Laughter.
“Did she weigh three hundred pounds?” Fishy asked.
Pun’kin jumped on Fishy and they went rolling down the deck, fighting. Theo had to hop out of their way.
“Don’t be such a Nancy,” Fishy grunted as he put Pun’kin in a headlock.
“That’ll work,” Twitch said, stepping over Pun’kin’s flailing leg. “Everybody okay with Nancy?” Everybody nodded, including Garret. Nancy sounded good to him. Mainly because he didn’t know anyone named Nancy. Otherwise he was going to feel like he was loading a five inch shell into somebody’s ass.
Twitch took hold of a large handle on the rear of the gun and cranked it several times to loosen the threads as he had done the day before. He pulled, and the entire rear of the gun swung away on well-oiled hinges, sort of like a two hundred pound steel cork, revealing the empty black breech of the gun, perfectly circular, five inches in diameter.
“Alrighty,” Twitch said again. “We’re gonna start with the basics so nobody misses anything.” He gestured to the breech. “Unless any of you guys think you’re man enough to handle this hole by yourself, this’ll be where we’ll put the shell and powder to fire Nancy.”
Gurgling sounds were coming from Fishy and Pun’kin’s direction, followed by the bonk of Pun’kin’s head hitting the deck. He was out cold. Fishy had put him to sleep with a headlock, as usual.
Since he was close, Garret grabbed one of Pun’kin’s arms. Sweet Cheeks grabbed the other. They dragged Pun’kin over to the bulkhead and leaned him up against it as if he’d gone to sleep at his post. Sweet Cheeks patted him on the head. “Sleep tight,” he said.
“Is that gonna work?” Curtis asked, looking around in an awkwardly obvious way for an officer who might have seen them.
Sweet Cheeks shrugged. “He’ll be around in a minute.”
Twitch was still talking and Garret was trying to listen. “Even with the new fire control tops, we’re going to need a pointer, so that’s me. In a battle, it won’t be a good place for me to call out instructions, but we’ll make sure everybody knows what they’re doing long before then.”
It relieved Garret a little to hear Twitch say that. Good ol’ Twitch, he thought.
Twitch pointed to a rack behind them against the inner bulkhead. “Fishy, grab us a ramrod, and we’ll go hand-over-hand for the other positions. No not that ramrod. Cut it out Fishy, we haven’t got time. Fishy…! Good God, man, you eat your food with those hands!”
Chapter 9
June 2nd, 1914. Twenty-two days to Vidovdan
“Twitch, gimmie some more water over here,” Garret called from his knees. They were on the main deck under a blazing Atlantic sun. Kearsarge chuffed away beneath them, pushing her sleek, low slung, three hundred and seventy-five foot bulk through the water at a good enough pace to ruffle Garret’s hair with the breeze. The sun was warm, the salty breeze was cool, and the water was playful, reflecting slashes of sunlight back at their ship.
Kearsarge herself was still a blackened mess. Her main deck was covered with hundreds of men, scrubbing, wiping, hosing, even mopping. Garret paused his scrubbing to sight down the deck. Since basic, he’d been told of the nightmares of coaling: “The more you shovel, the bigger that mountain’s gonna get.” And, cheerily, “When you’re dead, you’re halfway there!”
But the worst part so far had been the cleaning. Coaling Kearsarge had required moving one thousand tons of coal from the dock into her bunkers, which in turn meant that every single one of those two million pounds had to be shoveled, craned to the main deck, and dumped down the coal hatches. By the time they’d finished, everyone and everything had been plastered with coal dust.
So they were all on their hands and knees scrubbing it off. Except Fishy, who had somehow lucked into a paint brush instead. Then again, he’d been at it since before they’d gotten up, dragged from his hammock in the wee hours and pressganged into paint duty, so maybe they’d gotten the better end of the deal.
Twitch certainly had. He was manning the hose and dousing portions of the deck as they called out. Actually, at the moment, he was staring out over the expanse of peaked crystal sea while holding the hose and doing nothing in particular.
“Join the Navy, see the world,” Fishy groused tiredly. “Then paint the whole damn thing.”
