Twitch faltered. “I don’t think so, sir. I’m sure I would remember if I had met you.”
“What’s your name?”
Twitch hesitated for the briefest instant. “Colson, sir. Gunner’s Mate Emery Colson.”
“Thank you for your assistance, Colson. You will speak of this incident to no one. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“That will be all, gunner’s mate.”
Disappointment was written all over Twitch’s face. He’d hope to stay, but he left promptly, closing the door behind himself.
Garret just sat on the deck, sick.
For a brief moment, Maxwell’s tone changed. It would turn out to be the only time Garret ever heard softness from his Captain.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Maxwell sighed with aggravation. “Half the crew must have seen you coming this way.”
Garret opened his eyes. Maxwell was standing over him, the cougar expression gone, replaced with fatigue. He turned away. A chair scraped. “Seaman Vilner, sit.” Again, his voice had regained the air of strength and command.
Garret dragged himself up off the floor and sat in the chair the captain had pulled out. Maxwell left the table and returned with a black satchel. Garret frowned at the bag. Dr. Bentley used to carry one like it. So it was a doctor’s satchel, a very old one.
“Pull your sleeve up,” Maxwell said.
Garret looked at his arms, lying in his lap. His left forearm was soaked with blood. Garret pulled up his sleeve, but it didn’t go far enough to expose the injury.
“I understand you don’t want others to see your scars,” Maxwell said. “But it would be easier for me to stitch this if you removed your shirt.”
Garret sighed and pulled his shirt over his head. Embarrassment didn’t have anything to do with it. He’d spent a lot of time completely naked in front of all the wrong people. Garret wasn’t even sure he could be physically embarrassed anymore. But someone like Captain Maxwell would never understand that.
Garret stared at his lap while the captain took Garret’s arm and laid it out on the table. Garret realized that his wedding ring was hanging in plain sight, a thin ringlet of gold, silver, and copper on a rude chain against his chest. Jewelry was forbidden, but Maxwell said nothing.
It only made Garret angrier. Now you’re trying to make me like you?
“Seaman, I have to put you in the brig for a while. I think you know that.”
Garret glared at the table top.
“You owe your friend a great debt,” Maxwell said. “If you’d actually laid hand on your commanding officer, we’d have a real problem on our hands.”
Maxwell’s touch on Garret’s arm was firm, but as efficient as everything else he did. Garret sucked in through his teeth when Maxwell poured something from a brown bottle onto the laceration. It stung like fire.
The Captain changed topics, and though the new subject was a happy one, he became quieter. “I have a child as well.”
Garret raised his eyes at that. “You have a baby?” Then he added, “Sir.” Garret wasn’t sure why it surprised him so much. Many of the officers and older enlisted men had families. The old “girl in every port” adage was fading to a legend. Naval Secretary Daniels really was building the new and respectable Navy he’d promised.
At Garret’s surprised reaction, a smile bent the corners of Maxwell’s mouth. He laid out gauze and tape. The smile disappeared as he focused on threading a curved needle. His expression became remote and clinical, but his voice did not. As if his body and mind were operating separately. The former for the world at hand, and the later for… another time and place?
“A daughter,” Maxwell said. “She turned five in January.”
“My son was born in January too,” Garret said.
“Look away from your arm,” Maxwell said.
Garret did, but he felt the needle anyway. At least Maxwell was precise and quick. Really quick. Within what seemed like seconds, the stitching was over. Maxwell lifted Garret’s arm off the table and wound it in soft, comforting gauze. The Captain doubled it back over with a quick motion around his own fingers, tugged, and then the bandage was tied to itself in a neat knot at the top of the stitches.
Maxwell briefly inspected his work, then put the tape back in the bag. He hadn’t used it.
Dr. Bentley couldn’t have done it so quickly. But then, Dr. Bentley was dead.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Garret asked.
“My father considered this,” Maxwell gestured around to the old Kearsarge, “to be an unworthy profession.”
“Pa and I never got along either,” Garret replied.
