Chapter 24
June 17th, 1914. Eleven days to Vidovdan
“Pull,” Velvet gasped, trying to talk quietly while straining with all his might. “We’ve got to get him out of sight!”
“I am pulling!” Garret gasped. “Are you?!”
Pun’kin and Burl weren’t helping because they were holding Oscar at bay. Fortunately Oscar had dropped his lanyard and knife to tussle with them. Pun’kin couldn’t really restrain Oscar, they all knew that, and Burl couldn’t have restrained Bert. So basically, Oscar was just pounding on Pun’kin out of anger, and Pun’kin was letting him do it.
Damn, Garret thought as he watched Oscar wale on Pun’kin. Alabama boys sure can take a beating.
Pun’kin was dodging as many as he could, and getting a few licks in himself, but basically he was getting his ass handed to him. Garret winced for him as Oscar landed a jab, a hook, and a sloppy but probably still painful shot to the ribs.
“Hurry, up,” Garret panted, pulling hand over hand on the rope. “We’ve got to get Fishy off Pun’kin before he hurts him.”
Damn it. Oscar, not Fishy anymore. I’m never gonna get used to that.
“Well where’s Burl?” Velvet asked.
“Crying in the corner with a splinter in his finger, I think,” Garret panted. “Jesus this guy’s heavy for being so little.”
On the other end of the rope, dangling down Kearsarge’s flank, was a sailor. He was unconscious, thank God, or the fact that he was hanging by one arm with the rope wrapped around his wrist would have hurt like hell. As near as any of them could tell, he’d wrapped it around his wrist himself. He was still alive, that much Velvet swore. He said he’d seen the sailor move while he was still in the water.
The sailor was also British.
Earlier that morning, Velvet had been assigned to repair and repaint damaged deck railing. Pun’kin and Burl had been pulling up damaged deck planks and putting new ones down. Actually, Pun’kin had been pulling up deck planks and Burl had been handing him tools. Garret and Oscar had momentarily slipped through the cracks and been doing nothing. Garret had been quite happy with the arrangement.
Oscar had been the first one to notice Velvet, who was trying to wave frantically yet covertly at the same time. He was peering over the rail at the Atlantic, which was slipping past them with as much speed as the injured Kearsarge could muster.
Their gun liner dalliance with Arethusa had left several ropes still tied to the rails. Since then, everyone had better things to do than cut loose waterlogged rope. When Garret peered over the side, he would have expected to see any number of things before an unconscious British sailor, being dragged alongside the ship.
They hadn’t encountered a British ship after the battle with Audacious. That meant the sailor had been there for two days. Dragged along the side of the ship for forty-eight hours. He should have been dead. But he wasn’t.
Oscar had taken one glance at the British uniform and his countenance had darkened. Oscar reached down his own shirt, pulled out the knife on the end of his lanyard and started cutting the rope. He’d sawed halfway through it before Garret and Pun’kin had recovered their wits and jumped on him.
Oscar hadn’t said a single word about Theo dying because of the British. He didn’t need to. Now he was beating the tar out of Pun’kin, and he still hadn’t said a word.
“I think I can hold him if you can get him over the rail,” Velvet grunted, bracing a foot against it.
Garret didn’t make a remark about which was obviously the harder job, he just called up as much of his wolf strength as he could get without shifting, reached over the rail, and grabbed two handfuls of sodden British uniform.
W
“He looks a little like Theo,” Burl said softly. It was a dangerous thing to say. Garret shot a wide-eyed glance at him, then at Oscar, but Oscar only crossed his arms.
They were inside the citadel, and they’d laid out the sopping, unconscious guy between Nancy’s snag and the blast shield. They were all standing between him and the rest of the citadel, so it was as close to hidden as they could get him. He looked terrible. His uniform was charred on the left side, undoubtedly from whichever explosion had flung him clear of the Audacious. Garret studied the sailor’s hands with grotesque interest. They looked like the way his fingers wrinkled up when he spent too long in a bath, but this guy’s entire hands were puffed and wrinkled. His body looked waterlogged and soft.
