, solid and forceful as a landslide. “I will not help you, David. We are captains, both our souls are stained with it. But this I will not do.”
“They’re dead, Robert,” Maxwell said quietly. He let it hang, then gestured to the entire ship, his crew, and who knew what else beyond. “They’re all dead unless you help me.”
“War is inevitable,” Shearer said regretfully. “No one can stop it.”
Maxwell shrugged. “I’m not here to.”
Shearer narrowed his eyes. More time passed as Shearer weighed him.
“You have a fine crew,” Maxwell said, “but mine are finer still. They are young and frightened, but they are brave and they are good.”
Shearer shook his head. “You compare the finest crew in the Royal Navy to this untrained miscreant rabble of yours. Your arrogance is breathtaking.”
“Yours were ready to murder us in cold blood as we stood on the deck of your ship,” Maxwell answered simply. “But as you stand here, one of mine is sleeping at your feet. There were no witnesses, Robert. They could have killed you and left your body for the mess steward to find, ensuring their secret and their friend would have been safe. You or I might have done that. But it didn’t even cross their minds, did it?”
Shearer blanched, his mouth hanging open for a second before he flushed red with anger.
Maxwell walked away. “I need you, Robert,” he said as he went. “We all need you.”
Chapter 18
The static overran more and more of the caller’s words.
“Can’t turn… amps… overload…” the caller said.
Mr. Carr had gotten Petty Officer Rogers killed, and now the longer he worked on the phone system, the worse the phones became.
“Mr. Pauley,” Andrew said into the receiver. “I can’t hear you. Repeat your last.”
Nothing but static filled Andrew’s ear.
Andrew hung up the phone and fumed. In the bank of round lights by the phone, the light for the engine room lit up weakly, as if Mr. Pauley was trying to reconnect. The light guttered like a candle, then faded. Andrew was in the charthouse, atop the flying bridge. Behind him, the navigator was having a low-pitched argument with the helmsman. The argument wasn’t over the chart spread between them, but over the hand written note one of the engineer’s mates had sent up, advising the best speed for minimizing coal consumption. He’d sent the note via runner because he was tired of being misheard over the failing phones.
The young men who ran the switch board were as bewildered as everyone else. At least they hadn’t blamed everyone else like Mr. Carr always did. The men on the switchboard had apologized profusely. Andrew had spent several minutes assuring them that it wasn’t their fault. They’d still looked like they thought they’d failed him.
Maxwell seemed to have given up on the phones. He’d been using his steward to pass orders for days. Andrew headed out of the charthouse to find Mr. Carr. Andrew was Kearsarge’s XO. It was his job to make sure all ship operations ran smoothly. More importantly, if they went into battle without phones, they would all die quickly.
W
“Orders from the Captain, sir,” Garret said blearily. He held out the orders to the obese, perspiring cook. Garret had been out of the coal bunker for about an hour, but neither his mind nor body was recovering as quickly as if had before. Maybe it had something to do with Captain Maxwell running him from one end of the ship to the other delivering messages instead of letting him rest.
The cook looked at Garret through suspicious, beady, fat-lidded eyes. Behind and above him on a rack, a long marmalade tail was hanging out of a skillet. Bert was sleeping in the cookware. The cook put down the metal ladle, which he had been about to dip into a barrel-sized pot of chowder, and wiped his pudgy hands on his apron. Garret still held the papers out. God… Garret thought sluggishly. Just take the damn things.
After a moment of sizing Garret up, the cook blew through his nose like a horse and took the papers. Garret turned to go.
“Hold up,” said the cook as he held out one of the papers, unfolded. It wasn’t a returned requisition order or a list, but simply a handwritten note of some sort.
“How do I know this is from the Captain,” the cook asked suspiciously.
The inanity of the question stumped Garret’s fume-saturated mind. He shrugged and said, “Well if you don’t recognize your own Captain’s signature then I guess you don’t.”
The cook jostled himself towards Garret, pudgy hands extended to do who knew what, but Garret slipped away into a gaggle of men carrying coils of rope and hose.
That was the last order Maxwell had given him to deliver, other than the verbal message, of course.
Finally, Garret thought. Anxiety over the condition of his friends had ridden him hard over the last hour. At last he could check on them. Thanks to the verbal message Captain Maxwell had given him, he even had an excuse to check on Theo. Garret went down the nearest ladder like an old man.
Garret’s feet felt like lead, but eventually, he rounded the last bulkhead into the brig. Captain Shearer was moving quickly to rearrange his jacket and sheet pile on the mattress, but when he saw it was Garret, he dropped the jacket where he stood, leaving part of Theo’s head uncovered.
Shearer turned to face him. He scowled at Garret and said, “Six.”
“What…? Six? What’s six, sir?” Garret asked.
Shearer stepped to the bars, his eyes bulging with annoyance. His British accent thickened. “The number of times one of you bovver boys has come down to ask me about your friend—in the last hour.”
