“He didn’t stop yelling until he lost his voice,” Burl said.
“Thank heaven for small favors,” Oscar said sarcastically. “Maybe somebody’ll stuff a sock in that big British mouth of his, and he’ll inhale it and die.”
“We did kill all his friends,” Garret said, and immediately wondered why he’d said it. Everyone glared at him.
“What was he sayin’?” Pun’kin asked.
“I didn’t understand it all,” Burl replied, “but they eventually had to strap him down because he was still trying to ‘rip the goolies’ off of any ‘Yankee bumsucker’ who got too close.”
“What is it with him and balls,” Velvet muttered, sitting down beside Burl. Beside Garret, Oscar tensed up and clammed up. Together, they all entered the makeshift auditorium.
“Oh,” Burl added in sotto voce as they sat down on the floor with a hundred other guys. “He did say that his name is Butterworth.”
Oscar chuckled halfheartedly. It was the closest he’d come to a laughing in a long while. “Barney Butterworth. Nice going Pun’kin.”
The flicker show had already started. It was The Perils of Pauline again, a black and white silent film about Pauline, who, no matter what she did, couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble. She got herself attacked by Indians, kidnapped by bandits and so on. Anyway, Maxwell was giving them a break, even if it was in two shifts. That was all anyone cared about. The room was full of slumped backs and grungy uniforms, but they laughed.
Garret found himself sitting beside Oscar again. Oscar was tense. He was tense whenever Garret was near him these days, and Garret was getting tired of it.
“Buddy,” Garret whispered to him, turning his head just enough so that no one else could overhear. “You’re my friend. I’m not going to tell. Some pretty weird shit happened to me when I was a kid.”
Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say, but Garret couldn’t think of anything better. Eventually though, right as Pauline was about to fall out of a hot air balloon, Oscar relaxed. Garret did too. It was nice to know he wasn’t going to lose his living friends too.
W
Andrew ascended the ship’s ladder to the flying bridge. It was the new ladder, the one that had been pirated from somewhere else on the ship and hastily bolted to the rear of the flying bridge. The new ladder didn’t reach all the way to the deck, and everything around it was still bent and torn and burned, but it worked. At the moment, functionality was the best anyone aboard the Kearsarge could hope for.
Andrew stepped onto the sloped bridge. Maxwell was conferring with Martin, who was nodding dutifully with each progression in the conversation. The newly appointed navigator was there as well, playing with his charts. Instead of a table, he had them spread across a crate that had been nailed to the bridge deck, with a thick bulkhead set up in front of it as a makeshift windbreak.
Andrew strode into Captain Maxwell’s peripheral vision and stopped, waiting to be recognized. Only then did Andrew notice the man standing to Maxwell’s other side.It was Captain Shearer. His uniform had been cleaned and pressed, and though he was obviously free of the brig, he didn’t look happy to be on the bridge.
Since Andrew had met Captain Shearer aboard the Lion, Shearer hadn’t seemed happy about much of anything. Maybe he needed an attitude adjustment. Maxwell had given Andrew one, and it had worked. It had hurt, but it had worked.
Andrew had taken Maxwell’s words in the officer’s mess to heart, and honestly, it had made him a new man. He wasn’t sure he liked New Andrew, but he was now arguably more functional in his position than he had ever been. Andrew figured it could be years until he fully understood Captain Maxwell’s words to him, and he wasn’t sure he would ever fully rise to them, but he would try. Fear was a child’s feeling. It would rule him no longer.
Captain Shearer turned his best Captain’s glare on Andrew. Andrew returned the gaze, cool, direct, and unfriendly, until Shearer frowned, shook his head, and found something else better to look at. Andrew stared at him for a few moments longer before turning his attention back to Captain Maxwell. Captain Shearer had no place here. His uniform, as well as his rank, were worthless.
Andrew waited. Maxwell would acknowledge him when he was ready, and not before. Below them on the foredeck, metal clanged heavily.
