CHAPTER 9
Eastern Sea
When Walker sounded her “drowning goose” general
quarters alarm for predawn battle stations, Matt was surprised to
hear the thunder of drums on the ships nearby, sending their own
crews to action stations. He remembered that Jenks had expressed
interest in the practice several times. Evidently, Matt’s
explanation that they did it because dawn was a dangerous time of
day when enemy ships—and in their “old” war, submarines in
particular—might see their silhouette before they saw the enemy,
had made eminent sense to the Imperial commodore. It looked like
Jenks was beginning to institute the practice among all the ships
of his command. That was certainly for the good—if they all became
true allies someday. Matt realized, however, that he might have
given away a serious advantage if the Empire and Alliance ever
found themselves on opposite sides. Oh, well, it couldn’t be
helped. Right now, they had the same cause and they needed their
friends to be prepared
That morning, instead
of standing down into a morning routine, Matt gave the order to
“make all preparations for getting underway.” Sparks began to rise
from nearby stacks, and black and gray smoke curled into the air as
Walker and the “squadron,” consisting
of Achilles, Icarus, and Ulysses,
raised steam and prepared to pull their hooks. Their immediate
destination was an old Imperial outpost—probably the first. Jenks
said the island, called Respite, was the first hospitable place his
ancestors had encountered on their voyage to the East, and it was
there they’d rested, victualed, and taken on fresh water before
continuing in search of the most remote place they could find. Some
few had stayed, tired of the seemingly endless journey, and Respite
had been almost constantly inhabited ever since. Over time, it
became the regional capital of all the surrounding islands and
until recently, the western frontier of the Empire. It had been to
one of the newer, slightly more northwestern outposts under
Respite’s jurisdiction that Rebecca’s one-armed protector, Sean
O’Casey, had been fleeing the Imperial hangman after an
unsuccessful rebellion against Company usurpation of Imperial
authority. It had been only wild coincidence that Princess Rebecca
Anne McDonald had been dispatched aboard the same doomed ship by
her father, the Governor-Emperor himself. In his effort to provide
for her safety from increasingly dark Company machinations, he’d
set the wheels in motion that left her marooned and presumed dead
these two long years. In the end, the Company had snatched her
anyway.
The best thing, from
the perspectives of Matt and Jenks, was that Respite’s inhabitants
had become increasingly dissatisfied with the arbitrary policies
enacted by the distant Imperial government—particularly as the
Courts of Directors and Proprietors fell increasingly into the
hands of the Company. The “Respitans” had always been a
self-sufficient, individualistic lot, and Jenks suspected they
would have supported O’Casey’s rebellion if they’d caught wind of
it in time. He was sure that when USS Walker and her consorts arrived with news of the
fight that Walker and Achilles had had with Company and pressed Imperial
warships bent on murdering the princess, they would find themselves
among a sympathetic population and territorial governor. A perfect
place for the Allied supply ships and tankers to head
for.
Icarus flew her Imperial flag once more, and Matt
noticed with interest that Ulysses’ new
Imperial flag flew above her old Company flag. He wondered what the
next Company ship or official they encountered would think of that.
Bosun’s pipes twittered similar or familiar calls on every ship,
and the special sea and anchor detail on Walker’s fo’c’sle sprayed the anchor chain with
hoses as the steam capstan sent it dripping and clattering into the
locker below. Finally, the anchor was aweigh and the little crane
forward hoisted it into its cut-out storage space forward. Matt
watched while the other ships’ anchors were raised and secured, and
was struck by how primitive his own ship was in many ways. The
stocks on Imperial anchors were wood and Walker’s was iron, but the overall shape was
virtually identical. His ship was probably the last class in the
U.S. Navy to use the old-style anchors, a design completely
unchanged for a hundred years, but the Imperial model was even
older.