“Should we take ‘im to the Chief?” Pun’kin asked.
With that remark, they all felt the huge hole Twitch had left. Twitch had always known what to do. We’re lost without you, buddy, Garret thought. Without warning, a rush of grief and rage boiled up in Garret. He wrestled it back into temporary submission, but it left him breathing hard.
“We should throw him overboard,” Oscar said.
“Oscar,” Pun’kin said, spreading his hands. “We can’t do that. We just saved ‘im.”
Pun’kin had the beginnings of a nice shiner around his left eye.
The British guy didn’t look at all like Theo, Garret decided. But he was as small as Theo. He probably didn’t weigh one hundred and ten pounds in boots.
“He’s an engineering striker,” Velvet said, fingering the boy’s shoulder patch.
Garret felt Theo’s presence so strongly he looked over his shoulder to see if Theo was standing behind him. There was no one there, but Garret suddenly knew what Twitch would say as strongly as if Twitch were there too. So Garret said it for him.
“If he’s an engineering striker, then he didn’t fire a single gun. He didn’t kill Theo. But we killed all his friends.” Garret looked at the charred snag of steel sticking out of the deck beside them. “We lost Theo and Curtis and Sweet Cheeks and Twitch, but he lost everybody.”
Suddenly, the little British guy on the deck looked frail and vulnerable. Around the circle, a few expressions softened a bit. Oscar was struggling mightily.
Burl knelt down beside him. Not only was the sailor’s uniform scorched on the left side, but at his shin, it had been burned away entirely, and the skin beneath it was an angry, enflamed red, swollen with water at the edges. It looked to Garret to be festering.
Burl touched the unconscious Brit, then looked up at all of them with his burned face, and his one good eye. “He’s burned, guys, like me. Can we help him, please?”
And somehow it was just that simple. The half-drowned rat laid out on the deck before them suddenly went from being the “enemy” to somebody who needed to be protected. After glancing over their shoulders enough to make anyone suspicious, they gathered closer. After a moment, Oscar joined them.
“We gotta take him to the Chief,” Pun’kin insisted.
“Who will then take him to Commander Sharpe, who will take him to Captain Maxwell, who will put him in the brig,” Velvet said.
Garret shook his head. “No. Not the brig. We can’t let them do that.”
Velvet wrinkled up his face. “They’d just keep him there. It’s not like they’re going to torture him.”
“He’s not going to the brig,” Garret said stubbornly.
“Why not,” Oscar asked in irritation.
Burl spoke, so quietly that Garret missed it.
Speak up, Burl, Curtis roared at him. Garret blinked and looked around. No one had said anything. Curtis was gone. Only silence filled the big hole that he left.
But this time, Burl repeated without being asked. “He’s all alone.”
All the air whooshed out of Twitch in a sigh of defeat.
Garret almost screamed at himself. No, not Twitch, Velvet! Twitch is gone!
“Then I can only think of one other way,” Velvet said haltingly.
They all knew what it was.
Twitch would have thought of something brilliant, Garret thought, choking on another rush of sadness. Why can’t I do it while he’s gone?
Velvet wasn’t good at this. He didn’t ha
ve Twitch’s presence or his air of control. But Velvet was trying to step up. Trying as damn hard as he could. Part of Garret was mad at him for trying. The rest of Garret was mad at himself for being mad at Velvet.
Velvet stood and put a hand on Fishy’s shoulder. “It’s totally up to you, buddy. No pressure here.”
Oscar looked about to throw up. Then he was angry. Then his face crumpled. He fought with it. And fought with it. “I want to drown him,” Oscar whimpered.
Velvet gripped Oscar’s shoulder. They gathered around him. Velvet and Pun’kin gripped his shoulders. Garret put both hands on Oscar’s back, willing with all his might for his friend not to hurt so badly. Burl gripped Oscar’s arm with both hands. Curtis had the nape of Fishy’s neck in a huge hand. No he didn’t. Curtis isn’t here!