Boris Sokolov’s rumbling voice rose, threatening all kinds of dismemberment if a certain group of sailors didn’t watch what they were doing. Andrew stepped to the forward rail of the bridge for a clearer view. Kearsarge’s forecastle had been transformed into a construction site. Hull bracing beams, timbers, deck planks and even a few pieces of electrical conduit had been cobbled together and erected as a sort of scaffolding ahead of the forward turret.
The liner for the starboard thirteen gun was nearly in place, only a foot or so of it stuck out beyond the muzzle. The liner for the port gun was another matter entirely. More than half of it still stuck out of the barrel over Kearsarge’s bow. Mr. Sokolov and the dapper Mr. Wilkes stood atop the turret, discussing the problem. Both of them were upset, but at least they weren’t arguing anymore.
Mr. Wilkes insisted that either the gun barrel was warped along its long axis, or else the barrel was out of round. Mr. Sokolov, being the gunnery officer, took both suggestions personally. He pointed out that the problem could just as easily have been caused by the liner being out of round. Either way, the liner was stuck fast.
On the deck and on the scaffolding, dozens of men strained on the ropes. This time, the ropes weren’t spun in a web, but slung out along a horizontal network of pulleys fastened to the deck bits and to the turret itself. So this time, the men merely had to line up on the ropes and pull back along the deck, as if they were playing tug of war with the turret. The ropes were all linked to a multi-layered canvas envelope that was fitted over the end of the liner like a sling. The block and tackle system was set to multiply the force many fold, so as the men pulled, the liner was driven down into the gun like a pipe into a larger pipe.
Or at least that had been the idea. It had stuck fast about an hour ago. Various remedies had been suggested, mechanical grease, heating the gun barrel so that it would expand, etc. Mr. Wilkes had vetoed all of them because they might warp his precious liners, which would damage his precious Astra, which would upset the balance of his precious universe.
Andrew turned away in annoyance. It was their job. They’d figure it out. They’d better.
Maxwell sent Martin away, then turned and said, “Clear the bridge.”
Various ensigns, lieutenants, and a frustrated navigator scurried away down the ladders like rats down a storm drain. Andrew remained. He knew when Maxwell meant him to stay without it being said. To Andrew’s irritation, Shearer remained as well.
Andrew shifted his weight. The deck of a moving vessel was rarely level, but the damage to Kearsarge’s conning tower had sloped the entire bridge, and it was bugging him. That was odd. Very few things got under Andrew’s skin. At least that’s the way it had been before.
What was Maxwell waiting for? They had the flying bridge to themselves. The expansive boomerang shaped deck stretched out to either side, as if Kearsarge was stretching her arms under the warm sun.
It was too warm, actually. Andrew’s collar was chafing his neck. It was beginning to dampen with perspiration. Maxwell was staring out across Kearsarge’s bow, but he didn’t seem to be seeing the crushed railing, or the folds in the hull where the tip of her prow had been driven down, or even the broken planks that stuck up from the front of the old vessel like broken fangs.
He was looking at the skyline. His posture was perfect. It was always perfect. Maxwell continued watching the skyline, the place where heaven met the earth.
“It’s such an elusive thing,” Maxwell said quietly. “The sea never hides the horizon, but it never lets you touch it either. I could sail the world over, seeing the edge of heaven ever before me, but I’d never be able to reach it.”
Andre
w’s throat tightened, and his eyes stung. He wanted to tell the captain again how sorry he was about his wife and daughter and how much he himself missed them too, but he didn’t. Maxwell’s posture did not change, neither did his face, but when he spoke again, the former topic was as gone from his voice.
Andrew recognized Maxwell’s new tone, and it was long overdue. With every mission, Maxwell chose a time and place to tell Andrew what they were doing—to explain, finally, in detail what they had come to do. Depending upon the importance of the mission, the time and place could vary widely, from a frank description as soon as he received the orders, to a private conference in his cabin. Andrew had waited for weeks for this.
Maxwell remained quiet. Reserved, as though he was broaching a subject of which he had no desire to speak.