He shook his head and
strode from the bridgewing to the chart table. No one aboard was
really sure where they were headed anymore. Somewhere in what they
remembered as the Carolines, he supposed. It seemed the farther
east they steamed, the less relevant their charts of the “old
world” became. Courtney Bradford took the disparity between their
charts and the actual locations of the various islands of the
“Eastern Sea” as a matter of course. He still insisted that the
larger, exposed surface area of the atolls was consistent with his
Ice Age theory, and Matt had to agree there might be something to
that. The fact that, according to the charts Jenks had loaned them,
These Carolines were larger and more
substantial than Matt remembered, or the old charts indicated,
seemed to follow. What didn’t make any sense to Matt and many
others was why the atolls, or actual islands, had been so shifted
around. They’d discovered quite a few islands in—call them the
Marshalls for lack of anything better—where there shouldn’t be
anything at all. The island where they’d made their emergency
repairs was one example. According to Jenks’s charts, other
substantial atolls such as Kwajalein didn’t even exist. Bradford
maintained that it was all perfectly understandable. Matt only
wished Courtney would find some way to make it just as easily
explainable. In the meantime, and for the foreseeable future, he
would have to trust Imperial charts of the region.
“All ahead
one-third,” Matt said. “Make your course one, one,
five.”
“Ahead one-third,”
Staas-Fin, or “Finny,” replied. “One, one, five, aye!” The blower
rumbled contentedly and Walker gathered
way. Juan arrived with his battered carafe and a tray of cups and
Matt accepted one with thanks. Juan’s coffee was terrible, even
using the ersatz beans of this world, but it was coffee of a sort
and that’s all that matters sometimes.
“Thanks, Juan,”
Captain Reddy murmured as he brought the green foam-rimmed brew to
his lips.
“My pleasure,
Cap-tan! Would you like breakfast? A haircut perhaps? A hot towel
and a shave would do wonders for you,” he hinted. Matt’s razor had
about given up the ghost, and he’d finally relented and begun
growing a beard like the rest of the men under his command. “I
traded a case of rusty cans of ‘scum weenies’ for a new Imperial
razor!” he declared in triumph. “It is quite sharp!”
Matt scratched his
itchy chin and winced. He’d love a shave—but he had never let Juan
shave him despite the Filipino’s incessant attempts. Now ... he had
the only razor. Matt was convinced that if he ever relented, Juan
would be shaving him for the rest of his life. On the other hand,
he’d always believed that keeping himself well-groomed was
important. It was just his little way of showing defiance in the
face of the odds against them. “No matter how bad it gets, the
Skipper always shaves.” Something like that.
He sighed. “Well, can
we do it right here? I mean, can I just sit here in my
chair?”
Juan beamed. “Of
course, Cap-tan! In fact, it would be best, I believe. The chair is
just the right height! I will return in a moment!” With that, Juan
darted away and Matt looked around the bridge. Finny was trying to
suppress a grin and the lookouts diligently studied the horizon.
Norman Kutas glanced at the chart and stepped around the chart
house—probably so Matt wouldn’t see him crack up. True to his word,
Juan returned quickly. He had two ’Cat mess attendants in tow, one
with a basin of hot water, the other holding some damp, steaming
towels. Juan immediately removed Matt’s hat and draped a towel over
his face.
“Oh, for God’s sake,
Juan! I thought you were just going to shave me!” he muttered under
the towel. “I can’t conn the ship like this!”
The shipwide comm
suddenly blared. “Now hear this!” It was Chief Bosun’s Mate
Fitzhugh Gray’s voice. He was in on it too! Gray was around sixty,
barely shorter than his captain, but the man who’d once grown
flabby and jaded on the China station of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet had
transformed into a lean, powerful pillar of moral authority within
the Alliance. He was no longer a “mere” chief bosun’s mate; there
were plenty of those in the rapidly expanding American Navy. He’d
become something much more, still ill-defined. Officially, he
commanded Matt’s personal security detail, the “Captain’s Guard,”
and was “chief armsman of the supreme Allied Commander.”
Unofficially, he was often referred to as “The S.B.” (Super Bosun),
but most, even Chief Bosun’s Mate Bashear, still just called him
“the Bosun.” To Matt, and probably Matt alone, he was still just
“Boats.”
“Now hear this!” Gray
repeated. “Lieutenant Steele to the bridge! The exec will take the
conn while the captain endures his mornin’ toyletty!” A roar of
laughter echoed through the ship, amid the stamping of Lemurian
feet.