Gradually, Oscar calmed, at least a little. “Theo would...” He had to try for a good ten seconds before he got the rest of it out. “Theo would want me to do this.”
A few moments later, Garret returned with Theo’s bag. Oscar had asked him to get it. He laid it on the deck at Oscar’s feet. It was hard for Garret to let go of it. Really hard. He’d never thought of a boring, old, rough, canvas, Navy clothes bag could feel like a precious item, but it did. Theo’s bag meant so much to Garret now that he didn’t want to watch Oscar open it and begin unrolling the clothes. Theo had rolled them up and put them in there. It felt like a crime to unroll them.
But Oscar did. Garret couldn’t imagine the willpower it took. Oscar knelt by the bag. He was gentle, almost reverent with his brother’s belongings as he opened the end of the bag and began to lay them out. Shirts, pants, underwear, neckerchiefs, etc. Each article was folded and rolled perfectly. They’d all seen Theo do it countless times. He lined up each crease, brushed the ripples out of the fabric, then rolled slowly, keeping the roll even and straight, starting over as many times as necessary to get it right.
“He always made us look bad during bag inspections,” Velvet said.
A lump hardened in Garret’s throat as he watched Oscar unroll a pair of Theo’s pants beside the legs of the unconscious British guy on the deck. Garret’s respect for Oscar grew immeasurably as he watched. If those were Sarn’s clothes, I’d never be able to do that. I probably rip the arm off of anybody who touched his bag. I’d leave that British guy dripping on the deck until he died of pneumonia.
“Same size,” Oscar said quietly.
The rest of them held their peace. Garret’s neck grew shorter waiting for Pun’kin to say something well-meaning but ill placed, but he didn’t. Oscar unrolled a shirt beside him as well, then sat back on his haunches. With a sigh, Velvet knelt, took off his lanyard and opened his Navy knife.
“Can somebody start on the other side?” he asked, then began cutting the sodden uniform off of the unconscious guy. He wasn’t as fast or as precise as Twitch would have been. Garret bumped into Pun’kin as they both stooped to help Velvet.
“Who had me by the back of the neck?’ Fishy asked quietly.
“What?” Velvet asked.
“A few minutes ago, when you guys were… there for me. Who had me by the back of the neck? It felt like Curtis.”
They all looked at each other. Each expression was different, unique to the individual.
“Nobody had you by the neck, buddy.”
Oscar frowned. “Not funny, Velvet.”
Garret held up his hands. “Nobody was touching your neck, buddy. I swear it. They woulda had to reach right through me to do it.”
After some discussion, during which Burl kept lightly petting the half drowned guy’s head as if he were a cat, they decided that if they had any chance of passing the British guy off, they needed to make him look as normal as possible before taking him to sick bay.
“What about his hands and feet?” Burl asked.
Velvet tried to look like he knew what he was saying. “We can tell them he burned them or dipped them in paint stripper.”
Garret was sure that, somewhere, Twitch was rolling his eyes.
“Well,” Oscar sighed, “we can’t put him into Theo’s uniform sopping wet. Then we’d have to explain that too.”
Getting the British guy dried off was both difficult and awkward for all of them. They ended up using one of Pun’kin’s uniforms, which was the only thing they had available.
It was also awkward for another reason. As they worked the guy over, trying to get him dry without complicating the burn or embarrassing themselves too badly, Garret ended up working beside Oscar. So that meant they had a mostly naked guy between them.
Garret started feeling nervous tension from Oscar almost immediately. He didn’t glance at Garret, but he managed to so thoroughly not meet Garret’s eye that it quickly became apparent that it was purposeful.
Garret and Oscar sat the unconscious guy up so Velvet could dry his back. He knows I saw him. Garret thought he’d gotten away clean. I tripped over that box. I didn’t think he heard.
The uneasiness grew between them.
“Alright, that’s good enough,” Velvet puffed.
Oscar glanced at the guy’s sopping underwear, but wasn’t going to say anything in front of Garret, even if it was a perfectly normal thing to point out.