Everyone on deck was cleaning or painting something. They were in barefeet and white uniforms. Or at least the uniforms had been white. At the moment, they looked like they’d all been rolling around in an ash heap. Even after hours of work, Kearsarge’s main deck was still a grungy black mess. The bulkheads, turrets, and everything else were caked with the dark powdercoat, as if the Kearsarge had sailed through a hurricane made of black smoke. Streams of dark water ran across the deck and into the scuppers as men sprayed.
“Jesus, this stuff gets everywhere,” groused Floyd as he plied a rag around each and every single rivet on a nearby hatch.
Pun’kin looked up, scowling. “If my Mama were here, she’d tan your hide for sayin’ the Lord’s name like that.”
Floyd grunted, sitting back and popping the cricks out of his back. “Pun’kin’, even Jesus would be swearing if he’d been doing this as long as we have.”
Pun’kin slapped his rag on the deck and jumped to his feet, hands in fists. “You take that back, Floyd!”
“Pun’kin, get back to scrubbin’,” Curtis yelled from further down.
Curtis was huge, but Pun’kin was upset and feeling cornered. “Y’all can’t say things like that!” he protested.
Fishy turned from his paint, exasperated. “Floyd, just tell him you’re sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have to do that,” Floyd argued in a reasonable tone of voice. “He’s just being emotional.”
“If you both don’t stow it, we’ll all be in the fourth conduct class before dinner,” Twitch said.
Floyd went back to work, glad for the excuse.
Sweet Cheeks just scrubbed calmly through it all.
Pun’kin huffed and puffed and probably wished he could blow somebody’s house down, but again, Curtis was huge. Pun’kin snatched his scrub brush and muttered, “Y’all need to learn some manners,” and got back to scrubbing. He glared at Floyd every once in a while for the next few minutes.
Twitch turned his attention to the fire control tops, high atop the cage masts. He was giving them his narrow-eyed gaze, probably thinking really deep, really smart thoughts. Which meant he wasn’t paying attention to his job.
“Twitch!” Garret said. “I need water.”
Twitch opened the hose valve without bothering to look and sent a jet of water out across the deck. A little of it dribbled Garret’s way.
“What kind of poison do you guys think is in those boxes in the hold?” Floyd asked.
Theo raised his eyes from the deck plank he was carefully wiping down. He looked at his big brother for an answer.
“What difference does it make what kind?” Pun’kin shot back at him. “Poison’s poison.”
Floyd huffed, his Bostonian accent thickening. “I mean what do you think it does, and why was it aboard in the first place?”
Fishy just shrugged, too tired to care. “They said don’t touch it. That’s fine by me, whatever it is.”
“It was cylamide,” Pun’kin said.
“Dilbanide,” Garret responded.
“The Chief said cibadide,” Floyd said.
“Cyanide,” Twitch corrected with irritation. “It’s cyanide.”
Sweet Cheeks scrubbed serenely, and suppressed a smile.
The rest of them nodded in acceptance. They worked quietly for a moment before Pun’kin drawled, “So what’s cybadyde?”
“I heard it makes your dick swell up three times its normal size,” Fishy put in dryly. “But you’ve only got eight hours to have sex with all the girls you can before it explodes and kills you.”
Garret grinned at Theo, who grinned back. Theo wasn’t grin
ning at the dirty joke, he was grinning because his brother was funny.
The deck planks were almost dry under Garret’s brush. “Twitch! I need water!”
Twitch opened the valve on the big deck hose and blasted Garret across the butt with about a thousand gallons of salt water.
“How’s that?” Twitch asked.
Pun’kin guffawed.
Garret glowered at Twitch, but he was now studying the forward turret, as if it was going to reveal a great secret to him if he stared long enough.
“Chief,” Fishy called out, gesturing to his paint can. “What’s this about mixin’ up our duties?”
They all looked up, and Chief Greely detoured from wherever he was going to answer Fishy’s question.
