Ironclad

by Daniel Foster

  Garret speared Maxwell again, and they went down, but this time with Maxwell in control. Garret kept going for Maxwell’s face, but Maxwell kept redirecting his blows downward, so Garret beat on Maxwell’s chest and abdomen. Garret pounded on him, maybe screaming maybe not. He didn’t know, he just whaled on his captain, pouring all his frustration and sorrow out onto a human punching bag.

  Maxwell threw a few blows, but they seemed less about stopping Garret than keeping him going.

  “How could you… do this?!” Garret yelled as he swung.

  Maxwell slap-boxed Garret aside and replied quietly, “You can’t bring them back.”

  At that, Garret went crazy and flung himself at Maxwell. The two of them went down the beach, wrestling, punching, elbows and knees. After a few moments of the senseless tussling, Maxwell caught another of Garret’s punches and used Garret’s arm as a lever to fling him aside.

  “They’d dead,” Maxwell said quietly. “I let them go. You have to do the same.”

  Garret made it to his feet and came in hard. Maxwell sidestepped and knocked Garret’s feet out from under him. Garret was moving so fast that he almost did a flip. His head was the first thing to hit the pebbles. It made him a bit woozy. Maxwell knelt beside him.

  “You have to get control, sailor,” Maxwell said. “Or I might as well shoot you right here.”

  “Then do it!” Garret shrieked, coming up swinging like a drunk.

  It wasn’t much of a fight after that. Maxwell let it go for another minute or so, then caught Garret by the back of the neck and twisted his arm around behind his back to hold him still. Garret squirmed, but it didn’t do any good.

  Directly into Garret’s ear, Maxwell said, “You can’t go back to your wife and child this way.”

  That broke Garret. He crumpled, exhausted, to the ground, chest heaving, eyes streaming, shoulder aching.

  “I can’t ever go back,” Garret said, trying not to bawl. “I can’t.”

  “You can and you will,” Maxwell said. “After you’ve done your duty to me and this world.”

  Garret lost the fight not to bawl. He broke like a child, lost in the woods. “You don’t know what I did.”

  “You’d die for them, would you not?” Maxwell asked, but it sounded like a statement.

  After a moment of crying, Garret nodded shakily.

  “Then that means you love them more than yourself. That means this can be repaired. You must do what it takes.”

  That hung for a long time. Garret was still panting and his cheeks were still wet, but the surf rolled in front of them. Eventually, Garret looked at it, then out across the sea towards the sunrise. It was like watching the first ember of creation, born anew across the expanse of sea. Garret’s struggles died away. Then and only then did Maxwell release his arm.

  Garret slumped to the pebbles, kneeling, and Maxwell knelt beside him.

  “How?” Garret said in a hopeless whisper.

  “The world is built that way,” Maxwell said simply. “Everything you need to be a husband and father is here, around you. It will come to you, as soon as you decide you truly want it, without reservation, without qualification, without holding any part of yourself back.”

  “But I—I can’t love them like I want to,” he said, head sinking. “Something’s broke. Inside me.”

  “You already love them like you want to,” Maxwell said, taking a knee beside Garret. Then he said, “Whatever happened to you is only that. It’s what happened to you. It is not you.”

  Maxwell’s statement was simple, but as sometimes happens, it was exactly the statement Garret needed to hear. In that moment, with those few words, something important changed inside Garret’s heart and mind. Garret didn’t know what it was, but when he crumpled, he crumpled against Maxwell, not away from him. Maxwell let him do it.

  Eventually Garret was steady enough to hiccup out a question. There were a thousand questions he could have asked, and felt like he should have asked for the sake of his friends and what they had lost, but what came out was, “Why did you let Twitch die?”

  It was a long while before Maxwell answered. The ocean and the cries of the sea birds filled the silence. When he did answer, he sounded like an ancient being from a forgotten forest, long since grown tired of watching the sun and moon chase one another across the sky.

  “For the same reason you left home,” Maxwell said. “I have done things a man should not do. And I will do more before the end.”