“The Russo-Japanese war changed everything,” he said at last. “Though not for the better. Nine years ago, the Japanese fleet sank the entire Russian Navy before the Russians had time to fire a shot. The Japanese sank them from miles away. It was an unprecedented shift in naval tactics. So what happened then? What was the reasonable response?”
Andrew well knew the answer to that. More or less, his career existed because of it. “It began the naval race, sir.”
“The worldwide naval race,” Maxwell amended. “One which is still consuming an unsustainable chunk of the national budgets of every industrialized nation on this planet. Everyone builds larger and larger ships with larger and larger guns. All the while, the people who understand what really happened sit back and play the rest of us for fools.”
Andrew stared blankly at Maxwell, who still had not taken his eyes off the horizon.
“The Japanese have no resources, Commander. No iron deposits. No facilities for building ships. How did they do it? How did they miraculously arrive with such a fleet?”
Andrew hadn’t thought of that before. “I don’t…”
Shearer also turned to stare out across the ocean, crossing his arms again. He sighed, as if he was beginning to follow Maxwell, even though Andrew wasn’t. It made Andrew angry.
“They bought it,” Shearer said. “From us.”
Andrew stared at the distinguished British captain. This, Andrew had not heard.
Shearer continued as if he were confessing something. “We built their entire fleet for them. I am told the cost was unimaginable, but they paid it. Every farthing.”
“They bought it, gentlemen,” Maxwell said. “The Japanese bought the destruction of the Russian empire.”
Maxwell’s face hardened. His eyes glittered darkly, like a black glass blade, looking for a fool’s heart to cut from his chest. At last Maxwell took his gaze off the skyline and turned it down to the young men on deck, sweating on the ropes. As he spoke, the liner popped and slid into the barrel a little farther.
“We tell these boys that they are becoming part of one of the greatest traditions in history. We tell them that if it comes to war, they will get to fight for freedom and justice, and that if they die, they die for their country, and for the ones they love. It isn’t true. There’s only one reason men ever die in war.”
Shearer was watching Maxwell closely, his expression guarded.
Maxwell went on. “We die for the same reason men have killed each other since Cain was jealous of what his brother Abel had.”
Andrew didn’t know what to think.
Maxwell took his hand off the wheel and opened it, allowing Andrew and Shearer to see what he’d been palming against the wheel. A five dollar gold piece.
“Gold?” Andrew asked, nonplussed.
“Six hundred and ninety-six tons of gold, gentlemen,” Maxwell said.
Shearer’s face slackened and grew white.
“It is the largest volume of gold that has ever traded hands in history,” Maxwell said calmly. “Enough wealth to permanently shift the balance of power in Europe, and therefor the world, and it’s headed to Austria right now aboard a French vessel we are heading to intercept.”
Maxwell nodded to Captain Shearer. “The British have the most powerful navy in the world, and the industry to support it. I have faith that your nation can deal swiftly with the Germans, and even if you can’t, I’m certain our nation will come to your side.”
Shearer nodded back, lips pressed in a line.
Maxwell continued. “But this is the industrial age, a new world in which a small island nation like Japan can buy a warmachine to obliterate one of the oldest and most powerful empires in the world.”
“Who could possibly send so much wealth to Austria?” Andrew asked.
“It doesn’t matter who sent the gold, it only matters what they mean to do with it. You are aware of the insurrectionist movements within Austria and Serbia?” he asked Andrew.
“Only from the papers, sir,” Andrew replied. “They call themselves the Black Hand, I think. Insignificant anarchists, mostly.”
“They have infiltrated the Austrian government,” Maxwell said. “The most reliable estimates come from your government,” he said to Shearer. “It appears the Black Hand controls at least forty percent of Austro-Hungarian government, and their influence is growing. Emperor Franz Joseph is an old man, and his power erodes by the day. The anarchists are not so insignificant as we had hoped.”