Pun’kin saved him. “His underwear’s all wet, Velvet.”
Velvet sighed again. “Alright, alright.” He reached for a pair of Theo’s boxers. “Burl, give me a hand on your side.”
“Sorry buddy,” Pun’kin said to the unconscious guy. “We caint leave ya with soppy-ass, now can we?”
Garret didn’t know whether it was more awkward that Pun’kin had said it, or that Oscar hadn’t. Corrupting Pun’kin had been great fun, but now Garret was wondering if he maybe preferred Pun’kin the way he had been.
Finally, they had the British guy dried, dressed, and on a stretcher, much to everyone’s relief. Together, they carried him towards the sick bay, a ridiculous pack of five guys around one stretcher. They’d made it approximately twenty feet, when with no warning, he returned to thankless, violent life.
Oscar was unfortunate enough to have been bending low to check his pulse, so the British guy had both hands around Oscar’s throat before anyone realized what was happening.
“Bloody buggers,” he screamed, kicking Velvet in the stomach and Pun’kin in the balls. “You killed my mates!”
As Pun’kin crumpled for the floor, Garret had a split second to stand there in confusion, wondering what he was supposed to do. If you were carrying an injured man on a stretcher, could you then drop the stretcher and pound him? It just didn’t seem right. Garret changed his mind when the guy kicked him in the nuts too. The British guy flung himself out of the stretcher and on top of Oscar.
“What in the seven hells is going on?!” someone roared. It was Chief Greely, naturally.
“Our bestest friend,” Pun’kin groaned, still lying on the floor, holding his nuts. “He just don’t know what he’s doing. Got hit in the head, sir!”
“You killed my mates,” the little guy screamed in the most highfaluting British accent Garret had ever heard. Garret gathered himself up off the deck. His nuts hurt up into his stomach. Velvet was trying to get his wind back. The little British guy was bouncing Oscar’s head against the deck every time he screamed. Garret’s vision greyed out and he pounced on the little guy.
“Every time he gets hit on the head, he speaks British,” Pun’kin offered desperately. “He’s American, sure as my Mama’s apple pie. Grew up right down the road from me. Aint that right… uh, Barney?”
“I’ll rip your ball bags off!” the little Brit screamed in reply.
Pun’kin, I will kill you, Garret thought as he wrestled the little guy into submission.
A few seconds later, it was all done. Burl was still standing there, white as a sheet, holding up one end of the broken stretcher. He hadn’t moved an inch as far as Garret could tell. Pun’kin and Velvet were gingerly picking themselves up. Fishy was on han
ds and knees, trying to even his breathing. Garret was on his back, his arms locked around the little Brit’s throat, moving him quickly towards unconsciousness again.
“Let go of him,” Greely ordered.
But I like him better when he’s out cold.
The British guy gurgled.
“Now sailor,” Greely barked. Garret let go. The little guy rolled off of Garret onto the deck and squirmed weakly.
“Where in the hell did he come from?” Greely demanded.
“Well sir,” Pun’kin began before anyone could stop him. “It happened like this…”
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After they all finished the extra hour of duty Pun’kin earned them by lying to the Chief, they headed down into the belly of the ship in a dejected group. Most duties they now performed were emergencies, so they’d been separated for the afternoon. Now that they were back together, their griping could begin afresh.
“Little bastard,” Oscar growled. “I told you we should have drowned him.”
“We still could,” Velvet mused speculatively. “I hear he’s giving them so much trouble in sick bay that they’d probably hand him over. They might even help.”
“I’ll say,” someone put in, quiet as a mouse.
Garret looked around for the speaker. Oh, there he was. It was Burl, walking behind Garret.
“I was pulling duty in sick bay,” Burl said. “He was awful.”
“What did they have you doing?” Oscar asked.
“Changing dressings,” Burl replied simply.
There was an uncomfortable silence in which they were all painfully aware of how Burl looked. He needed to have his wound dressed, not be dressing them himself. Burl either didn’t notice the general discomfiture, or took no offense.
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