Shearer folded his arms and glared at Garret in the guilt-inducing way known only to captains, mothers, and fire-and-brimstone preachers.
Garret didn’t know what a “bovver boy” was, but he tried to drag his brain through an apology. “Oh. We’re sorry Captain. We’re worried about him.”
“You should be,” Shearer said. His posture, his articulation, and somehow even his irritation were
properly British. “Because if you gentlemen don’t stop, I’m going to smother him with a pillow.”
Garret groped and tried not to shuffle his feet. Then he remembered his excuse. “Actually sir, I’m here to give you a message from Captain Maxwell.”
Garret had thought it would placate the British Captain. Instead his face darkened. “He sends you to give me a message?”
Garret fumbled. “Well I… I’m his, um, steward, sir.”
Shearer leaned towards the bars, veins beginning to bulge in his forehead. Garret leaned away.
“Oh, he sends his barmy steward, does he?” Shearer hissed.
“Yes sir,” Garret said. “He, Captain Maxwell I mean, just wants to make sure you are comfortable,” Garret looked at the bare steel interior of the cell as he said it. “And, uh, he wants to know if you need anything. Like food or something, I guess.” Then he added, “Except out. I can’t let you out.” Oh God, did I really just say that?
Captain Shearer was livid, and seemed to be growing taller, like a rumbling, purple-faced volcano about to blow. When he did erupt, his British accent was so heavy that Garret had trouble making it all out. He’d heard something like it once before, back home. A passerby had called it “broad Yorkshire.” It sounded to Garret like it was all long vowels with a tiny consonant stuck in every once in a while to keep Shearer’s tongue from wrapping around the back of his head.
“Listen here you bloody little cabbage! You tell that piss-and-wind bumsucker that he’s off his chump if thinks he can bang me up in here and then send his fartcatcher to…”
Then footsteps were coming down the corridor. Shearer grumbled something about it all being “balls up,” then snapped at Garret to “bugger off” while he finished covering Theo.
Theo was still breathing. Garret decided that would have to be good enough for right now. He fled.
“Fartcatcher,” Garret mused aloud as he waited for a guy carrying a pail and holystone to enter the citadel so he could exit it. “How could I catch a fart?” Maybe it wasn’t literal, like catching a cold. Yeah, that was probably it.
Wow, can you really catch farts from somebody? Garret would ask Twitch at supper. Twitch would know.
Garret stepped out of the citadel onto the stern main deck. Atlantic sunshine and fresh salt air washed over him, coupled with the sounds of Kearsarge’s churning wake and the snapping of a canvas awning. Garret skirted the ladder that came down from the upper deck, passed a couple open hatches.
The awning extended from the top of the rear turret to the rail all around, shading Kearsarge’s stern like a small baseball field—a baseball field with forty foot guns protruding down the middle of it. Usually, on a battleship, lying around under the awning would mean that the crew had finished dinner and had a little time to kill on a nice evening. This evening, it meant that someone they cared about was in triage. Sick men lay everywhere in the sweltering shade. Some of them were up on elbows or even sitting, talking their buddies, but most were lying, sleeping, or in the worst cases, like Sweet Cheeks, unconscious.
Garret found Sweet Cheeks quickly enough, but only because Burl, Pun’kin, and Velvet were sitting around him, chewing the fat and wasting time. Sweet Cheeks lay on the deck in his underwear, a rough navy blanket beneath him. He was one of thirty-some men on the stern, all laid out by varying degrees of heat stroke and inhalation. Every cold item from the ship’s refrigerator was now either laying beneath a man’s armpits, neck, back, or crotch.
The doctor was kneeling over a prostrate man a few yards away, taking the man’s pulse and griping at a couple other enlisted men whom he’d conscripted as nurses. They listened to his clipped instructions with helpless expressions, then hurried away to do their best for their friends.
Garret eased himself down beside Pun’kin, ignoring a pang in his back as he did so. Another man passed their group. He had a deck hose in hand and he was hosing down the men on all sides as if he were watering a garden. Velvet reached over and covered Sweet Cheeks mouth and nose as the guy with the hose blasted him down with no concern for his face. Garret did the same for the guy lying on the other side, whoever he was. The hose man went on to the next guys in line.
Sweet Cheeks had cold steaks under his arms. The guy whose face Garret had just covered had a frozen ham between his legs. Garret eyed the ham, wondering when it would end up in a soup and none of them would be the wiser.
“Why is it between his legs?” Pun’kin asked.
Garret shrugged.
“Blood vessels,” Velvet replied smoothly. “They’ve got to cool their bodies down on the inside. Armpits and groin have a lot of blood vessels.”
“How did you know that?” Burl asked.
It was Velvet’s turn to shrug. “I read a lot. Or I used to. What did the Captain have you doing this time?”
Garret answered “I was mailman again,” but then he squinted at Velvet in suspicion. Garret grinned. “Twitch told you that, didn’t he?”
Velvet shook his head, but the hesitation and the blush creeping into his cheeks belied him.