A silence stretched between them. Commander Sharpe reentered the cabin and reclosed the door. He held out a neatly folded uniform shirt, in Garret’s size. Garret took it and shrugged his way into it.
Maxwell resumed, as if he’d been waiting for Commander Sharpe to return before speaking again.
“You will not speak of this incident or your time in the brig to anyone, is that understood?”
Garret looked at his lap again, trapped. What kind of an order is that? How am I supposed to do that? Everybody saw. Garret got upset again.
Then Maxwell said, “This one time, sailor, I grant you the right to speak freely.”
Even so, nothing else would come to Garret’s mind but the same words he’d already spoken. They were all that mattered to him. “You tried to drown me. I trusted you. My family’s depending on me to send money!”
But that wasn’t true either, was it? It was the lie he told himself to make his abandonment of them easier. The last little delusion to make his decisions seem worthwhile. The truth was that if Garret died, the Malverns would provide better for Molly than Garret ever could. They were probably doing it already, if she’d take it.
Maxwell was as calm as if Garret hadn’t spoken at all. “Seaman, I would not have let you die,” Maxwell said. “I sent Lieutenant Bartram to make sure you would not be thrown overboard. Even if you had been, I gave him orders to stop the ship and retrieve you. It was a test, and only that.”
Garret looked up at his captain. So that’s why the rat-lieutenant stepped around the charthouse like that. He watched the whole thing. He could have stopped it anytime, but he let it go right until they were going to throw me over.
“You made me think I was going to die,” Garret said. His heart panged again. “You made me think I was going to leave my baby alone here. I… I can’t do that.”
Atop all Garret’s shortcomings, that would have been the worst one of all. From that final and absolute failure, an eternity in hell would not buy him the right to forgive himself.
All I can do is send money. Garret thought, putting his head in his hands. That’s all I’ve got left, and you almost took that from me. Why did you do that?
Garret considered for a moment, then decided to give Maxwell another chance. So Garret asked it aloud.
“Why did you do that to me?”
Maxwell was calm. “I can’t answer that, sailor.”
Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be a flippant dismissal, but that’s how it came across. Garret was frightened, drained, raw, and feeling very, very alone. Despite the fact that Maxwell had nearly had him thrown overboard, Garret had dared to trust him one last time, with one last question. So when Maxwell refused Garret’s simple request for an explanation, it slammed the door between them, once and for all. Oddly, it hurt Garret when it closed. He wanted to believe in his Captain. He wanted Maxwell to be a good man.
Apparently, it was not to be.
Garret’s hurt began to falter under his depression. Fatigue snowed down onto him. He was drained, mentally, physically, and emotionally.
Maxwell was assessing him.
Garret stared at the deck.
“Wait outside, sailor,” Maxwell said.
Garret got up wearily and went, relieved to be away from his captain.
Inside, Commander Sharpe closed the door and faced his captain. Maxwell was sitting very still.
“Commander,” Maxwell said without looking at him, “take Seaman Vilner to the brig. Have his hammock brought down to him, then do all of the following for him.”
Maxwell gave him a short, but detailed list.
Andrew blinked. “Sir? Then we’re sure?”
“It’s not him, Andrew.”
Commander Sharpe nodded and stepped to the door. He paused with his hand on the latch. He turned.
“Captain, may I ask why you picked him as your steward? He seems… an unusual choice.”
“He’s more than he seems, Andrew, and he has a part to play in all this.”
“More than he…? A part, sir?”
Maxwell sighed and gazed out the porthole into the night. “War is rare, Commander. Making split-second, life-and-death decisions is even rarer. Most captains go their entire careers without ever doing either. We spend most of our time managing and readying the men under us. It isn’t glamorous, but it is the only way to be prepared.”
This wasn’t quite making sense, so Andrew dared another question. “How, sir?”
“Many of the boys on this ship are angry, Andrew. It’s part of the reason they’re here. But Seaman Vilner is well beyond that, and it will undo him if it is not dealt with.”