“Oh my God, Boats!”
Matt groaned, but he couldn’t help laughing. “Put yourself on
report! And ... whoever else is responsible for this
stunt!”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,”
Gray said, “but beggin’ the Skipper’s pardon, your beard is
startin’ to look a little scruffy.” He lowered his voice. “That,
and with all the stuff that’s been goin’ on, the fight, the chase
for the girls ... me and a few of the fellas figured you could use
a laugh. Besides, you’ve always stayed shaved through a lot worse
scrapes than this. Don’t want the fellas to think you’re lettin’
yourself go.”
For just an instant
Matt tensed. Gray couldn’t see his face under the towel, but it
might actually be best. Suddenly, Matt reached out and grabbed
Gray’s sleeve, pulling him down closer.
“They don’t call you
Super Bosun for nothing, do they?” Matt whispered huskily. “You’re
right. I need a laugh, and so does this crew. Let’s make the most
of it.”
Freshly shaved,
trimmed, and with his face tingling with whatever refreshing soap
Juan had been able to create or procure, Matt sheepishly relieved a
grinning Steele and resumed his watch. Cheerful voices and snatches
of good-natured banter rose to his ears from the fo’c’sle forward,
and the weather deck aft. It suddenly struck him that his crew was
happy—not because they’d pulled a stunt on the Skipper, but because
they’d managed to do something for him. He felt embarrassed and a
little ashamed that he hadn’t noticed a growing cheerfulness aboard
the ship. He’d been too lost in his own duty, and his ongoing
misery over Sandra’s unknown fate. The rescue of the princess might
be the primary diplomatic reason for the mission, but to him it was
personal. He had to have Sandra back, for the very survival of his
soul. He needed to rescue the young princess too. She’d trusted
him, relied on him to keep her safe, and he loved her too, he
supposed, much like a daughter. His recent mood must have been a
terrible drag on the ship.
All the crew felt his
anger and they’d do whatever was necessary to make things right,
but these were extraordinary times as well. The humans under his
command were almost giddy with the prospect that they were nearing
lands where actual human women dwelt,
and each of them harbored happy fantasies of how they’d ultimately
break the “dame famine” that had plagued them ever since the
Squall. The ’Cats were happy too. They’d steamed much farther into
the vast Eastern Sea than they’d ever believed possible. They’d
always known the world was round, but they also knew that the force humans referred to as “gravity”
pulled down. It had simply followed that if one went too far from
the “top” of the world, one would plummet off the side into the
endless heavens. They’d believed the
human Americans, hoped they were right
that gravity pulled down wherever on the world one stood, but only
now had it become a demonstrated fact. Matt knew this “fact” flew
in the face of some very long-held religious dogma, and regretted
that they’d upset their friends yet again in that respect, but the
contradiction didn’t seem that important to his Lemurian-American
crew right now. Just the fact that they hadn’t fallen off the world
and were free to continue their important adventure satisfied them
at present. Later, they might contemplate the religious
implications. Matt knew from the messages relayed through Manila
from Baalkpan that Adar already was, but right now, Walker was a happy ship and his own serious,
intense mood had been like a ... wet towel on the humor of the
crew. He would have to try harder to conceal his anxiety and
concern. He’d had a lot of practice at that—but then, of course,
he’d always had Sandra to help him.
He glanced at his
watch. Almost 0800 and time for the watch change, so this was as
good a time as any. “Mr. Campeti,” he said, addressing Walker’s new gunnery officer, “I assume you’ve
managed to standardize the drill on the number four gun?” The
number four was a dual purpose, 4.7-inch gun they’d salvaged from
Amagi to replace the four-inch-fifty
that had been badly damaged in the Battle of Baalkpan. The
respectable quantity of ammunition for it that they’d salvaged as
well was still high-explosive, cordite propelled, as opposed to the
black powder-loaded four-inch-fifty’s they had for the other guns.
Until they perfected their own cordite using the indigenous
materials, they couldn’t “regulate” the 4.7-inch with the others,
and they’d decided to keep it in local control.
“Aye, aye, sir. The
drill’s mostly the same, and the fellows have it down
pat.”