He took a breath. “The gold shipment is intended for them. The nations of Europe have been at each other’s throats for the past twenty years. Tensions are high, and weapon stockpiles are higher. If the anarchists receive the shipment, they will own the Austrian government within a matter of weeks. They demand independence for Serbia, and they consider no cost too great to achieve it. They will plunge Europe into war. Given the ever expanding web of allies and pacts, most of the developed world will eventually be dragged into battle.”
“We can win it,” Shearer said.
Maxwell brushed off the comment. “The goals of insane men are never static, Captain Shearer. They always expand to consume all available manpower and resources.”
Andrew struggled to digest what he was being told. He’d heard the idea of a world war being bounced around, but most people didn’t think it was even possible for conflict to occur on such a large scale.
“Sir,” Andrew began.
Maxwell didn’t let him finish. “Fanatics and zealots come and go. Such organizations as the Black Hand are usually small groups of men with scant resources. Even so, they often do terrible damage to society because of their level of dedication. More importantly, the cost of innocent life required to stop such men is always high.”
Maxwell took a breath. “Consider, gentlemen, that such a group is about to receive six hundred and ninety-six tons of gold. If it reaches Austria, then they and all of us with them will become a black mark on this world. They will stain the collective soul of humanity with what they do, and we will scar the earth herself to stop them, if it is even within our power.”
Maxwell shifted his shoulder blades, as if the skin on his back was too tight, and in his mind’s eye, Andrew saw again the scars beneath Maxwell’s uniform. Shearer looked down.
“Years ago, the Navy sent me to Europe to learn several things,” Maxwell said. “But I only learned one: there is no limit to the depth of man’s arrogance. Because it has no end, we can believe ourselves righteous, no matter what we do to another. Gentlemen, there is no bottom to the darkness men will visit on one another if they are given the means.
“My wife and daughter are already dead, and if it costs my life, your lives, and the lives of every man on this ship, I will not let the Black Hand have those means. Are you with me?”
Andrew straightened and nodded. “Always, Captain.”
Shearer crossed his arms and stared out across the blue Atlantic. After a pause, he caved-in and nodded.
“Very well,” he said, resignedly. “But a shipment like that would only be taken by convoy, and a convoy of the best warships in the world.”
“That is correct,” Maxwell sa
id.
Looking pointedly at the Kearsarge, old, broken and battered, Shearer said, “What do you propose we do about that?”
Andrew felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “The Astra,” he accidentally said aloud.
“Yes,” Maxwell said simply.
At long last, it all made sense to Andrew. Maxwell had been selected for the mission because he was the only captain for the job. He was intelligent, cunning, and independently minded to the point of being insubordinate. All of those things were needed for a suicide mission. But that wasn’t the quality that made him the only man for the job.
Maxwell was a gambler. There was nothing he wouldn’t attempt if the stakes were high enough. And they’d never been higher. Only Maxwell had a chance of success because only Maxwell would not care about the odds. If he saw that something needed to be done, then he would see it done, even knowing that the Navy would use him as a scape goat.
So they were going to fire the Astra on a foreign naval convoy to attempt to stop a war. If it failed, instead of stopping a war, they would ignite the war to end all wars.
Twitch, the boy Andrew killed, had been right all along.
But Andrew stood straighter at attention. He had murdered Twitch, and in so doing, he had come to a realization that Twitch had not. Yes, this mission was terribly wrong. Yes it would, and already had, required them to do terribly wrong things. Because in addition to Twitch being right, Captain Maxwell was also right.
The things they had done were terrible. They were wrong. But they still had to be done.
Chapter 25
June 20th, 1914. Eight days to Vidovdan
Andrew went quickly past the officer’s wardroom to his cabin. He was in a hurry to get out of sight so he botched his first grab at the door. Had he gotten it on the first try, he would have managed to close it behind himself in time to avoid an awkward conversation. As it was, he only got it halfway closed before the bulk of Mr. Sokolov filled the frame.
Andrew reluctantly pulled the door open again. “Yes Mr. Sokolov?”
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