  As they all walked away from the beach, Garret kept glancing back. Maxwell was leading the four Germans in the opposite direction. The trees weren’t thick, but they were swallowing the men quickly. Lieutenant Bartram was leading Garret’s group, but Garret’s friends were hanging close to him, not Bartram.

  “What the hell happened?” Fishy hissed, too low for the Lieutenant to hear. “It sounded like you were screaming.”

  “We thought he was skinning you alive,” Velvet said. He jerked his head towards Lieutenant Bartram. “He had to pull his pistol to keep Pun’kin from running to save you.”

  Garret was embarrassed. “Thanks guys,” he said. “But I’m okay.”

  “We can see that now,” Fishy frowned. “What did he do?”

  Garret took another glance over his shoulder, but the trees had taken Captain Maxwell and his entourage. He was gone.

  “I’m not sure,” Garret answered.

  “You don’t know what he did?” Velvet asked, exasperated.

  “Well, we talked,” Garret said.

  “Pretty loud talk,” Burl put in quietly.

  “Why didn’t you tell us he killed Twitch,” Fishy accused.

  Garret looked at the ground, rocky and rolling, then at Lieutenant Bartram’s back.

  At length Garret replied, “Because he didn’t.”

  “You said he shot him in cold blood,” Velvet reminded him.

  Garret shook his head. “He shouldn’t have done what he did, but… I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t all his fault.”

  “Then who killed ‘im?” Pun’kin demanded.

  Who indeed? Commander Sharpe had pulled the trigger, but Garret wouldn’t have been able to blame Sharpe if he wanted to. No one who knew Sharpe could have blamed him.

  In Garret’s mind’s eye, he saw again that moment in Maxwell’s cabin, the moment when the gun had boomed in Sharpe’s hand and Twitch had crumpled to the floor. Everyone in the situation: Maxwell, Sharpe, Bartram, Twitch, and yes, even Garret himself were in the captain’s cabin because of how strongly they believed in what they thought was right. Each of them had been there because they had chosen to be. Because they were driven to be, not by outside circumstances, but by who they were, on the inside.

  No matter how Garret wrangled it in his head, he couldn’t bring himself to want Twitch or Theo or Curtis or Charlie to be anything less than what they were. So Garret would grieve for them. He would miss them, he would try to help his other friends grieve for them and miss them, but he could not regret their choice to do what they thought was right.

  Garret understood sacrifice, and he could not begrudge anyone else the right to make it. He answered Pun’kin’s question slowly, “I don’t whose fault it was. Maybe not anybody’s.”

  Finally Pun’kin, simple and uncomplicated as always, blurted out of frustration, “But is he a good Captain or ain’t he?!”

  Garret looked back to where the last German was slipping down over a rocky rise.

  “I don’t know,” Garret said. “But he’s the Captain we’ve got.”

  “Not anymore,” Fishy said, looking back alongside Garret.

  “Good riddance,” Velvet muttered.

  “Come on,” Garret said, picking up his pace after Lieutenant Bartram. “Let’s get this done. I want to go home.”

  Chapter 31

  June 24th, 1914. Four days to Vidovdan

  The next two days of travel passed without incident, other than the breathtaking
scenery. The picturesque beaches gave way almost immediately to mountains, but they were not like the Appalachians Garret was used to. These mountains were both much steeper and rockier with crags and bluffs everywhere. The land felt more arid than Garret’s home, but even so, the greenery was verdant and zealous for the ground in a way that made it seem like the rocks and trees were in a shoving match to crowd one another out.

  The dirt roads through the mountains were the narrowest winding switchbacks Garret had ever seen, though the wagon drivers they hired had no qualms about riding the roads with one wheel spinning merrily along, mere inches from the drop off.

  After descending out of the mountains, much to Velvet’s white-knuckled relief, they had entered an area that wasn’t exactly plains, but the elevation changes were much shallower and more gradual. These lands were also verdant and rocky, though in a relaxed, open way. They soon arrived at the town of Imotski, a gorgeous hamlet of white and tan stone houses with red rooves, warming in the sun. The town was wound through with twisty little roads, and the houses were scattered liberally up a shallow hill. The hill itself surrounded a small gorge with rocky walls, the bottom of which was filled with two of the brightest blue-green lakes Garret had ever seen. Part of the town was perched right on the precipice over the larger lake. Garret and his friends begged Lieutenant Bartram to stop in the town, and he had, but only for a quick resupply.