“I’m sorry, skipper, I don’t understand.”
“I’m giving him somewhere to vent his anger and hatred, so that hopefully, he’ll make the right choice, whatever it is, when it comes to him.”
This was beginning to sound a little religious, but Maxwell was not a religious man, and either way, it was making Andrew uncomfortable.
“Vent his… I don’t understa—”
“Me, Andrew,” Maxwell said, facing him down with wintry blue eyes. “Hatred can’t be swallowed, it must be expended. So I’m focusing his hatred on me.”
Andrew tried to regroup and approach from another angle. “Sir, what you did to him. Uh, I mean, it wasn’t… I mean…”
“Spit it out, Andrew,” Maxwell said crossing his arms.
Andrew had the vague sensation that he had just disappointed Maxwell, though he wasn’t sure how. Unsettled by that, he blabbered ahead.
“Sir, I don’t question you, and you certainly put the fear into him, but did it really show us whether or not he was the saboteur? So he didn’t read the note. Still, anybody would have fought for their life. Lieutenant Bartram’s test for him would have shown us—”
Maxwell turned a steely eye on him. Andrew looked down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry sir, I spoke out of place.”
“Lieutenant Bartram will never be a captain in the United States Navy, not while I breathe. I expect, no I demand that you be more than him. I don’t care whether or not Seaman Vilner has an understanding of electricity.”
“I’m sorry sir, how did—.”
“He’s not the saboteur.”
“How do you know?” Andrew asked honestly.
“Because I have a child too, Andrew.”
W
Garret trudged behind Commander Sharpe’s fast moving physique. They had walked most of the length of the ship, which in Garret’s condition, felt like a mile. Commander Sharpe had taken him directly through the officer’s wardroom and past all their private little cabins. Garret wasn’t jealous of such things, but it did make the injustice of recent events seem sharper.
They left the officer’s portion of the berth deck and went down the starboard passage that took them past offices, officer’s bathrooms, and in the middle of the ship, the firemen’s washroom. In it were two firemen, stripped of most of their gear, but still covered with black soot which had run due to their sweat. Their movements were slow and deliberate as they cleaned themselves up. Garret had no idea what they had been doing.
“I’ve known Captain Maxwell for a long time,” Commander Sharpe said as he turned to port past the conning tower foundation. “He isn’t as angry with you as it seems.”
Garret didn’t care anymore what Captain Maxwell thought. At this point he was so dead on his feet that he couldn’t care about anything other than sleep. It felt like his bones were hanging loose inside him, as if they clattered and flopped around every time he took a step.
They left the open area around the conning tower base and turned down a narrow passage between the pharmaceutical dispensary, which was locked up for the night, and the band room, which hadn’t been occupied since they cast off. Garret’s family never had much money, so music hadn’t really been a part of his childhood. Some of the other guys seemed to be dying without it.
Garret was so tired that the thought of being sent to the brig didn’t humiliate him. At least there he would get some sleep. And with that thought, they arrived.
Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been in a cell.
But the last cell he’d graced had been mostly wooden with iron bars, some of which Garret himself had forged. Kearsarge’s brig was composed of two cells on opposite sides of the narrow passageway. The bars on the brig cells were twice as thick as the ones Garret had made for the town jail, and these had a clinical, industrial look. Their interior was bare steel of course. Steel flanges ran like ribs all along the bulkheads, and the cofferdam intruded all along the back wall of the cell like an enormous steel box. Everything was lined with large steel rivets.
The two enlisted guards, who looked mean and dumber than stumps, snapped shoulder salutes to Commander Sharpe, since they were side-arming rifles. They were trying hard to keep the grins off their faces until the Commander left.
Garret shrank. He’d heard the stories. No one had less to do than the brig guards. They would taunt and humiliate him as long as he was there. Oh please, just let me sleep. Furthermore, since they were on duty at night, that meant they were port side watch, so they would hate him as matter of course.