“Very well. They no
longer have any excuse to be late, then, I take it?”
“No,
sir.”
“Good.” Matt grinned.
“With all this ‘nervous energy’ everyone seems to have today, we
should be able to break some records!” He turned to the bridge
talker. “Sound general quarters, if you please. The watch is
ticking!”
The “drowning goose”
began gasping for air, and Sonny Campeti raced up the ladder beside
the chart house, to the fire control platform above. Other men and
’Cats quickly appeared, laden with belts of ammunition and shoving
two heavy Browning .30-calibers up the ladder to waiting
hands.
The Bosun paced the
fo’c’sle, bellowing at the crew of the number one gun in his
inimitable fashion, while Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites assembled
his gun’s crews atop the amidships gun platform.
Ensign Fred Reynolds
and his copilot/observer Kari-Faask dumped their breakfast in the
can under the amidships deckhouse, despite Earl Lanier’s ranting,
and raced toward where their Nancy’s “deck crew” was clearing and
securing its cover, and preparing the hoist davit that would put
the plane down in the water alongside. The same “deck crew” would
also serve as a “plane dump detail” if the aircraft was ever
damaged in action or became a deck hazard in any way.
Chack’s Marine
drummer sounded a long roll, and the Marines not assigned to gun’s
crews abandoned their ordinary seagoing duties and scrambled to one
of the old vegetable lockers aft of the number three stack, to grab
their leather armor and bronze “tin hats.” The company armorer
issued their muskets from a new locker beside the galley, and they
assembled on the weather deck, port and starboard of the numbers
one and two funnels. First Sergeant Blas-Ma-Ar quickly called the
roll over the racket.
On the rebuilt aft
deckhouse, where the auxiliary conn was located, Frankie Steele
took his post and Gunner’s Mate Pack Rat and Chief Bashear roared
at the crew of the number four gun, as well as the depth charge
handlers on the fantail below.
Matt watched this
activity with growing satisfaction. He knew Spanky, Miami Tindal,
and Tabby would be sorting things out below. The drill was
unorthodox by prewar standards, but it was efficient, and it worked
well for their purposes under the circumstances.
Chief Signalman
Lieutenant Ed Palmer was the talker at the moment, repeating the
readiness reports as they came in. “Wireless comm gear is under
continuous watch,” he finished for his own division. “All stations
manned and ready, Captain.”
Matt glanced at his
watch. “Not quite a record, but not bad,” he remarked. “Not bad at
all.” He made himself grin at those around him. “All stations may
secure from general quarters. Continue steaming as before under
condition three alert. Chack’s Marines may commence their morning
exercises.”
Courtney Bradford and
Selass-Fris-Ar, Keje’s daughter and currently Walker’s medical officer, ascended to the bridge.
As usual, Courtney wore his wide, battered “sombrero” and had to
remove it before entering the pilothouse. It was a standing order
for him alone. His red, balding pate was shiny with sweat when he
snatched the thing off.
“Well, we’re off
again at last, I see,” Courtney said, glancing aside at the atoll
slipping away off the port quarter. “Just as well. Of all the
mysterious lands we’ve encountered, that one had absolutely the
least to recommend it!”
“You mean to tell me
you didn’t discover anything unusual?” Matt asked.
“Well, not as you
would say ‘unusual’ ... now. A few odd crabs, I suppose, but
nothing astonishingly peculiar, if you know what I mean? Of
course.”
“You’re getting
spoiled, Mr. Bradford. When we first met, a strange twig would’ve
kept you enthralled for days.”
“I’m not spoiled, sir! I merely have ... higher
expectations now. With good reason!”
Matt looked at
Selass. With his human preconceptions, it was always a little tough
for him to accept that she was even related to Keje, much less that
she was his daughter. She couldn’t have looked less like him. She
was sleek and thin where Keje was thick and muscled. Her fur was
almost silver, while her father’s was a reddish brown. Keje’s eyes
were about the same color as his coat, but Selass’s were almost as
startlingly green as Saan-Kakja’s were ... goldish—whatever.
