“Thank you, Thurman,” Maxwell said to the surgeon. “I’m sure you and Dr. Dobbs are doing everything you can. Mr. Sokolov?”
The big Russian rumbled, “I’ve one dead and one ill out of the aft turret. A few of the flank guns are undermanned, and all are undertrained. There’s the little smartass by the name of Colson who’s actually been a great help. We’ve been creative in training. We’ll manage.” He shot another challenging stare at the ship bearing down on them.
Maxwell turned to the chief engineer. “Mr. Pauley?”
Pauley’s face was a mask of anguish. “She’s hurting so bad, Captain. We haven’t had the men to take care of her since we cast off. It’s all we can do just to keep her moving parts greased so they don’t seize. I can feel her pain every time I touch her.”
Andrew had never heard a more soulful, less informative report.
“The engines, Mr. Pauley,” Maxwell prompted curtly.
“Oh, aye. We’ve got good steam pressure built up now Captain. She’s ready for top speed.”
Maxwell turned to the diminutive paymaster. “Mr. Cartwright?”
His eyes were half-lidded as if he was about to go to sleep standing up. He was still holding that damn logbook of his as if it was a baby. He sounded bored when he said, “Ship’s provisions are holding, sir. We have what we need to complete the mission.”
That was all he had to say.
Representatives from every operation aboard ship had come, but without waiting for another word from any of them, Maxwell dismissed them. “Thank you gentlemen, you may return to your duties.”
Andrew spun on his heel.
“Andrew, a moment.”
The knot of officers dissolved quickly from around Maxwell and Andrew, leaving down the ladders in a rapid stream of blue uniforms. Barty shot Andrew a grim I told you so glance on his way by. Mr. Sokolov lumbered away, pushing his turret officers ahead of him and issuing orders about powder crews and armor piercing rounds as they went.
Andrew stood there trying not to tap his foot, but Captain Maxwell had turned to talk to Chief Greely. Andrew glanced at the approaching battleship. Every second they tarried was another grain of sand falling from the scales, and their lives hung in the balance.
First Lieutenant Martin bounded up the ladder. Andrew steeled himself. Martin was supposed to be Andrew’s deputy, but had recently become more like a hyper-neurotic conscience.
“Commander,” Martin said, saluting smartly. “More food stuffs have been found missing from the cold stores. A corned beef sandwich this time.”
Since the day Maxwell had doubled him over with a gut punch, Martin had been devoted to his duties to an annoying degree. Andrew looked at the monstrous battleship bearing down on them: death in the form of thirty thousand tons of remorseless steel.
Andrew blinked at the oncoming ship, growing larger by the minute, then at Martin. “A corned beef sandwich?” Andrew repeated.
“Yes sir, I’m concerned about our supplies lasting the duration of the mission.”
Andrew looked at the looming battleship again, then stared closely at Martin’s head, as if expecting to see a physical defect severe enough to be visible through his cover. He didn’t see one, so he said, “Mr. Cartwright oversees all supplies except ordnance. I don’t think he shares your concern about a corned beef sandwich.”
“Actually sir, he does,” Martin replied.
Andrew turned an incredulous look on Martin as he pictured Mr. Cartwright standing there, not thirty seconds before, constitutionally incapable of being concerned about anything, relaying his report in a superlatively bored manner. “Mr. Cartwright said that?” Andrew asked.
“Well not precisely, Commander. He indicated it strongly when he shrugged at my repeated inquiries about—”
Andrew tuned Martin out. Maxwell was still talking to Chief Greely.
“Ira, where do we stand with the bunker fire?”
Chief Greely wiped his forehead with a weary hand. “I think we’ve almost beat it, sir. A few more hours like this, and I think we’ll have it out for good.”
“Unfortunately,” Maxwell said, “I can’t give you a few more hours. We’re going to have to batten down.”
That meant Captain Maxwell intended to take the Kearsarge directly into the storm. Andrew felt the First Lieutenant tense up. Maxwell apparently noticed it as well.
“You have something to say, Martin?” Maxwell asked.