Pun’kin and Garret laughed. Burl grinned.
Garret shook Sweet Cheeks’ shoulder gently and said, “You’re missing it, buddy. We’re making fun of Velvet.” To Garret’s surprise, Sweet Cheeks opened his eyes. They were glazed and half-focused. Pun’kin and Velvet crowded close. Burl peeked over their shoulders.
“Sweet Cheeks!” Pun’kin bawled in his face. “Sweet Cheeks! Can ya hear me?!”
Garret sat back, his head ringing.
“They heard you back home, Pun’kin,” Velvet grated, putting a hand over the ear nearest Pun’kin.
Sweet Cheeks’ eyes fell closed.
“He’s better now, right?” Pun’kin asked, right in Garret’s face. “He looks better. He’ll be okay now, right?”
Garret blinked away the blast of sound and nodded. “Sure Pun’kin.” Sweet Cheeks did look like he was resting well.
Pun’kin relaxed visibly, worry draining out of his honest face. Garret put an arm around his shoulder. A finger poked Garret’s other shoulder. It was Burl.
“How did he get that nickname,” Burl asked. He was even quieter than Theo. It made every question he asked sound conspiratorial.
“Well I’ll tell ya!” Pun’kin blared. He turned and thumped Sweet Cheeks on the chest. “You don’t mind if I tell this one, do ya?”
Sweet Cheeks laid there, inert.
“Great!” Pun’kin said and turned back to Burl. “Sweet Cheeks used to not do such a bang-up job shavin’, see. So first day of bootcamp he comes to muster with a little fuzz on his face.”
Garret and Velvet both grinned. They’d been there to see it, of course.
“Ya couldn’t hardly notice it,” Pun’kin continued, “but our drill sergeant, he noticed everything. ‘Boy,’ he says to Sweet Cheeks, only we just called him Charlie then, ‘Boy, your Mama’s face prob’ly got more hair than that, but you’re not gonna look like her while I’m making a Navy man out of ya.’ Then Charlie says ‘But I did shave sir!’ Charlie didn’t mean it smart or nuthin, but the Sergeant made ‘im go get his razor while we all waited. We thought the sergeant was gonna make him dry shave, see? And by golly he did. Made him stand in front of the whole formation, pull down his pants and dry shave his butt right there in front ‘o the Good Lord and everybody!”
Velvet burst out laughing like a nine year old and butted in. “And then soon as he pulls his pants back up, the Sergeant pats him on the head and says, ‘You’ll remember now, won’t you Sweet Cheeks?’”
They all enjoyed an immature laugh at Sweet Cheek’s expense. It might have been Garret’s imagination, but he thought he caught a ghost of a smile on Sweet Cheek’s face.
“Goddamn it!” came the enraged roar.
Everybody flinched and the laughter died.
It was Twitch, running down on them, wiping blood off his hands with a rag. “I told you to keep him wet!”
&
nbsp; “He is wet, Twitch,” Velvet said. “There aren’t enough hoses for us to—”
“Then do whatever you’ve got to!” Twitch barked in Velvet’s face, laying a hand on Sweet Cheeks’ forehead. “Dammit, he’s still hot!” Twitch yelled in Garret’s face. “Hasn’t anybody even touched him?”
Garret and the rest of them recoiled away from Twitch’s anger.
“We’re sorry, Twitch,” Pun’kin said. “We thought the shade—”
Twitch ran to the nearest bulkhead and snatched a floatation device, a brown vest stuffed with cork. He was still yelling at them as he went and returned. “Shade’s not enough! It’s almost ninety degrees out here! I told you keep him wet!”
Velvet was white. He gestured to the man with the hose. “He’s hosing him down every time he comes by, we thought—”
Confused and frightened, Garret watched Twitch dash back to them. Twitch was more than angry, he was scared.
“Twitch,” Garret asked tightly, “what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?!” Twitch barked at Garret as he sat Sweet Cheeks up. “You guys may have just hurt Charlie bad! That’s what’s wrong!” Twitch flung the frozen food away from Sweet Cheeks, lifted his limp body to a sitting position, and started fitting the floatation device around his chest. “Damn it, damn it, damn it! Do you guys know how long he’s been overheated now?”
Sweet Cheeks was limp as a rag.
The Hollow Man came out of nowhere in Garret’s head. I’ve been trying to warn you Garret.
Only at the sound of the Hollow Man’s words did Garret grasp the deadly gravity of the situation. Judging by Velvet’s pale face, he’d grasped it a few seconds ago. Garret thought he was going to throw up.
We sat around making jokes and thinking he was getting better. But he was dying? Oh God, oh God, oh God.
“Move, Floyd,” Twitch ordered. Humiliated, Velvet scurried out of the way.
Garret saw a loose buckle on the floatation device and tried to buckle it. He fumbled the job and made it harder for Twitch to hoist Sweet Cheeks up.
“I’ve got it, Garret,” Twitch barked. Garret fell back.
Ironclad Page 31