Lemurians had no photography of course, so Matt had never seen a
picture of Keje’s lost mate. He’d have been willing to bet anything
that Selass took after her mother.
He also knew she and
Chack had a “history.” Given his understanding of what ’Cats
considered attractive, he could understand it. Male Lemurians were
drawn to physical beauty, just as men were, and Selass was stunning
even to his eyes. Exotic rarity also seemed to enhance perceived
attractiveness, and that was probably why Saan-Kakja, Safir Maraan,
and even Selass were viewed almost as icons of Lemurian beauty.
Saan-Kakja with her amazing eyes, Safir Maraan with her jet-black
fur and silver eyes, Selass with her silver fur and green eyes ...
Shoot, maybe it was just the eyes. Matt mentally shrugged. There
was no doubt about it, Lemurians were handsome creatures. He
wouldn’t dwell on the fact that some of his men, including Silva,
apparently considered them more than just “handsome.” He supposed
the only thing ’Cat women got out of such hypothetical
relationships was the exotic rarity of humans. He thought he felt
something squirm down his back.
Chack’s history with
Selass. That’s what he’d been thinking about. He’d almost refused
to allow her on the mission because of that ... but then, he really
couldn’t have refused, could he? With Sandra gone, Jamie Miller
with the fleet, Karen pregnant, and Pam Cross a nervous wreck after
Silva’s abduction with the others, he couldn’t have taken Kathy
McCoy. For such an important mission, though, he did need a
“high-profile” medic. Selass was it. She was good with human and
’Cat physiology, and she’d earned her “nurse lieutenant” status.
She’d changed dramatically from the self-centered, spoiled brat
teenager Matt first met, and she was utterly devoted to Sandra.
She’d grown up. The war and the loss of her first mate, Saak-Faas,
had finally made something of her. If Matt had refused to take her,
it might have been seen as a slight by some of his very best
Lemurian friends. The problem was, no matter how well she hid it,
Matt and Sandra had long known that Selass was still hopelessly in
love with Chack.
Chack was virtually
mated to Safir Maraan, Queen Protector of B’mbaado. They’d planned
to announce their betrothal and perform their nuptials after the
liberation of Aryaal and B’mbaado, but after what they found there,
the time just didn’t seem right. Now Matt had dragged Chack
thousands of miles from his beloved and he felt really bad about
that, but damn it, he needed the kid! He was a veteran of vicious
combat now and a steady leader. He’d earned his post, and Matt
couldn’t have taken anyone else. What he didn’t need was Chack
getting all a-twitter and confused around his old flame, though. So
far, it didn’t seem to be a problem, and Matt hoped it wouldn’t be.
Probably wouldn’t. Chack was “engaged,” and he and Selass had their
duty. They’d both amply demonstrated how important that was to
them.
“Good morning,
Selass,” he said, nodding at her.
“Good morning,
Cap-i-taan,” she replied. She’d begun accompanying Bradford to the
bridge after the two of them prepared her “battle station”—the
wardroom—which would become a surgery in the event of battle. It
certainly wasn’t due to any policy or anything; she just did
it—like Sandra always had before. It probably even made sense in a
way that the medical officer would want to come to the bridge and
see for herself what was happening, so she’d have some idea what
she might be about to face in the way of casualties. Matt hadn’t
liked it when Sandra did it—at first—but as time went on, he
couldn’t change it and didn’t really want to. She’d always known
when it was time to leave. Now ... to chase Selass off when there
wasn’t any need would be hypocritical.
“Coffee?” Matt
offered. Selass blinked distaste. Most Lemurians hated coffee, or
“monkey joe,” as the destroyermen had dubbed the local equivalent.
They considered it a medical stimulant, not a staple of daily
life.
“Don’t mind if I do,”
Bradford said.
Juan had returned
with another carafe and he happily poured a steaming cup. “At least
someone appreciates the labor necessary to render the strange seeds
I get into something almost as good as the coffee I used to make!”
he proclaimed piously.
Matt was glad he
hadn’t been taking a sip just then, or he’d have spewed it out his
nose. “Trust me, Juan, everyone appreciates it,” he interjected
truthfully.