Martin froze in indecision for a moment, no doubt recalling the memorable punch he’d received last time. He was careful and respectful when he said, “Captain, can we head into the storm? It’s bad enough that we had to move all the coal off the decks to load the liners. If we close all the hatches to the coal bins, we’ll be sealing the men in there with the fire, and they won’t have any fresh air.”
“We have no choice.” Maxwell turned to the wheel and waved away the helmsman who was manning it. “We have to even this fight as much as we can.”
Maxwell took the helm and began issuing preparatory orders.
Andrew tried not to frown at Martin and Maxwell. Martin glanced over his shoulder at the battleship cutting across the Atlantic towards them. Andrew followed Martin’s eye. Even though she’d crested the horizon only a few minutes ago, her size was already imposing. Andrew was no expert, but as far as he could make out, she was either German, British, or Brazilian. Andrew wondered if she might be the Minas Geraes, Brazil’s floating apocalypse. In a perverse way, Andrew wanted to see her up close, sort of like staring down the throat of a jaguar as it opened its mouth to maul you. Or getting to look an axe murderer in the eye as he raised the axe.
Sweat was beading on Andrew’s neck. It was trickling down Martin’s.
“Captain, why hasn’t she fired on us yet? We’ve been in her range for miles,” Martin blurted.
“They won’t risk hitting one of their own,” Maxwell replied simply, gesturing to the Arethusa.
Neither German nor Brazilian, then. British. Either way it was only going to help until the Arethusa high-tailed it.
“Ira, get everyone into the coal bunker that we can spare,” Maxwell said. “Rotate shifts every ten minutes if you have to, and we’ll leave the hatches open as long as we can.”
“Captain—” Martin began.
“We have to even this fight, Martin. Dismissed.”
W
Garret dragged himself up to the main deck inside the citadel. His confession to Twitch and the following tears had made him feel a tiny bit better about his future with his family, but Sweet Cheeks was still dead, and nothing was going to make that better.
Garret had hoped to see at least one of his friends when he stepped off the ladder, but their station around Nancy was deserted. Grey morning twilight was coming in through Nancy’s gun port, so Garret must have been in the brig even longer than he’d thought. Garret stood blearily for a minute, watching the men scramble from one end of the citadel to the other, going in and out, carrying rope, passing orders.
The mix of grey twilight and electric light, which normally seemed warm to Garret, now looked waxy on the guys around him, making his shipmates look like walking corpses, or slightly solid ghosts. Or maybe he was just projecting his feelings onto them.
Out the gun port, the imposing bulk of another ship floated disturbingly close. It was so close, in fact, that Garret could see the expressions on the faces of the other crew, just as he could hear his own, working diligently on deck. Kearsarge’s search lights had been angled down to light up the water between them. Beneath the surface, though, the water looked like inky glass. It was beginning to stir. A storm was coming.
Chief Greely huffed to a stop behind Garret. Greely looked a hundred years old. Covered with soot, eyes watery, his back bent like the Appalachian coal miners who usually died of black lung in their forties. Greely looked like he didn’t belong on a battleship, or anywhere other than a rocking chair.
“Chie
f, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, son.”
Bull. Fighting the fire was too much for the old Chief, just as it was too much for Theo. As the Chief caught his breath, Garret asked, “Why didn’t you let Twitch out, Chief?”
Greely grimaced as he leaned on a stanchion. “I explained that, son. The brig doesn’t get emptied until the Captain orders us to battle stations. Now get into a clean uniform on the double and get out there. We need every hand on the ropes.”
The Chief hobbled away, a dirty, frail looking mess.
Garret stood there mutely, trying to gather strength to do as the Chief had ordered him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his duty station. He wanted to curl up in his hammock and sleep until Sweet Cheeks was no longer dead.
Wait, my hammock’s hung?
Apparently, whatever had prompted Garret’s release from the brig had also merited rousting out his friends without even giving them time to trice up their hammocks. They all still hung there. Even Garret’s. One of his friends had hung it up for him, in hopes he might be released in the middle of the night and get to sleep without having to retrieve and hang his hammock.