“That’s the plan, son,” Greely said. “Straight from the XO. I’ll give you your dailies, but you could get pulled off of ‘em at any time by anybody who outranks you. We don’t have near as many men as we should, so we’re all gonna be pulling extra duty. This is a battleship. When somethin’ needs done, somebody’s got to do it. Sleep’s gonna be scarce for a while.”
“For how long?” Floyd whined.
Greely spread his hands to the open seas. “If you see any extra men bobbing around out there, let us know, and we’ll fish ‘em out and put ‘em to work.”
Greely walked away. There were grumbles and curses.
Garret dropped his scrub brush onto the sudsy stripe of black he’d been scrubbing. He couldn’t imagine how it had gotten ground in so deeply. It looked as if somebody had taken a chunk of coal and rubbed it back and forth on the deck boards as hard as he could.
Garret stood and tromped over to where Twitch was grinning and pointing the hose at him.
“What? Did I miss a spot?” Twitch asked.
“Your turn on the scrub brush,” Garret said, putting his hands on his hips. It was nearly time to trade anyway, so Twitch grudgingly handed over the thick hose with its heavy brass nozzle and fittings.
Garret glanced around to see if anybody was looking. Greely had his back turned, and was talking to another grizzled old chief from port side. The deck officer was about a thousand miles away on the flying bridge. There were two division officers nagging their men, but both were looking away. Garret aimed the hose squarely at Twitch’s back side and reached for the valve. Oops, here comes the XO.
Garret stood innocently until the XO had hurried by, chin forward, walking so fast he was almost running. Commander Sharpe seemed like a good sort. He was perhaps in his mid-twenties, and already most of the enlisted men looked up to him like a big brother. Garret saluted as the man rushed past.
Theo caught sight of Sharpe and scrambled up off the deck, trying to salute to the man’s receding back.
“Hey Minnow,” Fishy said tiredly. “I’ve told you that you don’t have to do that if you’re working and they aren’t looking at you.”
The XO was gone. All clear. Garret opened the hose and blasted Twitch from head to toe. From his knees, Twitch glared up at him.
“Did I miss a spot?” Garret asked him.
Twitch snatched the scrub brush and began scrubbing savagely at the coal. Floyd, Curtis, Fishy, and Pun’kin, who were also dripping from Twitch’s liberal use of the hose, grinned. They had a pail full of laundry soap chips between them. It was an extravagant use of soap to scrub the deck boards, but the officers seemed to want the ship clean of coal dust in double time.
“This isn’t going to come out,” Twitch crabbed. “We’re going to have to holystone it.”
“Well,” Garret said contentedly, “maybe you just need more water.” He hosed Twitch down again. Garret sighed and looked out over the sea. The ship ploughed ahead, parting the water before her bow as easily as a sparrow parts the air. Her wake roiled away behind them, a long white road of foam and turbulence. It was freedom.
Freedom. I’m free. And with that thought, Garret crashed and burnt. The sun seemed to darken around him and the fresh tang of the salty air became nothing but the rotten stench of fish.
Free? Is that what I think? That I’m free without Molly and my baby? His heart panged so hard that all happiness took flight as if to escape before it was poisoned by its proximity to him.
Molly, I’m so sorry. I’d give anything to be back there with you. Then suddenly he was boiling mad at her. Why didn’t you tell me we had another baby? How could you not tell me?!
Then the thought of his own sins reoccurred—the knowledge of what he had done. He didn’t see the images in his mind’s eye, thank God, but he remembered what it felt like. It had taken a while for him to truly grasp what he had done, but once he had… It was hell. Hell he fully deserved. The dogs of hell had followed him all the way through bootcamp. They followed him still.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was far more than that now. They weren’t just following him. They were driving him. He remembered the feeling of the Hollow Man's presence on the upper deck. Suddenly, the three hundred and seventy-five foot long battleship felt small.
I’m trapped. It knows I’m here. It’s here with me.
Then came the memory of the words again, spat at him in hatred. No matter where you go, Garret, you can’t escape what you are. The words echoed in Garret’s head, ringing down through his life, and down through his desperation. Suddenly, he felt a cold band around his left hand ring finger, though there was nothing there.