“That vile, bloated
cook, Lanier—he just incinerates the beans and grinds them up!
Sometimes he will even waste an egg!”
Matt’s brows
furrowed. That explained a lot. Vile and bloated as Lanier
certainly was, his monkey joe was actually better than Juan’s. And
it didn’t have green foam on top.
“You know, I always
kind of liked an egg in my coffee, Juan,” Matt experimented
delicately.
“Nonsense, Cap-tan!
If you want lizard-bird eggs, I will cook them for you, any way you
like! Why eat disgusting green eggs, full of grounds?”
Matt sighed. “Oh,
never mind.” Maybe he could drop another hint later. Juan was good
to him, to all the officers. To come right out and tell him
Walker’s greasy cook made better coffee
was out of the question. “Maybe I’ll have an egg sandwich, then,
after all.”
“Good!” Juan
approved. “You did not eat before GQ. You need to eat! You get too
skinny!” The little Filipino—who probably didn’t weigh ninety
pounds—scampered down the stairs behind them.
“That was close!”
Bradford said. “For a moment I feared you might have gone too far!
If Juan ever got his feelings hurt and went on strike, I know
I would starve.” He shuddered. “Has
Lanier ever actually bathed?” he asked. “Or even washed his hands,
perhaps?”
Matt grinned
sheepishly. “I had to try.” He turned back to Selass. “How’s
everything in your department?”
“None are sick, oddly
enough. I think they are too excited about our next landfall to
malinger. All the injured have returned to duty but one, and he
will recover.”
Matt remembered a
striped, mustard-colored machinist striker who’d taken a rivet in
the chest like a bullet when one of the thirty-pounders punched
through the engine room. It had looked bad. Again, he was amazed by
the curative properties of the Lemurian polta paste. “Glad he’ll be
okay,” he said sincerely, then winced. “No, ah, screamers?” He
asked, using Silva’s universally accepted term for
diarrhea.
“None, Cap-i-taan. We
seem to have arrived at a proper mix.”
The reason for Matt’s
wince was that in spite of his best efforts to maintain Navy
traditions and regulations, the U.S. Navy on this world was no
longer exactly “dry.” One of Sandra’s longest-held concerns was
that some bug in the water might annihilate the crew. This concern
was not without foundation. For the longest time she’d insisted
that the crew drink only ship’s water that had been either boiled
or manufactured by the condensers. With personnel now spread so far
apart, that was no longer always practicable. They’d consumed the
various nectars and spirits produced by the Lemurians with no ill
effects, but every time somebody even accidentally drank a little
“local” water, they wound up with a bad case of Montezuma’s
revenge. Even the various ’Cat clans had a few problems along those
lines. The massive, lumbering seagoing Homes collected sufficient
fresh water to keep them independent, but they almost always got a
little sick when they visited the Homes of land folk. Before the
destroyermen had arrived, they’d had no idea what germs were, but
they’d settled on the simple expedient of making a sort of grog by
mixing water with highly alcoholic “seep.”
Seep was a spirit
made by fermenting the ubiquitous polta fruit that gave the
Lemurians food, juice, and the fascinating curative paste. When
seep was further refined and distilled, it produced a high-grade
alcohol. Alcohol could be made from other things, such as certain
grains the’Cats used in the production of their excellent beer. A
beetlike tuber worked well, and their efforts to boost the octane
of their gasoline had resulted in the discovery of other things
that could be used to produce ethanol. Seep, or its distilled
version, still remained the preferred ingredient in Lemurian grog.
Matt didn’t know if they’d come up with the idea on their own or if
Jenks’s ancestors let it slip, but under the circumstances,
necessity dictated that some form of grog—the weakest effective
mixture—be reintroduced aboard U.S. Navy ships.