Garret stared dumbly at it, and was not embarrassed when it brought hot tears to his eyes. He didn’t know which one of his friends had done it, but it didn’t matter. It could have been any of them. Any of them would have done that for him.
Garret stared blankly out the gun port. He should already have changed and been on deck. He was probably going to end up back the brig again if he didn’t move immediately. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t find a reason to. His eyes drifted around his friends’ empty hammocks. He let them roam, let them take their time. He soaked up the way each of them had left their hammock, their few precious things.
Fishy’s hammock hung normally, a single blanket thrown back over the foot weaving, carefree. Pun’kin’s blanket was wadded in a ball, as always. He kept it sitting on his chest, his arms and legs sprawled everywhere. Theo’s hammock hung next to Fishy’s. It wasn’t Theo’s assigned spot. He’d mustered the courage to ask Curtis to trade places with him. It was the only time Theo had ever disobeyed a regulation, let alone asked anyone else to do it. It had been a quiet request, made slowly and with honest, open eyes, as with all things Theo decided to say. Curtis had agreed with a simple nod of his head. Nothing more had been said about it.
Curtis’s hammock hung in Theo’s assigned spot. Curtis didn’t use his blanket. His sheer size seemed to keep him warm. In a way, it kept all of them warm. Garret still remembered the first night in bootcamp when Velvet had broken down crying. Fishy had been about to make a teasing remark, but Curtis had shot him such a look that no one ever made fun of anyone else for crying again.
Velvet’s hammock hung between Curtis’s and Theo’s. His blanket was balled up like Pun’kin’s, but Velvet slept curled around it, as if it was a big teddy bear that would protect him.
Burl’s hammock hung between Velvet’s and Curtis’s. It had three blankets on it. Burl’s, Curtis’s, and another one Burl had rustled up somewhere. The poor shrimp couldn’t seem to stay warm no matter what he did.
Then came Garret and Twitch’s hammocks, which had hung by their friends. They’d even remembered to stretch Twitch’s ridiculously tight as he always did. He said it was better for his back. Fishy said it was going to break Twitch’s boner one morning, and then he’d be sorry.
Garret tried to smile, but couldn’t.
Then came Sweet Cheeks’ hammock. They’d hung it too. They’d folded his blanket atop it. None of them ever folded anything. They’d folded it like a flag.
Garret felt like he had a concrete block in his throat. His vision blurred. Men were still running past him, yelling even as they fought with whatever they were doing on deck. Many of them were still as sooty as Greely had been. But Garret couldn’t see anything other than his friend’s hammocks.
There were no more apologies. There was nothing.
Garret’s eyes fell back on Sweet Cheeks’ folded blanket. On it lay a small envelope from the ship’s store. Garret knew what it was. He knew he shouldn’t read it. He knew he shouldn’t touch it. He turned to walk away. He stopped.
I can’t read it. It’s not right. Garret started to break down, right there. He stepped to Sweet Cheeks’ hammock and ran his hand over the folded blanket. Carefully as he could, keeping the letter at arm’s length so no tears fell on it, he extracted it from the blanket. It was the last letter Sweet Cheeks would ever write, though he’d probably written it weeks ago. Most of them had.
Mama,
If you’re reading this, then I’ve been killed in the line of duty. I’m sorry leave you this way, but I don’t regret the choices that brought me here. I want you to know that. I knew the risks when I agreed to do what the Admiral asked of us, and I’m glad I took this one last assignment. Twitch needed me. He acts invincible, but he’s not. When Cricket and the rest died, it broke something in Twitch, but he believed this needed to be done, and I think maybe he was right. He restored my faith when it was broken. I’m sorry Mama, because this probably doesn’t make sense to you, but when this is all over, I know Twitch will find you. Maybe he can explain it better than I can.
Mama, I’ll miss you every day until we see each other again in heaven. I want you to know that I do believe that, despite what I said to Father before I left. I regret our argument, and I respect him very much. I remember the times he went without so that we didn’t have to. I’m proud to be his son. Tell him for me, will you? I love you Mama.