Garret panicked, panting, grabbing his finger as if to assure himself nothing was there. He hadn’t felt the invisible, icy ring in over a year. He’d almost managed to convince himself it hadn’t been real.
Without warning, he felt the Hollow Man’s presence and a tug on the ring that wasn’t there. From it, an invisible line of steel ran up his arm to his heart. The tug pulled on his heart as if it had a hook in it. His heart stumbled a beat, and the next. Garret gasped. The next thing he knew, he was on a knee, shaking. The hose lay beside him where he’d dropped it, spewing water across the deck. Hands were on him. Sweet Cheeks, Curtis, Floyd, and Theo. They were asking if he was okay.
Then the Hollow Man spoke to his mind, the first words Garret had heard from him since the night the creature died.
Did you think I would forget you, Garret? I always come back for what is mine.
“I’m fine,” Garret whimpered to his friends, “I’m fine.” He was whining like a baby. “Leave me alone. Please don’t touch me.”
Always, Garret.
W
That evening, Garret sat on the stern deck, alone. Maybe he sat there because it was less crowded than the foredeck. Maybe he sat there because his friends were always looking forwards and speculating about where they were headed, whereas Garret couldn’t stop looking back towards the place he had left.
A half hour ago, when he’d gotten off duty, he’d gone to the foredeck and found his friends at a distance. Curtis was trying to teach Burl how to roll a cigarette. Floyd and Pun’kin were arguing. Twitch was reading that book he’d gotten from the crew’s library the other day. He was already halfway through it. Fishy was impatiently explaining something to Theo, who didn’t seem to be getting it. Sweet Cheeks sat a little ways apart, watching the ocean before them.
Garret didn’t approach them. Part of him wanted to, but he didn’t. So now he sat alone at the stern, watching the western sky fade. The sun disappeared quickly over the ocean, faster than it ever did over the mountains back home. Twitch had tried to explain it to him. Something about the rotation of the earth, and the perfectly flat line that the ocean horizon made and how the sun was at such a steep angle by the time it got there that it seemed to sink more quickly and… whatever. It disappeared really fast. It seemed to be settling somewhere behind the water, as if it was going to crush his hometown in the Appalachians when it touched down.
Garret was just starting to relax when somebody else showed up. There weren’t many good places to hide aboard a battleship, especially not on the open main deck, so they’
d all learned the unspoken rule: when a sailor was sitting by himself and he had that particular look on his face, you treated him like he was invisible. It was as close to privacy as any of them could get.
Theo didn’t understand that rule. Or maybe he understood it better than anybody. Anyway he stood there a few feet from Garret, his neckerchief ruffling in the salt breeze, and he watched Garret with that tense, insightful expression of his until Garret sighed, “Come on, sit down.”
Needing no further prompting, Theo crossed the few feet that separated them and sat beside Garret, much closer than any of the other guys would have. It would have been uncomfortable with anyone else, but it was Theo, so it was okay.
Theo didn’t say anything. He just pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, mimicking Garret’s posture. He unabashedly watched Garret’s face for a moment, then turned his attention to the sunset.
The sun was only a crescent of hot orange now, the sky a smooth gradient from orange to red to purple to navy. Then the sun was gone.
“Are you okay,” Theo asked him. Theo was staring at him again. His voice was always quiet. The washing of the Atlantic against Kearsarge’s flanks almost covered it.
“I’m fine, Theo.”
The smaller boy smiled. It was a simple unadulterated smile, and the warmth of it made Garret drop his eyes to the deck in shame.
“I’m glad you call me Theo,” Theo said.
Garret shrugged. “It’s your name.”
“But the other guys call me Minnow. Why don’t you call me Minnow?”
Garret shrugged again, uncomfortably this time. “I didn’t think you liked it.”
“I don’t,” Theo said, turning his attention to the fading red aura astern.
So they sat like that until Garret began to relax again. Finally Garret began to pay attention to Theo. Whenever Garret spent a little time around Theo, he began to think more about others and less about himself.
God he’s so small. How can he be fifteen?
“Why don’t you like it?” Garret asked.
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