Commander Sharpe returned their salute, then said, “Both of you are dismissed. I will be reassigning you permanently. In the meantime, report to the officer of the deck for something to do.”
Garret didn’t like Maxwell very much right now, but Commander Sharpe was alright.
Commander Sharpe pulled open the door to the aft cell. Garret stepped through into a jail for the second time in his life, and felt like a criminal, again. Oh, there’s the humiliation.
But then Garret noticed the hammock hanging from the ceiling. It was his hammock. He would get to sleep in his own hammock.
“Captain had it sent down for you,” the Commander said as he stepped into the cell with Garret. “If I were you, I’d stay awake for a few minutes. The chief cook is bringing you dinner.”
Great, Garret thought. Wouldn’t want to miss that. Brig fare was hardtack and sowbelly, just as it had been for centuries. But he was starving and it would be better than nothing.
Garret picked his blankets up off the hammock and tried to spread them out across it. He fumbled it, and again. His hands were as tired as his mind. Commander Sharpe stepped back through the cell door and did it for him. Then he said, “The Captain trusts you now.”
I could draw you map of exactly where he can shove it, Garret thought. He didn’t come up with that, he’d heard it somewhere before, but it fit his mood. Outwardly he nodded but kept his eyes on his blankets. Sharpe didn’t seem to like the lack of an “Aye sir,” but he let it go.
At the same time, the mouthwatering smell of meat and potatoes filled the brig. One of the cooks shuffled in. He didn’t look happy to be doing something in addition to his normal duties, but when Garret saw what was in his hands, he forgot all about the man’s displeasure.
The plate was huge and ovalized, more like a serving platter. On it was some of the leftover mashed potatoes from dinner, but in the biggest heap Garret had ever seen. Beside it lay… Garret blinked. God, is that really beef? It looked like the animal’s entire hock had been cut off and fried to juicy brown perfe
ction just for Garret. It was steaming and definitely not leftover. The mound of potatoes had been rewarmed and smothered in the drippings from the meat. They pooled in greasy brown richness around the white mound and ran into the peas, of which there was also a heaping helping.
Three Kaiser buns crowded the edge of the plate. The cook handed the plate to Garret and Garret tested one of the buns with a finger. Nope, it wasn’t one of the stale ones he’d knocked all over the deck. It was fresh. So hot it almost burned him. His finger came away greasy with all the butter the baker had melted over them. Wow. We never get fresh bread.
Garret looked around. Is it early morning? Buried inside Kearsarge, enclosed in tons of steel and electric light, Garret had no idea what time it was. This must be breakfast’s bread.
The ship’s bakery was just around the corner from where Garret and his friends hung their hammocks. So the smell of fresh bread in the morning was enough to drive them crazy. But just as Twitch had said on the first day, they never got to eat it. According to Navy policy, unless the bread had sat long enough to cool completely, it would turn back into dough again in the men’s stomachs, which wasn’t good for their physical condition. So every morning they awoke to the smell of the bread for breakfast, cooked early enough that it would be stone cold by the time they got to eat it.
Commander Sharpe dismissed the surly cook with an order not to tell anyone about it.
Garret dug in. The meat was tender and rich with sea salt, falling apart under the fork, releasing curls of steam. The potatoes were still good, and the drippings made them fantastic.
I’m still mad at you, Maxwell, Garret thought. But as apologies went, Garret had to admit, this one wasn’t too bad.
Garret had gone through several minutes of lip-smacking, fork-clicking heaven before he realized Commander Sharpe was still there. Garret looked up with most of a Kaiser bun sticking out of his mouth. Sharpe was still inside the cell, leaning against the bars with his arms crossed, trying very hard not to grin.
“It’s good!” Garret said around the bun.
A few minutes later, the meal was finished. Garret’s stomach was full to aching, and warm satisfaction ran to every nerve ending in his body. Garret sighed and slumped back against the bulkhead. The last three days caught up with him all at once, and there was simply no way he was going to make it up to his hammock. His eyes closed.
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