  Bartram hadn’t exactly been friendly on the trip. He smiled occasionally, but his wit was so sharp that it kept them all on their toes. Uncomfortably so. Most annoyingly, he insisted on preparing their servings at each meal, because he said it was his responsibility as commanding officer to make sure they were all properly fed. As far as Garret could see, it was nothing more than an excuse for Bartram to kick back and do nothing while they all scrounged for firewood and set up camp. Apparently, officers didn’t work when they were off the ship, either.

  On the other hand, Lieutenant Bartram was so smart that his mind seemed to be a repository for limitless information. At first, Garret and his friends assumed he would look down at them for being stupid if they asked questions. Leave it to Pun’kin to ask anyway. They soon found out, to their surprise, that Bartram answered their questions without demeaning them. So they made a game of it, trying to see if they could stump him.

  While they were riding in a jouncing wagon, courtesy of a friendly farmer, and trying not to squash his melons, Velvet looked around at the sunny countryside and said, “Sir, how big is the Austro-Hungarian Empire, anyway?”

  “Almost a quarter million square miles,” Lieutenant Bartram replied as he inspected a cracked fingernail. “It stretches from the Adriatic Sea, where Kearsarge dropped anchor, to the Prussian Empire in the north, nearly to the Black Sea in the East.”

  Velvet sat back, foiled, his eyes narrowed in pursuit of a better question.

  The driver, a jolly man with a strange round hat that had a flat top and no brim, turned and said something to Lieutenant Bartram in a language that sounded a bit like Russian.

  Lieutenant Bartram answered with such a good accent that he didn’t sound American at all. When Lieutenant Bartram’s back was turned the previous night, they’d argued over how many languages he could speak. The general consensus was four, but Fishy said it was only three. Velvet argued for five. He insisted that one of the languages was actually two different dialects, and therefor counted as two. Garret didn’t know what a dialect was, other than a chance for Velvet to sound smart.

  “Why do they use different languages, sir,” Burl asked, then paused for a cough. “It’s all one country, isn’t it?”

  Garret didn’t care why the Austrians used more than one language, but he was increasingly bothered by Burl’s cough. As Garret studied Burl out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Fishy doing the same thing. Burl’s cough had started not long after they’d left the beach, and as far as Garret could see, it was getting worse. The previous night, Burl had had some stomach trouble at dinner, too. He’d said he was fine, but he’d eaten little, and kept putting his hand on his abdomen. Bartram insisted Burl was fine, just a minor ailment from getting wet in the surf, then sleeping out on the beach all night, but Garret felt like it was more than that.

  I cough because I’ve got buckshot stuck in my chest, Garret thought. Maybe that’s making me think Burl’s cough is worse than it is.

  Meanwhile, Bartram was answering Burl’s question. He was also studying a giant map he had just unfolded across his legs. “That is correct,” he said. “Or at least it is now. The Austro-Hungarian Empire was assembled out of quite a few different ethnic groups: Czechs, Slovaks, Serbs, Transylvanians and so on. Their disunity is what has caused the impending catastrophe we’re trying to avert.”

  Lieutenant Bartram is smarter than the rest of us put together, Garret thought. He considered the point for a moment. So he probably knows more about Burl’s cough than I do. If he’s not worried, I guess I shouldn’t be either. Besides, if he let anything happen to Burl, that might hurt his precious mission, and he’d never let that happen.

  Amazingly, Bartram was still talking. Garret was having trouble getting used to listening to someone answer a simple question in complete paragraphs.

  “The Austro-Hungarian Empire may be one of the four great powers in the world, but they are internally weak, broken by constant infighting and clamors for independence. It’s the perfect environment for a radical organization like the Black Hand to grow. In any unified, peaceable country, the Black Hand would simply have been dismissed as extremists, and withered away for lack of support, but these people are desperate, and desperation rarely motivates people in a positive manner.”