Matt was certainly no
Puritan, and he’d considered prohibition a useless, stupid, harmful
political stunt, but as far as his Navy
was concerned, he’d done his absolute best to maintain its
traditions and regulations. He wouldn’t have a bunch of drunks
running his ships. Fortunately, the mixture required to purify
water could barely be tasted, much less felt, and the condensers
still provided enough fresh water to dilute the mixture even
further. At least on Walker. She
utilized an open-feed-water system, with seawater going straight to
the boilers. This hadn’t worked as well on some of the new boilers
they’d made. Corrosion and sediment in the steam lines were already
becoming a concern on USS Nakja-Mur and
USS Dowden. The closed systems they
were using on some of the newer steam frigates about to join the
fleet when Walker left Baalkpan were
fresh-water hogs. They’d have to keep fuel and water tenders trailing behind them wherever
they went. Big Sal’s massive engines
were open systems, so maybe they could replenish from her. He shook
his head. Ultimately, he wasn’t bothered nearly as much by the
result of the policy as he was by the principle of the
thing.
“How long until we
reach this ‘Respite’ Island, Captain?” Bradford asked. “We’ll be
there for a while, I take it?”
Matt refocused and
shifted uncomfortably in his elevated chair. “A week and a half at
this pace. Maybe more,” he said grudgingly, glancing out to port,
where Achilles steamed. She’d set her
fore course, topsails and topgallants, as well as her fore
staysails. Soon, she would draw her fires and proceed under sail
alone. She’d be just as fast, and didn’t have the fuel to keep her
boiler lit for the entire passage.
“I say,” Bradford
said, “couldn’t we just go on ahead without her? We could be there
in a matter of days! If we dawdle along awaiting Mr. Jenks and his
prizes, our oilers and other ships will most likely beat us
there!”
“Oh, Courtney, come
on. You know that’s ridiculous. I wish it were true, but our supply
convoy from the Fil-pin Lands must travel under sail alone, and I’m
afraid our stay at Respite will be longer than even you would
like.” He didn’t say that he was far more anxious than Bradford to
reach their destination and then be on their way. Billingsley,
Ajax—and Sandra—drew ever farther from
his grasp with each passing day.
“Well ... but surely
there will be some emergency that will prevent me from properly
studying the biology there! No doubt something will derail my first
opportunity to gaze upon the wonders of an utterly isolated land!
It happens all the time, as you well know. Poke, poke along, and
then ‘Do hurry up, Mr. Bradford! We must get underway!’
”
Matt almost chuckled.
In a way, he envied Bradford’s ability to set aside their primary
objective, even for a while. At the same time, he kind of resented
it too. A lot of people were counting on them, not only to rescue
Sandra and the princess but to forge an alliance with a powerful
seagoing nation. All in the midst of a cataclysmic war. To even
contemplate other priorities at a time like this struck him as at
least mildly selfish. He knew Bradford well enough by now to
understand that the man just couldn’t help it though. It was just
the way he was. What he was.
“We can’t go any
faster,” he said, with a trace of lingering bitterness. “We don’t
know these seas like we used to, and it might not be a good idea if
we arrived at our first Imperial outpost without Commodore Jenks to
smooth the way. Besides, if we don’t wait for our resupply, we
won’t have the fuel to reach New Britain with any
reserve.”
“Well ... then I do
have your word that I may spend at least some time
exploring?”
“As far as it’s in my
power to let you. The local authorities might not want you running
wild. They’re not the most trusting folks with strangers, if you’ll
recall. At least not until you get to know them.” Matt reflected on
the real, growing friendship between Jenks and himself. They hadn’t
liked one another at all when they first met. Jenks and the Bosun
had probably actually hated each other. But the exigencies of war,
a shared battle, and a common cause had erased their earlier
animosity.
“Perhaps they are not
all quite so standoffish and paranoid,” Courtney
speculated.
“Hard to say. Our
sample of their society’s been pretty small. All of Jenks’s people
were—some more than others—and before that, all we had to go on was
O’Casey and the princess. Even they seemed awful protective of
their nation’s whereabouts.”
The pilothouse was
quiet for some time after that, except for the rumble of the
blower. Juan appeared with an egg sandwich and Matt wolfed it down
under the Filipino’s satisfied gaze. Eventually, possibly sensing
that Matt wanted to be alone with his thoughts, everyone not
actually on watch in the pilothouse filtered away. The sea to the
east stretched wide and empty, and the sky was clear except for a
lonely squall, possibly lashing yet another unseen, uncharted
atoll.