Tell Marty not to be mean to Constance, even when she bugs him. Tell May I love her. Tell her I wanted her to be my wife. No maybe you shouldn’t tell her that. Just tell her I’ll miss her too.
I don’t regret this Mama. I’ll just miss you something terrible.
Love, Charlie.
Tears ran down Garret’s face. The voice from outside spoke to him again. Not the Hollow Man. The Other Voice. So quiet he barely heard it. It wasn’t your fault, Garret. Stop blaming yourself, and remember him as your friend.
But if I’d kept him wet like Twitch said, he’d still be here.
Trying unsuccessfully to quell his tears, Garret ran to the rack in which their diddy boxes and clothes bags were stowed. He snatched his clothes bag off the rack, yanked a clean uniform out of it, and changed so fast he nearly ripped his sleeve. He ran for the citadel door.
Outside on the main deck it was darkening because of the storm clouds piling deeply to the northwest. The storm was still miles away, but the ocean was beginning to feel it. Slow swells were beginning to roll beneath the Kearsarge.
At sea, ships rolled and rocked in the water more than they lay steady. Normally, the crew was so used to it that they didn’t notice. Now, due to the task at hand, the motion induced cursing and momentary bouts of panic all over Kearsarge’s main deck. Men were yelling and swearing in ways that were inventive even for sailors. Fortunately Garret was in a piss-in-the-captain’s-face-and-beat-your-own-fists-bloody-on-the-bulkhead sort of mood, so he started yelling too before he really even knew what was going on. Sometimes he just needed to yell.
Kearsarge’s crew wasn’t the only one having trouble. HMS Arethusa was floating close enough to Kearsarge’s starboard flank to make Garret’s sphincter tighten, and her crew was sweating and cursing at least as fluently.
Both of Kearsarge’s cranes had been called into action, as well as every wench, pulley, and probably every yard of manila rope they had aboard. Even the donkey engine at Kearsarge’s bow was laboring and puffing steam as it reeled in a heavy tow line. Arethusa didn’t have any big cranes like Kearsarge, and the lack of them was making the whole operation look like a great way to get somebody killed.
Out in front of him, spanning the open water between Kearsarge and Arethusa, was the biggest, most complicated rope rigging Garret had ever seen. It was a three-dimensional entanglement, spanning half the length of the ships and reaching forty feet above
Kearsarge’s main deck. It filled the space between the ships like a spiderweb meant to snare a dragon. It had instead snared a pair of large metal pipes.
The pipes, if that was what they actually were, hung midway between the two ships, supported by a web of heavy ropes beneath them and a web of smaller ropes that wrapped over them and through an intricate system of blocks and tackles, winches and pulleys which was strung between the two ships. The pipes approached forty feet long each, and were about a foot in diameter.
Garret dashed into the mess of shouts and pointing fingers. They were shorthanded, as always, so instead of trying to find an officer and get an order, he jumped on the first thing he saw that needed to be done. In the middle of the chaos, five guys were struggling with a tow line of some sort, and they looked like they were losing the fight. They were calling out for help as the rope gradually dragged them all towards the edge of the deck. But they weren’t letting go. The first guy on the rope stepped into the scuppers, the trough that drained the edge of the deck, right as Garret grabbed the rope behind the last guy.
“Pull!” Garret thundered. His vision greyed out and he caught a whiff of what the guy in front of him had eaten for breakfast that morning. He kicked his boots off, instinctively trusting his bare feet on the wood more than his boots. He hauled back on the rope forcefully enough to lift the guy in front of him off the deck.
The guy sent a wide-eyed glance back at Garret. Whatever he saw in Garret’s face made him pale. Feeling the rope begin to move backwards renewed the zeal of the guys in front of him, and they hauled with all their might. Slowly, they inched backwards away from the deck. As soon as the fifth guy’s feet touched down, he pulled too, and they moved back to safety.
“That’s far enough boys,” an officer yelled at them. “Hold there and feed it out as the liner comes towards you.”
Ironclad Page 35