  Garret was still surreptitiously watching Burl. He didn’t want to be caught staring at his small friend, and certainly not caught staring at the damaged side of his face, but he couldn’t help it. Damn it, I don’t care what Fishy says, Burl’s scars really are getting better. The flesh which was least burned, near his hair line, was definitely looking smoother and less gnarled. Some of the larger knots across his cheekbone were also looking more relaxed, as if Burl’s once-tender skin was regaining a little of its plasticity.

  “How many of their languages do you speak?” Burl asked Bartram.

  “Hey!” Pun’kin blurted. “What ‘bout the pot?”

  Unable to resolve Velvet’s dialect question or Fishy’s stubbornness, they’d started a pot on how many languages Lieutenant Bartram could speak.

  Lieutenant Bartram laughed aloud, and they all blinked. His laugh, which they had not heard before, didn’t sound crafty or devious, or any of the other things Garret might have expected. It was, simply, a laugh. It was almost boyish.

  “So do you want me to tell you, or not?” he asked. “It’s not that impressive anyway.”

  Fishy shrugged. “We don’t have any money for the pot,” he said. “Captain didn’t let us take our ditty boxes off the Kearsarge.”

  “When you return home, your trinkets will be waiting for you,” Bartram said. “And I speak six languages.”

  That sounded pretty damned impressive to Garret. “Six?” he asked, incredulous. “Sir,” he added.

  Even Butterworth’s eyebrows shot up at that.

  Lieutenant Bartram’s smile grew distant. He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “I have a knack for it. It has its utility, but it’s never saved anyone’s life like you gentlemen did,” he said. “Don’t think I or anyone else on that ship will ever forget it.”

  That set them all back. A compliment? Garret wondered. Who are you and what have you done with the guy who interrogated me on the Kearsarge?

  The wagon hit a pot hole big enough to bruise all of their backsides on the wagon slats. The fat man in the driver’s seat chortled out a happy sentence. Garret didn’t know if it was an apology for the bump, or just an exclamation of what a beautiful day it was.

  “So,” Velvet asked warily, setting aside the melons that had just been jostled i
nto his lap. “Sir, none of us are fighters. I mean, we all have the pistols you gave us, but we only had a couple riot drills while we were aboard the Columbia, and that was with rifles. How are we going to do whatever we’re supposed to do here?”

  The rest of his question was conspicuously absent, but they were all thinking it: regardless of what they’d already faced, dangerous situations still frightened them. In the past, no matter how frightened they became, they’d had Twitch to lead them, and that made all the difference in their courage. Twitch might not have spoken six languages, but in Garret’s estimation he was smarter than Bartram would ever be. Twitch knew how to kill the bad guys and how to keep the good guys alive. Nothing seemed to catch him off guard, and he was the most determined person Garret had ever met.

  But Velvet’s original question still hung in the air. Bartram sobered, his visage sharpening. Again, he looked like the man Garret had tried to avoid on the Kearsarge. “We are not the men Captain Maxwell intended to finish this, but we will complete our task, because it must be done. That is the one thing on which Captain Maxwell and I were in total agreement.”

  Bartram was only a lieutenant, but he acted like he was an equal with Captain Maxwell, or maybe superior to him. Suddenly, Garret didn’t like that. Not that Garret was overcome with warm feelings for Captain Maxwell. Garret didn’t like Bartram’s attitude, and Garret knew exactly why, even though he didn’t really want to think about it.

  Garret’s Ma had always acted like she was smarter than everybody else. Despite how deeply conflicted Garret was about the way his Ma had treated him, and despite the fact that he tried not to blame her for anything more than he had to, he had always known what had truly caused her death.

  The monster didn’t kill her, not really. Her arrogance did. And Lieutenant Bartram’s ego smelled just like hers.

  Hours later, six tired Americans and one cantankerous Brit dragged themselves and their gear up a shallow slope. Dusk had blanketed the air, settling the insects and soothing the day away towards night. As always, Lieutenant Bartram wanted to get far enough off the road that their campfire smoke would be hard to pinpoint.